Scene 8, Dyce, II, 170:_The English and Scottish popular ballads, volume 2 (of 5)

When it was grown to dark midnight,

And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

The first half of stanza 2 is given, in Act 3, Scene 5, Dyce, p. 196,

with more propriety than in the broadsides, thus:

You are no love for me, Margaret,

I am no love for you.

The fifth stanza of the ballad, as cited in 'The Knight of the Burning

Pestle,' says the editor of the Reliques, has "acquired an importance

by giving birth to one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or

any language" [that is, 'Margaret's Ghost'], "the elegant production

of David Mallet, Esq., who, in the last edition of his poems, 3 vols,

1759, informs us that the plan was suggested by the four verses quoted

above, which he supposed to be the beginning of some ballad now

lost."[119] The ballad supposed to be lost has been lately recovered,

in a copy of the date 1711, with the title 'William and Margaret, an

Old Ballad,' and turns out to be substantially the piece which Mallet

published as his own in 1724, Mallet's changes being comparatively

slight. 'William and Margaret' is simply 'Fair Margaret and Sweet

William' rewritten in what used to be called an elegant style. Nine

of the seventeen stanzas are taken up with a rhetorical address of

Margaret to false William, who then leaves his bed, raving, stretches

himself on Margaret's grave, thrice calls her name, thrice weeps full

sore, and dies. See The Roxburghe Ballads, in the Ballad Society's

reprint, III, 671, with Mr Chappell's remarks there, and in the

Antiquary, January, 1880. The ballad of 1711 seems to have been founded

upon some copy of the popular form earlier than any we now possess, or

than any known to me, for the last half of stanza 5 runs nearly as it

occurs in Beaumont and Fletcher (see also #B# 7), thus:

In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

'Fair Margaret and Sweet William' begins like 'Lord Thomas and Fair

Annet,' and from the fifth stanza on is blended with a form of that

ballad represented by versions #E-H#. The _brown_ girl, characteristic

of 'Lord Thomas and Fair Annet,' has slipped into #A# 14, 15, #B#

8, of 'Fair Margaret and Sweet William.' The catastrophe of 'Fair

Margaret and Sweet William' is repeated in 'Lord Lovel,' and it will be

convenient to notice under the head of the latter, which immediately

follows, some ballads out of English which resemble both, especially in

the conclusion.

* * * * *

#A c# is translated by Bodmer, II, 31, Döring, p. 199; #A d# by

Herder, 1778, I, 124, von Marées, p. 40, Knortz, Lieder u. Romanzen

Alt-Englands, No 61.

#a.# Douce Ballads, I, fol. 72. #b.# Ritson, A Select

Collection of English Songs, 1783, II, 190. #c.# Percy's

Reliques, 1765, III, 121. #d.# Percy's Reliques, 1767,

III, 119.

As it fell out on a long summer's day,

Two lovers they sat on a hill;

They sat together that long summer's day,

And could not talk their fill.

'I see no harm by you, Margaret,

Nor you see none by me;

Before tomorrow eight a clock

A rich wedding shall you see.'

Fair Margaret sat in her bower-window,

A combing of her hair,

And there she spy'd Sweet William and his bride,

As they were riding near.

Down she layd her ivory comb,

And up she bound her hair;

She went her way forth of her bower,

But never more did come there.

When day was gone, and night was come,

And all men fast asleep,

Then came the spirit of Fair Margaret,

And stood at William's feet.

'God give you joy, you two true lovers,

In bride-bed fast asleep;

Loe I am going to my green grass grave,

And am in my winding-sheet.'

When day was come, and night was gone,

And all men wak'd from sleep,

Sweet William to his lady said,

My dear, I have cause to weep.

'I dreamd a dream, my dear lady;

Such dreams are never good;

I dreamd my bower was full of red swine,

And my bride-bed full of blood.'

'Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured lord,

They never do prove good,

To dream thy bower was full of swine,

And [thy] bride-bed full of blood.'

He called up his merry men all,

By one, by two, and by three,

Saying, I'll away to Fair Margaret's bower,

By the leave of my lady.

And when he came to Fair Margaret's bower,

He knocked at the ring;

So ready was her seven brethren

To let Sweet William in.

He turned up the covering-sheet:

'Pray let me see the dead;

Methinks she does look pale and wan,

She has lost her cherry red.

'I'll do more for thee, Margaret,

Than any of thy kin;

For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,

Tho a smile I cannot win.'

With that bespeak her seven brethren,

Making most pitious moan:

'You may go kiss your jolly brown bride,

And let our sister alone.'

'If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,

I do but what is right;

For I made no vow to your sister dear,

By day or yet by night.

'Pray tell me then how much you'll deal

Of your white bread and your wine;

So much as is dealt at her funeral today

Tomorrow shall be dealt at mine.'

Fair Margaret dy'd today, today,

Sweet William he dy'd the morrow;

Fair Margaret dy'd for pure true love,

Sweet William he dy'd for sorrow.

Margaret was buried in the lower chancel,

Sweet William in the higher;

Out of her breast there sprung a rose,

And out of his a brier.

They grew as high as the church-top,

Till they could grow no higher,

And then they grew in a true lover's knot,

Which made all people admire.

There came the clerk of the parish,

As you this truth shall hear,

And by misfortune cut them down,

Or they had now been there.

Communicated to Percy by the Dean of Derry, as written

down from memory by his mother, Mrs Bernard; February,

1776.

Sweet William would a wooing ride,

His steed was lovely brown;

A fairer creature than Lady Margaret

Sweet William could find none.

Sweet William came to Lady Margaret's bower,

And knocked at the ring,

And who so ready as Lady Margaret

To rise and to let him in.

Down then came her father dear,

Clothed all in blue:

'I pray, Sweet William, tell to me

What love's between my daughter and you?'

'I know none by her,' he said,

'And she knows none by me;

Before tomorrow at this time

Another bride you shall see.'

Lady Margaret at her bower-window,

Combing of her hair,

She saw Sweet William and his brown bride

Unto the church repair.

Down she cast her iv'ry comb,

And up she tossd her hair,

She went out from her bowr alive,

But never so more came there.

When day was gone, and night was come,

All people were asleep,

In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

'How d'ye like your bed, Sweet William?

How d'ye like your sheet?

And how d'ye like that brown lady,

That lies in your arms asleep?'

'Well I like my bed, Lady Margaret,

And well I like my sheet;

But better I like that fair lady

That stands at my bed's feet.'

When night was gone, and day was come,

All people were awake,

The lady waket out of her sleep,

And thus to her lord she spake.

'I dreamd a dream, my wedded lord,

That seldom comes to good;

I dreamd that our bowr was lin'd with white swine,

And our brid-chamber full of blood.'

He called up his merry men all,

By one, by two, by three,

'We will go to Lady Margaret's bower,

With the leave of my wedded lady.'

When he came to Lady Margaret's bower,

He knocked at the ring,

And who were so ready as her brethren

To rise and let him in.

'Oh is she in the parlor,' he said,

'Or is she in the hall?

Or is she in the long chamber,

Amongst her merry maids all?'

'She's not in the parlor,' they said,

'Nor is she in the hall;

But she is in the long chamber,

Laid out against the wall.'

'Open the winding sheet,' he cry'd,

'That I may kiss the dead;

That I may kiss her pale and wan

Whose lips used to look so red.'

Lady Margaret [died] on the over night,

Sweet William died on the morrow;

Lady Margaret died for pure, pure love,

Sweet William died for sorrow.

On Margaret's grave there grew a rose,

On Sweet William's grew a briar;

They grew till they joind in a true lover's knot,

And then they died both together.

Communicated to Percy by Rev. P. Parsons, of Wye, April

7, 1770.

As Margaret stood at her window so clear,

A combing back her hair,

She saw Sweet William and his gay bride

Unto the church draw near.

Then down she threw her ivory comb,

She turned back her hair;

There was a fair maid at that window,

She's gone, she'll come no more there.

In the night, in the middle of the night,

When all men were asleep,

There walkd a ghost, Fair Margaret's ghost,

And stood at his bed's feet.

Sweet William he dremed a dream, and he said,

'I wish it prove for good;

My chamber was full of wild men's wine,

And my bride-bed stood in blood.'

Then he calld up his stable-groom,

To saddle his nag with speed:

'This night will I ride to Fair Margaret's bowr,

With the leave of my lady.

'Oh is Fair Margaret in the kitchen?

Or is she in the hall?

. . . . . . .

'No, she is not in the kitchen,' they cryed,

'Nor is she in the hall;

But she is in the long chamber,

Laid up against the wall.'

Go with your right side to Newcastle,

And come with your left side home,

There you will see those two lovers

Lie printed on one stone.

* * * * *

#A. a.#

Fair Margaret's Misfortune, or, Sweet William's Frightful

Dreams on his Wedding Night. With the Sudden Death and

Burial of those Noble Lovers.... Printed for S. Bates,

at the Sun and Bible, in Gilt-Spur Street. _Sarah Bates

published about 1685. Chappell._

3^1. set.

4^1. lay.

5^4. Which causd him for to weep: _caught probably from

7^4. See the quotation in Beaumont and Fletcher, and the

other broadside copies._

13^2. my kin.

18^1. channel.

#b.# 1^1. out upon a day.

1^3. a long.

2^4. you shall.

3^4. a riding.

4^3. went away first from the.

4^4. more came.

5^4. And stood at William's bed-feet.

6^1. you true.

6^3. grass green.

6^4. I am.

9^4. thy bride-bed.

10^1. called his.

12^1. Then he.

12^3. she looks both.

14^1. the seven.

14^3, 15^1. brown dame.

16^2. Of white.

18^2. And William.

19^3. there they.

19^4. all the.

20^1. Then.

#c.# 2^3. at eight.

2^4. you shall.

3^3. She spyed.

3^4. a riding.

4^4. more came.

5^3. There came.

5^4. And stood at William's feet.

6^1. you lovers true.

6^4. I'm.

9^4. And they.

12^1. Then he.

14^1. the seven.

17. William dyed.

18^2. And William.

19^3. there they.

19^4. Made all the folke.

20^1. Then.

#d.#

_Variations not found in_ #c#: "Communicated by a lady

of the first distinction, as she had heard this song

repeated in her infancy."

3^2. Combing her yellow hair.

3^3. There she spyed.

Then down she layd her ivory combe,

And braided her hair in twain;

She went alive out of her bower,

But neer came alive in't again.

'Are you awake, Sweet William?' shee said,

'Or, Sweet William, are you asleep?

God give you joy of your gay bride-bed,

And me of my winding-sheet.'

11^3. And who so ready as her.

15^3. I neer made a vow to yonder poor corpse.

16.

'Deal on, deal on, my merry men all,

Deal on your cake and your wine;

For whatever is dealt at her funeral today

Shall be dealt tomorrow at mine.'

19^1. They grew till they grew unto the.

19^2. And then they.

19^3. they tyed.

19^4. the people.

#C.#

"The ballad of Sweet William," _writes Parsons to Percy_,

"was the same as yours in the stanzas I have omitted....

The person from whom I took the thirty-fifth line

[_thirty-first, here_ 4^3] sang it thus:

My chamber was full of wild men's wine,

which is absolute nonsense, yet, if altered to 'wild men

and swine,' is perfect sense."

[118] "The common title of this ballad, which is a favorite of the

stalls, is 'Fair Margaret's Misfortunes:'" Motherwell, Minstrelsy, p.

lxviii, note 18.

[119] Reliques, 1765, III, 121, 310.

LORD LOVEL

#A.# 'Lady Ouncebell,' communicated to Bishop Percy by

the Rev. P. Parsons, of Wye, 1770 and 1775.

#B.# 'Lord Lavel,' Kinloch MSS, I, 45.

#C.# 'Lord Travell,' communicated by Mr Alexander Laing,

of Newburgh-on-Tay.

#D.# 'Lord Lovel,' Kinloch MSS, VII, 83; Kinloch's

Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 31.

#E.# Communicated by Mr J. F. Campbell, of Islay, as

learned about 1850.

#F.# 'Lord Lovel,' communicated by Mr Robert White, of

Newcastle-on-Tyne.

#G.# 'Lord Revel,' Harris MS., fol. 28b.

#H.# 'Lord Lovel.' #a.# Broadside in Dixon's Ancient

Poems, Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England, p.

78, Percy Society, vol. XIX. #b.# Davidson's Universal

Melodist, I, 148.

#I.# Percy Papers, communicated by Principal Robertson.

#I# is made up of portions of several ballads. The first stanza is

derived from 'Sweet William's Ghost,' the second and third possibly

from some form of 'Death and the Lady,' 4-11 from 'Lady Maisry.' The

eighth stanza of #E# should, perhaps, be considered as taken from 'Lord

Thomas and Fair Annet,' since in no other copy of 'Lord Lovel' and in

none of 'Fair Margaret and Sweet William' does the hero die by his own

hand.

In 'Fair Margaret and Sweet William,' as also in 'Lord Thomas and

Fair Annet,' a lover sacrifices his inclination to make a marriage of

interest. In 'Lord Lovel' the woman dies, not of affection betrayed,

but of hope too long deferred, and her laggard but not unfaithful lover

sinks under his remorse and grief. 'Lord Lovel' is peculiarly such a

ballad as Orsino likes and praises: it is silly sooth, like the old

age. Therefore a gross taste has taken pleasure in parodying it, and

the same with 'Young Beichan.' But there are people in this world who

are amused even with a burlesque of Othello.[120]

There are several sets of ballads, very common in Germany and in

Scandinavia, which, whether they are or are not variations of the same

original, at least have a great deal in common with 'Lord Lovel' and

'Fair Margaret and Sweet William.'

Of these, one which more closely resembles the English is 'Der Ritter

und die Maid,' of German origin, but found also further north.[121]

A knight and maid have been together till morning. She weeps; he

tells her that he will pay for her honor, will give her an underling

and money. She will have none but him, and will go home to her mother.

The mother, on seeing her, asks why her gown is long behind and short

before, and offers her meat and drink. The daughter refuses them, goes

to bed, and dies. So far there is no dallying with the innocence of

love, as in the English ballad; the German knight is simply a brutal

man of pleasure. But now the knight has a dream, as in 'Fair Margaret

and Sweet William;' it is that his love has died. He bids his squire

or groom to saddle, and rides to find out what has happened. On his

way he hears an ominous bell; further on he sees a grave digging; then

he meets men carrying a bier. Set down the bier, he cries, that I may

see my love. He turns back the cloth and looks at the dead. She has

suffered for him, he will suffer for her. He draws his sword and runs

it through his heart. They are buried in one coffin, or in the same

grave. In some of the ballads lilies rise from the grave; in a Swedish

version ('Jungfruns död'), a linden, the leaves of which intermingle.

Next to this we may put a Norwegian and a Swedish ballad, which, having

perhaps lost something at the beginning, cannot safely be classed:

'Maarstíg aa hass möy,' Bugge, p. 127, No 26, A, B; 'Herr Malmstens

dröm,' Afzelius, III, 104, No 85. Maarstíg dreams that his love's gold

ring has got upon another finger, that her gold belt is off her lithe

waist, her cloak or her hair is cut to bits, her shoes are full of

blood; Malmsten that his love's heart breaks. The pages are ordered

to saddle, and Maarstíg, or Malmsten, rides to find what there is in

the dream. Maarstíg encounters two maids, who are just from a wake.

"Who is dead?" "Maalfrí, thy sweet love." He rides on, meets the bier,

bids the bearers set it down, and looks at the dead. Let them dig the

grave, he cries, wide and deep, it shall be his bride-house; let them

dig the grave deep and long, that is where bride and bridegroom shall

go. He sets his sword against a stone, and falls on it. With slight

variations, the course of the story is the same for Malmsten. Another

Swedish ballad, 'Den sörjande,' Djurklou, p. 106, No 7, lacks even so

much introduction as the dream. The lover orders his horse, hears the

funeral bell, sees the grave-digging, meets the bier, looks at his dead

mistress, and kills himself. A fragment in Dybeck's Runa, 1845, p. 15,

begins with the ride and stops short of the death.

These last ballads apparently give us the middle and end of a story

which has also some sort of beginning in the following: Danish, 'Den

elskedes Død,' Kristensen, II, 39, No 20, A-D, and in many unprinted

copies from oral tradition, besides two from MSS of the sixteenth

century, communicated to me by Grundtvig; Swedish, 'Hertig Nils,'

Arwidsson, II, 21, No 72, 'Peder Palleson,' Arwidsson, No 71, II, 18,

437; Norwegian, 'Herr Stragi,' Landstad, p. 537, No 61.[122] A lover

and his mistress have parted, have been long parted. She is sick,

dying, or even dead. In the Danish manuscript copies we are distinctly

told that she has grieved herself to death on his account. Word is

sent him by carrier-pigeons, a bird, a page; or he is informed by a

spae-wife (Landstad). He leaps over the table, spilling mead and wine

(Kristensen), and rides faster than the doves fly. The rest of the

tale is much as before, with those minor diversities that are to be

expected. The lover commonly kills himself, but dies of heart-break in

'Peder Palleson' and one of the sixteenth century Danish copies. In

the latter he hears the bells, says he shall never arrive alive, dies

without the house and she within; in the former the maid dies in the

upper room, the swain on the wild moor. In the Danish manuscript copies

the man is laid south in the churchyard, the maid north [west, east],

two roses spring from their breasts and span the church-roof, and there

they shall stay till doom; in Kristensen it is two lilies, in Arwidsson

a linden.

With these last may belong a German ballad of a young Markgraf, who

marries a very young wife, goes for her mother upon the approach of a

threatening childbirth, and, returning, has encounters similar to those

in 'Der Ritter und die Maid.' In some instances it is a Reiter, or

Jäger, "wohlgemuth," not married, or in secret relations with his love,

who, coming to a wood or heath, hears a bell that alarms him; etc. In

the end he generally kills himself, sometimes dies of a broken heart.

Lilies in several cases rise from the young woman's grave, or their

grave.[123]

A Romaic ballad has the characteristic features of the English, German,

and Scandinavian stories, with a beginning of its own, as these also

have: 'Ἡ Ευγενουλα,' 'Ὁ Χαρος και ἡ Κορη,' etc. (1) Zambelios, p.

715, 2==Passow, No 415; (2) Passow, No 418; (3) Fauriel, p. 112,

No 6==Passow, No 417; (4) Marcellus, II, 72==Passow, No 414; (5)

Chasiotis, p. 169, No 5; (6) Passow, No 416; (7) Aravandinos, p. 285,

No 472; (8) Tommaseo, III, 307 f; (9) Jeannaraki, p. 239, No 301; and

no doubt elsewhere, for the ballad is a favorite. A young girl, who has

nine brothers and is betrothed (or perhaps newly married) to a rich

pallikar, professes not to fear Death. Death immediately shows his

power over her. Her lover, coming with a splendid train to celebrate

his nuptials, sees a cross on her mother's gate, a sign that some one

has died. In (2) he lifts a gold handkerchief from the face of the

dead, and sees that it is his beloved. Or he finds a man digging a

grave, and asks for whom the grave is, and is told. "Make the grave

deep and broad," he cries; "make it for two," and stabs himself with

his dagger. A clump of reeds springs from one of the lovers, a cypress

[lemon-tree] from the other, which bend one towards the other and kiss

whenever a strong breeze blows.[124]

In a Catalan ballad, a young man hears funeral bells, asks for whom

they ring, is told that it is for his love, rides to her house, finds

the balcony hung with black, kneels at the feet of the dead, and

uncovers her face. She speaks and tells him where his gifts to her may

be found, then bids him order the carpenter to make a coffin large

enough for two. He draws his dagger and stabs himself; there are two

dead in one house! 'La mort de la Nuvia,' Briz y Candi, I, 135, Milá,

Romancerillo, p. 321 f, No 337 #A#_{ll}, #B#_{ll}; found also in

Majorca.

As will readily be supposed, some of the incidents of this series of

ballads are found in traditional song in various connections.

* * * * *

#D# is translated by Grundtvig, Engelske og skotske Folkeviser, p. 194,

No 29; by Rose Warrens, Schottische Volkslieder der Vorzeit, p. 115, No

25.

Percy Papers, communicated by the Rev. P. Parsons, of

Wye, from singing; May 22, 1770, and April 19, 1775.

'And I fare you well, Lady Ouncebell,

For I must needs be gone,

And this time two year I'll meet you again,

To finish the loves we begun.'

'That is a long time, Lord Lovill,' said she,

'To live in fair Scotland;'

'And so it is, Lady Ouncebell,

To leave a fair lady alone.'

He had not been in fair Scotland

Not half above half a year,

But a longin mind came into his head,

Lady Ouncebell he woud go see her.

He called up his stable-groom,

To sadle his milk-white stead;

Dey down, dey down, dey down dery down,

I wish Lord Lovill good speed.

He had not been in fair London

Not half above half a day,

But he heard the bells of the high chapel ring,

They rang with a ceserera.

He asked of a gentleman,

That set there all alone,

What made the bells of the high chapel ring,

The ladys make all their moan.

'One of the king's daughters are dead,' said he,

'Lady Ouncebell was her name;

She died for love of a courtous young night,

Lord Lovill he was the same.'

He caused her corps to be set down,

And her winding sheet undone,

And he made a vow before them all

He'd never kiss wowman again.

Lady Ouncebell died on the yesterday,

Lord Lovill on the morrow;

Lady Ouncebell died for pure true love,

Lord Lovill died for sorrow.

Lady Ouncebell was buried in the high chancel,

Lord Lovill in the choir;

Lady Ouncebell's breast sprung out a sweet rose,

Lord Lovill's a bunch of sweet brier.

They grew till they grew to the top of the church,

And then they could grow no higher;

They grew till they grew to a true-lover's not,

And then they tyed both together.

An old wowman coming by that way,

And a blessing she did crave,

To cut off a bunch of that true-lover's not,

And buried them both in one grave.

Kinloch MSS, I, 45, from the recitation of Mary Barr, of

Lesmahago, "aged upwards of 70," May, 1827.

Lord Lavel he stands at his stable-door,

Kaiming his milk-white steed;

And by and cam Fair Nancybelle,

And wished Lord Lavel good speed.

'O whare are ye going, Lord Lavel?' she said,

'I pray ye tell to me:'

'O I am going to merry England,

To win your love aff me.'

'And when will ye return again?' she said,

'Lord Lavel, pray tell to me:'

'Whan seven lang years are past and gane,

Fair Nancybelle, I'll return to thee.'

''T is too lang, Lord Lavel,' she said,

''T is too lang for me;

'T is too long, Lord Lavel,' she said,

'A true lover for to see.'

* * * * * * *

He had na been in merry England

A month but barely three,

Till languishing thoughts cam into his mind,

And Nancybelle fain wad he see.

He rade, and he rade, alang the hieway,

Till he cam to yonder toun;

He heard the sound o a fine chapel-bell,

And the ladies were mourning roun.

He rade, and he rade, alang the hieway,

Till he cam to yonder hall;

He heard the sound o a fine chapel-bell,

And the ladies were mourning all.

He asked wha it was that was dead,

The ladies did him tell:

They said, It is the king's daughter,

Her name is Fair Nancybelle;

She died for the love of a courteous young knicht,

His name is Lord Lavel.

'O hast thou died, Fair Nancybelle,

O hast thou died for me!

O hast thou died, Fair Nancybelle!

Then I will die for thee.'

Fair Nancybelle died, as it might be, this day,

Lord Lavel he died tomorrow;

Fair Nancybelle died with pure, pure love,

Lord Lavel he died with sorrow.

Lord Lavel was buried in Mary's kirk,

Nancybelle in Mary's quire;

And out o the ane there grew a birk,

Out the other a bonny brier.

And ae they grew, and ae they threw,

Until they twa did meet,

That ilka ane might plainly see

They war twa lovers sweet.

Communicated by Mr Alexander Laing, 1873, as taken down

from the recitation of Miss Fanny Walker, of Mount

Pleasant, near Newburgh-on-Tay.

Lord Travell stands in his stable-door,

Dressing his milk-white steed,

An bye comes Lady Ounceville:

'I wish you muckle speed.

'Oh whar are ye gaun, Lord Travell?' she says,

'Whar are gaun frae me?'

'I am gaun to London town,

Some strange things for to see.'

'Whan will ye be back, Lord Travell?' she says,

'Whan will ye be back to me?'

'I will be back in seven lang years,

To wed my gay ladie.'

'Oh that is too lang for me,' she says,

'Oh that is too lang for me;

Oh that is too lang for me,' she says,

'To wed thy gay ladie.'

He hadna been in London town

A week but only three,

Whan a boding voice thirld in his ear,

That Scotland he maun see.

He rade an he rode alang the highway,

Till he cam to yon little town:

'Oh is there ony body dead?

The bells they mak sic a sound.'

He rade an he rode alang the highway,

Till he cam to yon little town:

'Oh is there ony body dead?

The folk gae mournin round.'

'Oh yes indeed, there is ane dead,

Her name is Ounceville;

An she has died for a courteous knicht,

His name is Lord Travell.'

'Oh hand ye aboot, ye gentlemen,

The white bread an the wine,

For the morn's nicht aboot this time

Ye'll do the same for mine!'

Kinloch MSS, VII, 83, from the recitation of a lady of

Roxburghshire; Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 31.

Lord Lovel stands at his stable-door,

Mounted upon a grey steed,

And bye cam Ladie Nanciebel,

And wishd Lord Lovel much speed.

'O whare are ye going, Lord Lovel?

My dearest, tell unto me:'

'I am going a far journey,

Some strange countrey to see.

'But I'll return in seven long years,

Lady Nanciebel to see:'

'Oh seven, seven, seven long years,

They are much too long for me.'

* * * * * * *

He was gane about a year away,

A year but barely ane,

Whan a strange fancy cam intil his head

That faire Nanciebel was gane.

It's then he rade, and better rade,

Untill he cam to the toun,

And there he heard a dismal noise,

For the church bells au did soun.

He asked what the bells rang for;

They said, It's for Nanciebel;

She died for a discourteous squire,

And his name is Lord Lovel.

The lid of the coffin he opened up,

The linens he faulded doun,

And ae he kissd her pale, pale lips,

And the tears cam trinkling doun.

'Weill may I kiss these pale, pale lips,

For they will never kiss me;

I'll mak a vow, and I'll keep it true,

That I'll neer kiss ane but thee.'

Lady Nancie died on Tuesday's nicht,

Lord Lovel upon the niest day;

Lady Nancie died for pure, pure love,

Lord Lovel for deep sorraye.

Communicated by J. F. Campbell, Esq., as learned from the

singing of an English gentleman, about 1850.

'Now fare ye well, Lady Oonzabel,

For I must needs be gone,

To visit the king of fair Scotland,

Oh I must be up and ride.'

So he called unto him his little foot-page,

To saddle his milk-white steed;

Hey down, hey down, hey derry, hey down,

How I wish my Lord Lovel good speed!

He had not been in fair Scotland,

Not passing half a year,

When a lover-like thought came into his head,

Lady Oonzabel he would go see her.

So he called unto him his little foot-page,

To saddle his milk-white steed;

Hey down, hey down, hey derry, hey down,

How I wish my Lord Lovel good speed.

He had not been in fair England,

Not passing half a day,

When the bells of the high chappel did ring,

And they made a loud sassaray.

He asked of an old gentleman

Who was sitting there all alone,

Why the bells of the high chappel did ring,

And the ladies were making a moan.

'Oh, the king's fair daughter is dead,' said he;

'Her name's Lady Oonzabel;

And she died for the love of a courteous young knight,

And his name it is Lord Lovel.'

* * * * * * *

He caused the bier to be set down,

The winding sheet undone,

And drawing forth his rapier bright,

Through his own true heart did it run.

Lady Oonzabel lies in the high chappel,

Lord Lovel he lies in the quier;

And out of the one there grew up a white rose,

And out of the other a brier.

And they grew, and they grew, to the high chappel top;

They could not well grow any higher;

And they twined into a true lover's knot,

So in death they are joined together.

Communicated by Mr Robert White, of Newcastle-on-Tyne.

As Lord Lovel was at the stable-door,

Mounting his milk-white steed,

Who came by but poor Nancy Bell,

And she wished Lovel good speed.

'O where are ye going, Lord Lovel?' she said,

'How long to tarry from me?'

'Before six months are past and gone,

Again I'll return to thee.'

He had not been a twelvemonth away,

A twelvemonth and a day,

Till Nancy Bell grew sick and sad,

She pined and witherd away.

The very first town that he came to,

He heard the death-bell knell;

The very next town that he came to,

They said it was Nancy Bell.

He orderd the coffin to be broke open,

The sheet to be turned down,

And then he kissd her cold pale lips,

Till the tears ran tricklin down.

The one was buried in St. John's church,

The other in the choir;

From Nancy Bell sprang a bonny red rose,

From Lord Lovel a bonny briar.

They grew, and they grew, to the height o the church,

To they met from either side,

And at the top a true lover's knot

Shows that one for the other had died.

Harris MS., fol. 28 b, from the recitation of Mrs

Molison, Dunlappie.

Lord Revel he stands in his stable-door,

He was dressing a milk-white steed;

A lady she stands in her bour-door,

A dressin with haste an speed.

'O where are you goin, Lord Revel,' she said,

'Where are you going from me?'

'It's I am going to Lonnon toun,

That fair city for to see.'

'When will you be back, Lord Revel?' she said,

'When will you be back to me?'

'I will be back in the space of three years,

To wed you, my gey ladie.'

'That's too long a time for me,' she said,

'That's too long a time for me;

For I'll be dead long time ere that,

For want of your sweet companie.'

He had not been in Lonnon toun

A month but barely three,

When word was brought that Isabell

Was sick, an like to dee.

He had not been in Lonnon toun

A year but barely ane,

When word was brought from Lonnon toun

That Isabell was gane.

He rode an he rode along the high way,

Till he came to Edenborrow toon:

Is there any fair lady dead,' said he,

'That the bells gie such a tone?'

'Oh yes, there's a ladie, a very fine ladie,

Her name it is Isabell;

She died for the sake of a young Scottish knight,

His name it is Lord Revel.'

'Deal well, deal well at Isabell's burial

The biscuit and the beer,

An gainst the morrow at this same time

You'll aye deal mair and mair.

'Deal well, deal well at Isabell's burial

The white bread and the wine,

An gainst the morn at this same time

You'll deal the same at mine.'

They dealt well, dealt weel at Isabell's burial

The biscuit an the beer,

And gainst the morn at that same time

They dealt them mair an mair.

They dealt weel, dealt weel at Isabell's burial

The white bread an the wine,

An gainst the morn at that same time

They dealt the same again.

#a.# London broadside of 1846, in Dixon's Ancient Poems,

Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, p. 78,

Percy Society, vol. XIX. #b.# Davidson's Universal

Melodist, I, 148.

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate,

Combing his milk-white steed,

When up came Lady Nancy Belle,

To wish her lover good speed, speed,

To wish her lover good speed.

'Where are you going, Lord Lovel?' she said,

'Oh where are you going?' said she;

'I'm going, my Lady Nancy Belle,

Strange countries for to see.'

'When will you be back, Lord Lovel?' she said,

'Oh when will you come back?' said she;

'In a year or two, or three, at the most,

I'll return to my fair Nancy.'

But he had not been gone a year and a day,

Strange countries for to see,

When languishing thoughts came into his head,

Lady Nancy Belle he would go see.

So he rode, and he rode, on his milk-white steed,

Till he came to London town,

And there he heard St Pancras bells,

And the people all mourning round.

'Oh what is the matter?' Lord Lovel he said,

'Oh what is the matter?' said he;

'A lord's lady is dead,' a woman replied,

'And some call her Lady Nancy.'

So he ordered the grave to be opened wide,

And the shroud he turned down,

And there he kissed her clay-cold lips,

Till the tears came trickling down.

Lady Nancy she died, as it might be, today,

Lord Lovel he died as tomorrow;

Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief,

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow.

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras church,

Lord Lovel was laid in the choir;

And out of her bosom there grew a red rose,

And out of her lover's a briar.

They grew, and they grew, to the church-steeple too,

And then they could grow no higher;

So there they entwined in a true-lover's knot,

For all lovers true to admire.

Percy Papers, communicated by Principal Robertson, the

historian.

There came a ghost to Helen's bower,

Wi monny a sigh and groan:

'O make yourself ready, at Wednesday at een,

Fair Helen, you must be gone.'

'O gay Death, O gallant Death,

Will you spare my life sae lang

Untill I send to merry Primrose,

Bid my dear lord come hame?'

'O gay Helen, O galant Helen,

I winna spare you sae lang;

But make yoursell ready, again Wednesday at een,

Fair Helen, you must be gane.'

'O where will I get a bonny boy,

That would win hose and shoon,

That will rin fast to merry Primrose,

Bid my dear lord come soon?'

O up and speak a little boy,

That would win hose and shoon:

'Aft have I gane your errants, lady,

But by my suth I'll rin.'

When he came to broken briggs

He bent his bow and swam,

And when he came to grass growing

He cast off his shoon and ran.

When he came to merry Primrose,

His lord he was at meat:

'O my lord, kend ye what I ken,

Right little wad ye eat.'

'Is there onny of my castles broken doun,

Or onny of my towers won?

Or is Fair Helen brought to bed

Of a doughter or a son?'

'There's nane of [your] castles broken doun,

Nor nane of your towers won,

Nor is Fair Helen brought to bed

Of a doghter or a son.'

'Gar sadle me the black, black steed,

Gar sadle me the brown;

Gar sadle me the swiftest horse

Eer carried man to town.'

First he bursted the bonny black,

And then he bursted the brown,

And then he bursted the swiftest steed

Eer carried man to town.

He hadna ridden a mile, a mile,

A mile but barelins ten,

When he met four and twenty gallant knights,

Carrying a dead coffin.

'Set down, set down Fair Helen's corps,

Let me look on the dead;'

And out he took a little pen-knife,

And he screeded the winding-sheet.

O first he kist her rosy cheek,

And then he kist her chin,

And then he kist her coral lips,

But there's nae life in within.

'Gar deal, gar deal the bread,' he says,

'The bread bat an the wine,

And at the morn at twelve o'clock

Ye's gain as much at mine.'

The tane was buried in Mary's kirk,

The tother in Mary's choir,

And out of the tane there sprang a birch,

And out of the tother a briar.

The tops of them grew far sundry,

But the roots of them grew neer,

And ye may easy ken by that

They were twa lovers dear.

* * * * *

#A.#

_The copy sent Percy in 1770 was slightly revised by

Parsons; the original was communicated in 1775._

3^3. along in.

4^4. coud speed.

6^3. make.

6^4. their mourn.

10^4. _Parsons corrects ~bunch~ to ~branch~._

#G.#

7^4. bell.

#H. a.#

10^1. church-steeple too, _perhaps a misprint for_ top.

#b.#

_This is an attempt to burlesque the broadside by

vulgarizing two or three words, as ~lovier~, ~buzzum~,

and inserting one stanza._

2^4, 4^2. Foreign countries.

3^3. In a year, or two or three, or four.

4^1. twelve months and a day.

6^3. dead, the people all said.

7^2. to be turned.

7^4. Whilst.

_After_ 7:

Then he flung his self down by the side of the corpse,

With a shivering gulp and a guggle;

Gave two hops, three kicks, heavd a sigh, blew his nose,

Sung a song, and then died in the struggle.

10^1. church-steeple top.

10^3. they twin'd themselves into.

#I.#

3^2. 'you,' _as if changed or supplied_.

5^2. _Crossed out. In a different hand_, Just at the

lady's chin.

7^4. would wad ye.

11^3. swifted.

13^4. _Perhaps_ scrieded.

[120] It can scarcely be too often repeated that such ballads as

this were meant only to be sung, not at all to be recited. As has

been well remarked of a corresponding Norwegian ballad, 'Lord Lovel'

is especially one of those which, for their due effect, require the

support of a melody, and almost equally the comment of a burden.

No burden is preserved in the case of 'Lord Lovel,' but we are not

to infer that there never was one. The burden, which is at least

as important as the instrumental accompaniment of modern songs,

sometimes, in these little tragedies, foreshadows calamity from the

outset, sometimes, as in the Norwegian ballad referred to, is a

cheerful-sounding formula, which in the upshot enhances by contrast the

gloom of the conclusion. "A simple but life-like story, supported by

the burden and the air, these are the means by which such old romances

seek to produce an impression:" Landstad, to 'Herr Stragi,' p. 541.

[121] (1), 'Das Lied vom Herren und der Magd,' 1771, Düntzer u. Herder,

Briefe Goethe's an Herder, I, 157. (2), 'Eyn klegliche Mordgeschicht,

von ey'm Graven vnnde eyner Meyd,' Nicolai, Eyn feyner kleyner

Almanach, 1777, I, 39, No 2; with variations, Kretzschmer, I, 89,

No 54, Uhland, p. 220, No 97 A. (3), 'Der Ritter und das Mägdlein,'

Erk, Liederhort, p. 81, No 26, a traditional variety of (2). (4),

Wunderhorn, 1806, I, 50==Erlach, II, 531, Mittler, No 91. (5), 'Des

Prinzen Reue,' Meinert, p. 218, 1817. (6), Alemannia, II, 185, after a

manuscript of von Arnim. (7), Erk's edition of the Wunderhorn, IV, 304.

(8), Hoffmann u. Richter, Schlesische Volkslieder, p. 9, No 4. (9), Erk

u. Irmer, IV, 62, No 56. (10), 'Zu späte Reue,' Fiedler, p. 161. (11),

'Der Erbgraf,' Simrock, p. 33, No 12, compounded, but partly oral.

(12), 'Der Ritter und seine Dame,' Pröhle, p. 19, No 13. (13), Meier,

p. 316, No 177. (14-16), Ditfurth, II, 4-8, Nos 6, 7, 8. (17-22),

Wagner, in Deutsches Museum, 1862, II, 758-68. (23), 'Der Herr und

seine Dame,' Peter, I, 193, No 10. (24), Parisius, p. 33, No 10. (25),

Adam Wolf, p. 11, No 6. (26), Alfred Müller, p. 98. (27), 'Die traurige

Begegnung,' Paudler, p. 21, No 13.

Scandinavian, from the German: 'Ungersvennens Dröm,' Fagerlund,

Anteckningar, p. 196; 'Jungfruns död,' Wigström, Folkdiktning, I,

52; and besides these Swedish copies, a Danish broadside, from the

beginning of this century, which is very common. 'Stolten Hellelille,'

"Tragica, No 22," 1657, Danske Viser, III, 184, No 130 (translated by

Prior, III, 214), a somewhat artificial piece, has the outline of 'Der

Ritter u. die Maid,' and is a hundred years older than any known copy

of the German ballad.

A Wendish ballad, founded on the German, is very like (4): Haupt and

Schmaler, I, 139, No 136.

A Dutch ballad, in the Antwerpener Liederbuch, No 45, Hoffmann,

Niederländische Volkslieder, p. 61, No 15, Willems, p. 154, No 60,

Uhland, No 97 B, has some points of the above, but is a very different

story.

[122] There is a Finnish form of this ballad, probably derived

from the Swedish; also another Swedish version in Westergötlands

Fornminnesförenings Tidskrift, 1869, häfte 1, which I have not yet seen.

[123] (1), "Bothe, Frühlings-Almanach," p. 132, 1806; 'Hans Markgraf,'

Büsching u. von der Hagen, p. 30; Erlach, II, 136; Mittler, No 133.

(2), 'Alle bei Gott die sich lieben,' Wunderhorn, II, 250, 1808,

Mittler, No 128. (3), 'Alle bei Gott die sich lieben,' Hoffmann

u. Richter, p. 12, No 5, Mittler, No 132. (4), 'Der Graf u. die

Bauerntochter,' Ditfurth, II, 8, No 9. (5), 'Vom jungen Markgrafen,'

Pogatschnigg u. Hermann, II, 179, No 595. (6), 'Die junge Mutter,'

Paudler, p. 22, No 14.

(7), 'Jungfer Dörtchen ist todt,' Parisius, p. 36, No 10. (8),

'Liebchens Tod,' Erk u. Irmer, VI, 4, No 2; Mittler, No 130. (9),

'Jägers Trauer,' Pröhle, p. 86, No 57; Mittler, No 129. (10), 'Das

unverdiente Kränzlein,' Meinert, p. 32; Mittler, No 131. For plants

springing from lovers' graves, as here and in Nos 73, 74, see vol. i,

96 ff.

[124] In (2) the lover is warned of mishap by a bird, and the bird

is a nightingale, as in Kristensen, II, No 20 A. A bird of some sort

figures in all the Danish ballads referred to, printed and unprinted,

and in the Swedish 'Hertig Nils;' also in the corresponding Finnish

ballad. The nightingale warns to the same effect in a French ballad,

Beaurepaire, p. 52. The lover goes straight to his mistress's house,

and learns that they are burying her; then makes for the cemetery,

hears the bells, the priests chanting, etc., and approaches the bier.

The dead gives him some information, followed by some admonition.

THE LASS OF ROCH ROYAL

#A.# 'Fair Isabell of Rochroyall,' Elizabeth Cochrane's

Song-Book, p. 151, No 114.

#B.# 'The Bonny Lass of Lochroyan, or Lochroyen,' Herd's

MSS, I, 144, II, 60; Herd's Scottish Songs, 1776, I, 149.

#C.# 'Lord Gregory,' Pitcairn's MSS, III, 1.

#D.# 'Fair Anny,' Jamieson-Brown MS., fol. 27; 'Fair

Annie of Lochroyan,' Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 36.

#E.# #a.# 'Love Gregor,' Alexander Fraser Tytler's

Brown MS., No 2. #b.# 'The Lass of Lochroyan,' Scott's

Minstrelsy, II, 49, 1802.

#F.# Herd's MSS, I, 31, II, 65.

#G.# 'Love Gregory,' Buchan's MSS, II, 149; Buchan's

Ballads of the North of Scotland, II, 198; Dixon,

Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads, Percy

Society, vol. xvii, p. 60.

#H.# 'The Lass of Aughrim,' an Irish version,

communicated by Mr G. C. Mahon, of Ann Arbor, Michigan.

#I.# 'Oh open the door, Lord Gregory,' Johnson's Museum,

I, 5, No 5, four stanzas.

#J.# Motherwell's Note-Book, p. 12, two stanzas.

#K.# Stenhouse's Johnson's Museum, IV, *107, one stanza.

* * * * *

#A#, never as yet published, is from a manuscript of the first half of

the last century. #B#, the earliest printed copy, was given by Herd,

from his manuscript, in 1776, with his usual fidelity. Scott followed,

in 1802, with a copy obtained from Mrs Brown by Alexander Fraser

Tytler in 1800, introducing six stanzas from #B# and five from #F#,

and a few readings from two recited copies. This compounded copy is

the one that is most generally known. Jamieson printed, in 1806, #D#,

a version written down from Mrs Brown's recitation in 1783, giving it

not quite _verbatim_, as he says (he changes, for instance, Rochroyal

to Lochroyan), but in general adhering to his text. #E a#, the copy

principally used by Scott, is, to a considerable extent, a repetition

of #D#, but is by no means an imperfectly remembered version of its

predecessor (which was written down seventeen years earlier), filled

out by Mrs Brown's improvised inventions. #E a# has stanzas not found

in #D#, two of which occur in #B#, and is to be regarded as a blending

of two independent versions known to Mrs Brown, which no doubt had

much in common, though not so much as #D# and #E a#. The whole of the

fragment #F# has not been published hitherto, but five of the eight

stanzas are interpolated into Scott's copy, including the two last,

which are shown by the very style to be spurious. Fairy charms have

been exercised on Lord Gregory, according to the final stanza of #F#,

and Lord Gregory calls his dame "witch mother" in #C# 10. But there

appears to be no call for magic or witchcraft in the case. A man who is

asleep is simply not informed by an ill disposed mother that a woman

whom he would like to see is at the door; that is all.[125]

#A#, the oldest copy, has a preliminary history wanting in the others.

Isabel of Rochroyal has a dream about her lover. She orders her horse,

to ride till she comes to some hold. She meets a company, who ask her

questions about a first and a second young may, which _she_ seems to

understand, but which are not made intelligible to us. They then ask

whether she be Isabel of Rochroyal, and she answers that she is that

same lady, banished from kith and kin; why, we are not informed, but

we might conjecture that it would be on account of her relations with

Love Gregory. She is directed to Gregory's castle, tirls at the pin,

and begs admission. Gregory's mother answers as and for her son, and

demands proofs of her being the lass of Rochroyal. These are given, and

the mother says that Gregory is gone to sea. Hereupon Isabel breaks out

into exclamations as to her helpless condition; who will take care of

her? who will be the bairn's father till Gregory come home? The mother

replies that she will do all that is necessary for her, but there is

none to be her bairn's father till Gregory return. This is in itself

unnatural, since the mother is hostile to her son's love, and it is

counter to what we read in the other versions. In #B# as in #A#, to

be sure, the lass is said to be banished from her kin, but her kin

nevertheless show a disposition to do all that is in their power in

the way of kind attentions. The other copies say nothing of her family

being alienated. The father in #D# even furnishes his daughter with

a bonny ship, to go to her true-love. If we seek to reconcile these

accounts, we must take the banishment as a separation for which only

the fates are responsible, and suppose that verses are lost in #A#

after 17 which narrated Annie's return to her own family. The lass

says, st. 22, that she will set her foot on ship-board, having been

told by the mother, st. 17, that Gregory is on the sea. Gregory, in

turn, has his dream, that his love has been knocking at the door, and

his mother tells him that she has not been gone half an hour, and gets

his curses for not informing him. Gregory orders his swiftest horse,

to ride till he comes to some hold, and presently meets a funeral

train who are carrying his love to burial. This conclusion, found also

in #B#, #C#, is that of 'Lord Lovel' and 'Fair Margaret and Sweet

William,' and must perhaps be set aside as not the original one. In #B#

Gregory kills himself, as Lord Lovel does in one copy, #E#.

The whole story as #A# actually stands, notwithstanding that the

lass says she will take ship, seems to pass on land. Two different

relations may have been confounded. In the other versions Love Gregory

is somewhere over sea, and in #B#, #F# his lass is indebted for his

direction, not to a company who are raking over the lea, but to a

sea-rover, who shows a consideration not to be looked for from his

class.[126] The maid, repulsed by Gregory's mother, and supposing

herself to be cast off by Gregory himself, sails away from his castle,

and in #D#, #E# encounters a storm, and is wrecked. In #D# Gregory

rushes to the strand near which his castle lies, sees Annie sailing

away, witnesses the wreck of her vessel, plunges into the sea and

brings her body to land, and dies of heartbreak. So in #E#, with the

difference that Annie's body is thrown ashore by the waves, and that

the tale does not finish with the death of Gregory, which we know must

have followed.

Why the lovers are parted, why Gregory winna come to the lass, and

she must go to him, is not accounted for in #C-G#. We may deduce from

#A# and #B#, though the story in these versions as we have it is not

altogether consistent, that the lass was banished from kith and kin

on account of her connection with Gregory (which in #B# 16 and #H#

9 is said to have been irregular) and flying to her lover, found no

acceptance with his mother.

Cunningham has rewritten this ballad, Scottish Songs, I, 298, and

several songs have been composed on the story: by Burns and Dr Wolcott

(Peter Pindar), Thomson's Select Melodies of Scotland, I, 37, ed.

1822; Jamieson, Popular Ballads, I, 46; and by an anonymous writer in

a London periodical, cited by Dixon, Scottish Traditional Versions of

Ancient Ballads, p. 99.

Roch- or Rough-royal, #A#, #D#, #E#, #F#, Ruchlawhill, #C#, I have not

found, but there is a Rough castle in Stirlingshire. Loch Ryan runs

up into the north-west corner of Wigtown, a shire at the south-west

extremity of Scotland. Aughrim is in the county of Roscommon, Ireland.

As the mother in this ballad, feigning to be her son, requires the lady

at the gate to legitimate herself by mentioning some of the tokens

which have been exchanged between her and her lover, so in other

ballads a wife demands conclusive proofs that a man claiming to be her

long absent husband is what he pretends to be. E. g., some forms of the

French ballad of 'Germaine:'

'Ouvre ta port', Germin', c'est moi qu'est ton mari.'

'Donnez-moi des indic's de la première nuit,

Et par là je croirai que vous êt's mon mari.'

'T'en souviens-tu, Germin', de la première nuit,

Où tu étais monté' sur un beau cheval gris,

Placée entre tes frèr's et moi ton favori?'

'Donnez-moi des indic's de la deuxième nuit,

Et par là je croirai que vous êt's mon mari,

Et par là je croirai que vous êt's mon mari.'

'T'en souviens-tu, Germin', de la deuxième nuit?

En te serrant les doigts ton anneau y cassa,

Tu en as la moitié, et l'autre la voilà.'

Champfleury, Chansons populaires des Provinces, p. 196.

Cf. Poésies pop. de la France, MS., IV, fol. 189; Puymaigre, p. 11,

2d ed., I, 50 f; Beaurepaire, p. 76; Fleury, p. 267; Rathery, in

Le Moniteur, Aug. 26, 1853, p. 945 f, 'Le Sire de Créqui;' Wolf,

Volkslieder aus Venetien, No 81, p. 59; Ferraro, Canti p. monferrini,

No 26, p. 33. And again in Romaic: Ἡ Αναγνωρισις, etc.; Fauriel, II,

422-25; Tommaseo, III, 141-44, 148-50; Marcellus, Chants du Peuple en

Grèce, I, 328; Schmidt, Griechische Märchen, u. s. w., p. 192, No 57;

Chasiotis, p. 89, No 28; Zambelios, p. 718, No 5; Jeannaraki, p. 237,

No 300; Aravandinos, pp 209, 211, Nos 347, 348; Passow, pp 321-28, Nos

441-446; Manousos, p. 103==Fauriel, II, 423. Several of the ballads in

Passow are of course repetitions.[127]

* * * * *

#D# is translated, after Jamieson, by Grundtvig, Engelske og skotske

Folkeviser, No 16; #E b#, Scott's compounded version, by Schubart, p.

93, Doenniges, p. 33, Gerhard, p. 21, Wolff, Halle der Völker, I, 52,

and by Rosa Warrens, Schottische Volkslieder der Vorzeit, No 39, with

a change or two from Aytoun; Allingham's compounded version by Knortz,

Lieder u. Romanzen Alt-Englands, No 63.

#E.# Cochrane's Songbook, p. 151, No 114.

Fair Isabell of Rochroyall,

She dreamed where she lay,

She dreamd a dream of her love Gregory,

A litle before the day.

O huly, huly rose she up,

And huly she put on,

And huly, huly she put on

The silks of crimsion.

'Gar sadle me the black,' she sayes,

'Gar sadle me the broun;

Gar sadle me the swiftest steed

That ever rode the toun.

'Gar shoe him with the beat silver,

And grind him with the gold;

Gar put two bells on every side,

Till I come to some hold.'

She had not rode a mile, a mile,

A mile but barely three,

Till that she spyed a companie

Come rakeing oere the lee.

'O whether is this the first young may,

That lighted and gaed in;

Or is this the second young may,

That neer the sun shined on?

Or is this Fair Isabell of Roch Royall,

Banisht from kyth and kin.'

'O I am not the first young may,

That lighted and gaed in;

Nor neither am I the second young may,

That neer the sun shone on;

'But I'm Fair Isabell of Roch Royall

Banisht from kyth and kin;

I'm seeking my true-love Gregory,

And I woud I had him in.'

'O go your way to yon castle,

And ride it round about,

And there you'll find Love Gregory;

He's within, without any doubt.'

O she's away to yon castle,

She's tirled at the pin:

'O open, open, Love Gregory,

And let your true-love in.'

'If you be the lass of the Rochroyall,

As I trow not you be,

You will tell me some of our love-tokens,

That was betwixt you and me.'

'Have you not mind, Love Gregory,

Since we sat at the wine;

When we changed the rings off our fingers,

And ay the worst fell mine?

'Mine was of the massy gold,

And thine was of the tin;

Mine was true and trusty both,

And thine was false within.'

If you be [the] lass of the Roch Royall,

As I trow not you be,

You will tell me some other love-token

That was betwixt you and me.'

'Have you not mind, Love Gregory,

Since we sat at the wine,

We changed the smocks off our two backs,

And ay the worst fell mine?

'Mine was of the holland fine,

And thine was course and thin;

So many blocks have we two made,

And ay the worst was mine.'

'Love Gregory, he is not at home,

But he is to the sea;

If you have any word to him,

I pray you leave 't with me.'

* * * * * * *

'O who will shoe my bony foot?

Or who will glove my hand?

Or who will bind my midle jimp

With the broad lilly band?

'Or who will comb my bony head

With the red river comb?

Or who will be my bairn's father

Ere Gregory he come home?'

'O I's gar shoe thy bony foot,

And I's gar glove thy hand,

And I's gar bind thy midle jimp

With the broad lilly band.

'And I's gar comb thy bony head

With the red river comb;

But there is none to be thy bairn's father

Till Love Gregory he come home.

'I'll set my foot on the ship-board,

God send me wind and more!

For there's never a woman shall bear a son

Shall make my heart so sore.'

'I dreamed a dream now since yestreen,

That I never dreamed before;

I dreamd that the lass of the Rochroyall

Was knocking at the door.'

'Ly still, ly still, my é dear son,

Ly still, and take a sleep;

For it's neither ane hour, nor yet a half,

Since she went from the gate.'

'O wo be to you, ill woman,

And ane ill death mott you die!

For you might have come to my bed-side,

And then have wakened me.

'Gar sadle me the black,' he sayes,

'Gar sadle me the broun;

Gar sadle me the swiftest steed

That ever rode the toun.

'Gar shoe him with the beat silver,

Gar grind him with the gold;

Cause put two bells on every side,

Till I come to some hold.'

They sadled him the black, the black,

So did they him the broun;

So did they him the swiftest steed

That ever rode to toun.

They shoed him with the beat silver,

They grind him with the gold;

They put two bells on every side,

Till he came to some hold.

He had not rode a mile, a mile,

A mile but barely three,

Till that he spyed her comely corps

Come raking oere the lee.

'Set doun, set doun these comely corps,

Let me look on the dead:'

And out he's ta'en his little pen-knife,

And slitted her winding sheet.

And first he kist her cheek, her cheek,

And then he kist her chin;

And then he kist her rosy lips,

But there was no breath within.

'Gar deall, gar deall for my love sake

The spiced bread and the wine;

For ere the morn at this time

So shall you deall for mine.

'Gar deall, gar deall for my love sake

The pennys that are so small;

For ere the morn at this time,

So shall you deall for all.'

The one was buried in Mary kirk,

The other in Mary quire;

Out of the one there sprung a birk,

Out of the other a bryar;

So thus you may well know by that

They were two lovers dear.

Herd's MS, I, 144; II, 60, the first ten lines; Herd's

Scottish Songs, 1776, I, 149.

'O wha will shoe thy bonny feet?

Or wha will glove thy hand?

Or wha will lace thy midle jimp,

With a lang, lang London whang?

'And wha will kame thy bonny head,

With a tabean brirben kame?

And wha will be my bairn's father,

Till Love Gregory come hame?'

'Thy father'll shoe his bonny feet,

Thy mither'll glove his hand;

Thy brither will lace his middle jimp,

With a lang, lang London whang.

'Mysel will kame his bonny head,

With a tabean brirben kame;

And the Lord will be the bairn's father,

Till Love Gregory come hame.'

Then she's gart build a bonny ship,

It's a' cored oer with pearl,

And at every needle-tack was in't

There hang a siller bell.

And she's awa ...

To sail upon the sea;

She's gane to seek Love Gregory,

In lands whereer he be.

She hadna saild a league but twa,

O scantly had she three,

Till she met with a rude rover,

Was sailing on the sea.

'O whether is thou the Queen hersel,

Or ane o her maries three?

Or is thou the lass of Lochroyan,

Seeking Love Gregory?'

'O I am not the Queen hersell,

Nor ane o her maries three;

But I am the lass o Lochroyan,

Seeking Love Gregory.

'O sees na thou yone bonny bower?

It's a' cored oer with tin;

When thou hast saild it round about,

Love Gregory is within.'

When she had saild it round about,

She tirled at the pin:

'O open, open, Love Gregory,

Open, and let me in!

For I am the lass of Lochroyan,

Banisht frae a' my kin.'

'If thou be the lass of Lochroyan,

As I know no thou be,

Tell me some of the true tokens

That past between me and thee.'

'Hast thou na mind, Love Gregory,

As we sat at the wine,

We changed the rings aff ither's hands,

And ay the best was mine?

'For mine was o the gude red gould,

But thine was o the tin;

And mine was true and trusty baith,

But thine was fa'se within.

'If thou be the lass of Lochroyan,

As I know na thou be,

Tell me some mair o the true tokens

Past between me and thee.'

'And has na thou na mind, Love Gregory,

As we sat on yon hill,

Thou twin'd me of my [maidenhead,]

Right sair against my will?

'Now open, open, Love Gregory,

Open, and let me in!

For the rain rains on my gude cleading,

And the dew stands on my chin.'

Then she has turnd her round about:

'Well, since that it be sae,

Let never woman that has born a son

Hae a heart sae full of wae.

'Take down, take down that mast o gould,

Set up a mast of tree;

For it dinna become a forsaken lady

To sail so royallie.'

'I dreamt a dream this night, mother,

I wish it may prove true,

That the bonny lass of Lochroyan

Was at the gate just now.'

'Lie still, lie still, my only son,

And sound sleep mayst thou get,

For it's but an hour or little mair

Since she was at the gate.'

Awa, awa, ye wicket woman,

And an ill dead may ye die!

Ye might have ither letten her in,

Or else have wakened me.

'Gar saddle to me the black,' he said,

'Gar saddle to me the brown;

Gar saddle to me the swiftest steed

That is in a' the town.'

Now the first town that he cam to,

The bells were ringing there;

And the neist toun that he cam to,

Her corps was coming there.

'Set down, set down that comely corp,

Set down, and let me see

Gin that be the lass of Lochroyan,

That died for love o me.'

And he took out the little penknife

That hang down by his gare,

And he's rippd up her winding-sheet,

A lang claith-yard and mair.

And first he kist her cherry cheek,

And syne he kist her chin,

And neist he kist her rosy lips;

There was nae breath within.

And he has taen his little penknife,

With a heart that was fou sair,

He has given himself a deadly wound,

And word spake never mair.

Pitcairn's MSS, III, 1, from the singing of Widow

Stevenson.

* * * * * * *

She sailed west, she sailed east,

She sailed mony a mile,

Until she cam to Lord Gregor's yett,

And she tirled at the pin.

'It's open, open, Lord Gregory,

Open, and let me in;

For the rain drops on my gouden hair,

And drops upon your son.'

'Are you the Queen of Queensberry?

Or one of the marys three?

Or are you the lass of Ruchlaw hill,

Seeking Lord Gregory?'

'I'm not the Queen of Queensberry,

Nor one of the marys three;

But I am the bonny lass of Ruchlawhill,

Seeking Lord Gregory.'

'Awa, awa, ye fause thief,

I will not open to thee

Till you tell me the first token

That was tween you and me.'

'Do not you mind, Lord Gregory,

When we birled at the wine,

We changed the rings of our fingers,

And ay the best was mine?

'For mine was true and trusty goud,

But yours it was of tin;

Mine was of the true and trusty goud,

But yours was fause within.'

She turned about her bonny ship,

Awa then did she sail:

'The sun shall never shine on man

That made my heart so sare.'

Then up the old mother she got,

And wakened Lord Gregory:

'Awa, awa, ye fause gudeson,

A limmer was seeking thee.'

'It's woe be to you, witch-mother,

An ill death may you die!

For you might hae set the yet open,

And then hae wakened me.'

It's up he got, and put on his clothes,

And to the yet he ran;

The first sight of the ship he saw,

He whistled and he sang.

But whan the bonny ship was out o sight,

He clapped his hands and ran,

. . . . . . .

The first kirktoun he cam to,

He heard the death-bell ring,

The second kirktoun he cam to,

He saw her corpse come in.

'Set down, set down this bonny corpse,

That I may look upon;

If she died late for me last night,

I'll die for her the morn.

'Be merry, merry, gentlemen,

Be merry at the bread and wine;

For by the morn at this time o day

You'll drink as much at mine.'

The one was buried in Mary's isle,

The other in Mary's quire;

Out of the one there grew a thorn,

And out of the other a brier.

And aye they grew, and aye they blew,

Till their twa taps did meet;

And every one that passed thereby

Might see they were lovers sweet.

Jamieson-Brown MS., fol. 27; Jamieson's Popular Ballads,

I, 36.

'O wha will shoe my fu fair foot?

An wha will glove my han?

An wha will lace my middle gimp

Wi the new made London ban?

'Or wha will kemb my yallow hair,

Wi the new made silver kemb?

Or wha'll be father to my young bairn,

Till Love Gregor come hame?'

Her father shoed her fu fair foot,

Her mother glovd her han;

Her sister lac'd her middle gimp

Wi the new made London ban.

Her brother kembd her yallow hair,

Wi the new made silver kemb,

But the king o heaven maun father her bairn,

Till Love Gregor come hame.

'O gin I had a bony ship,

An men to sail wi me,

It's I would gang to my true-love,

Since he winna come to me.'

Her father's gien her a bonny ship,

An sent her to the stran;

She's tane her young son in her arms,

An turnd her back to the lan.

She had na been o the sea saillin

About a month or more,

Till landed has she her bonny ship

Near her true-love's door.

The night was dark, an the win blew caul,

An her love was fast asleep,

An the bairn that was in her twa arms

Fu sair began to weep.

Long stood she at her true-love's door,

An lang tirld at the pin;

At length up gat his fa'se mither,

Says, Wha's that woud be in?

'O it is Anny of Roch-royal,

Your love, come oer the sea,

But an your young son in her arms;

So open the door to me.'

'Awa, awa, you ill woman,

You've na come here for gude,

You're but a witch, or wile warlock,

Or mermaid o the flude.'

'I'm na a witch, or wile warlock,

Nor mermaiden,' said she;

'I'm but Fair Anny o Roch-royal;

O open the door to me.'

'O gin ye be Anny o Roch-royal,

As [I] trust not ye be,

What taiken can ye gie that ever

I kept your company?'

'O dinna ye mind, Love Gregor,' she says,

'Whan we sat at the wine,

How we changed the napkins frae our necks,

It's na sae lang sin syne?

'An yours was good, an good enough,

But nae sae good as mine;

For yours was o the cumbruk clear,

But mine was silk sae fine.

'An dinna ye mind, Love Gregor,' she says,

'As we twa sat at dine,

How we changed the rings frae our fingers,

But ay the best was mine?

'For yours was good, an good enough,

Yet nae sae good as mine;

For yours was of the good red gold,

But mine o the diamonds fine.

'Sae open the door now, Love Gregor,

An open it wi speed,

Or your young son that is in my arms

For cauld will soon be dead.'

'Awa, awa, you ill woman,

Gae frae my door for shame;

For I hae gotten another fair love,

Sae ye may hye you hame.'

'O hae you gotten another fair love,

For a' the oaths you sware?

Then fair you well now, fa'se Gregor,

For me you's never see mair.'

O heely, heely gi'd she back,

As the day began to peep;

She set her foot on good ship-board,

An sair, sair did she weep.

Love Gregor started frae his sleep,

An to his mither did say,

I dreamd a dream this night, mither,

That maks my heart right wae.

'I dreamd that Anny of Roch-royal,

The flowr o a' her kin,

Was standin mournin at my door,

But nane would lat her in.'

'O there was a woman stood at the door,

Wi a bairn intill her arms,

But I woud na lat her within the bowr,

For fear she had done you harm.'

O quickly, quickly raise he up,

An fast ran to the stran,

An there he saw her Fair Anny,

Was sailin frae the lan.

An 'Heigh, Anny!' an 'Hou, Anny!

O Anny, speak to me!'

But ay the louder that he cried Anny,

The louder roard the sea.

An 'Heigh, Anny!' an 'Hou, Anny!

O Anny, winna you bide?'

But ay the langer that he cried Anny,

The higher roard the tide.

The win grew loud, an the sea grew rough,

An the ship was rent in twain,

An soon he saw her Fair Anny

Come floating oer the main.

He saw his young son in her arms,

Baith tossd aboon the tide;

He wrang his hands, than fast he ran,

An plung'd i the sea sae wide.

He catchd her by the yallow hair,

An drew her to the strand,

But cauld an stiff was every limb

Before he reachd the land.

O first he kissd her cherry cheek,

An then he kissd her chin;

An sair he kissd her ruby lips,

But there was nae breath within.

O he has mournd oer Fair Anny

Till the sun was gaing down,

Then wi a sigh his heart it brast,

An his soul to heaven has flown.

#a.# Alexander Fraser Tytler's Brown MS., No 2, written

down from Mrs Brown's recitation in 1800. #b.# Scott's

Minstrelsy, II, 49, 1802.

'O wha will shoe my fu fair foot?

And wha will glove my hand?

And wha will lace my middle jimp,

Wi the new made London band?

'And wha will kaim my yellow hair,

Wi the new made silver kaim?

And wha will father my young son,

Till Love Gregor come hame?'

'Your father will shoe your fu fair foot,

Your mother will glove your hand;

Your sister will lace your middle jimp

Wi the new made London band.

'Your brother will kaim your yellow hair,

Wi the new made silver kaim;

And the king of heaven will father your bairn,

Till Love Gregor come haim.'

'But I will get a bonny boat,

And I will sail the sea,

For I maun gang to Love Gregor,

Since he canno come hame to me.'

O she has gotten a bonny boat,

And sailld the sa't sea fame;

She langd to see her ain true-love,

Since he could no come hame.

'O row your boat, my mariners,

And bring me to the land,

For yonder I see my love's castle,

Closs by the sa't sea strand.'

She has taen her young son in her arms,

And to the door she's gone,

And lang she's knocked and sair she ca'd,

But answer got she none.

'O open the door, Love Gregor,' she says,

'O open, and let me in;

For the wind blaws thro my yellow hair,

And the rain draps oer my chin.'

'Awa, awa, ye ill woman,

You'r nae come here for good;

You'r but some witch, or wile warlock,

Or mer-maid of the flood.'

'I am neither a witch nor a wile warlock,

Nor mer-maid of the sea,

I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal;

O open the door to me.'

'Gin ye be Annie of Rough Royal--

And I trust ye are not she--

Now tell me some of the love-tokens

That past between you and me.'

'O dinna you mind now, Love Gregor,

When we sat at the wine,

How we changed the rings frae our fingers?

And I can show thee thine.

'O yours was good, and good enneugh,

But ay the best was mine;

For yours was o the good red goud,

But mine o the dimonds fine.

'But open the door now, Love Gregor,

O open the door I pray,

For your young son that is in my arms

Will be dead ere it be day.'

'Awa, awa, ye ill woman,

For here ye shanno win in;

Gae drown ye in the raging sea,

Or hang on the gallows-pin.'

When the cock had crawn, and day did dawn,

And the sun began to peep,

Then it raise him Love Gregor,

And sair, sair did he weep.

'O I dreamd a dream, my mother dear,

The thoughts o it gars me greet,

That Fair Annie of Rough Royal

Lay cauld dead at my feet.'

'Gin it be for Annie of Rough Royal

That ye make a' this din,

She stood a' last night at this door,

But I trow she wan no in.'

'O wae betide ye, ill woman,

An ill dead may ye die!

That ye woudno open the door to her,

Nor yet woud waken me.'

O he has gone down to yon shore-side.

As fast as he could fare;

He saw Fair Annie in her boat,

But the wind it tossd her sair.

And 'Hey, Annie!' and 'How, Annie!

O Annie, winna ye bide?'

But ay the mair that he cried Annie,

The braider grew the tide.

And 'Hey, Annie!' and 'How, Annie!

Dear Annie, speak to me!'

But ay the louder he cried Annie,

The louder roard the sea.

The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,

And dashd the boat on shore;

Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,

But her young son raise no more.

Love Gregor tare his yellow hair,

And made a heavy moan;

Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet,

But his bonny young son was gone.

O cherry, cherry was her cheek,

And gowden was her hair,

But clay cold were her rosey lips,

Nae spark of life was there.

And first he's kissd her cherry cheek,

And neist he's kissed her chin;

And saftly pressd her rosey lips,

But there was nae breath within.

'O wae betide my cruel mother,

And an ill dead may she die!

For she turnd my true-love frae my door,

When she came sae far to me.'

Herd MS., I, 31, II, 65.

'O wha will lace my steys, mother?

O wha will gluve my hand?

O wha will be my bairn's father,

While my luve cums to land?'

'O sall I lace your steys, dochter,

O sall I gluve your hand;

And God will be your bairn's father,

While your luve cums to land.'

Now she's gard build a bonie schip,

Forbidden she wad nae be;

She's gane wi four score mariners,

Sailand the salt, salt sea.

They had nae saild but twenty legues,

Bot twenty legues and three,

When they met wi the ranke robers,

And a' their companie.

'Now whether are ye the Queen hersell?

For so ye weel micht bee,

Or are ye the lass o the Ruch Royal,

Seekand Lord Gregorie?'

'O I am neither the Queen,' she sed,

'Nor sick I seem to be;

But I am the lass o the Ruch Royal,

Seekand Lord Gregorie.'

* * * * * * *

And when she saw the stately tower,

Shynand sae cleere and bricht,

Whilk proud defies the jawing wave,

Built on a rock a hicht,

Sche sailed it round, and sailed it sound,

And loud, loud cried she,

'Now break, now break, ye fairy charms,

And let the prisoner free.'

Buchan's MSS. II, 149; Buchan's Ballads of the North of

Scotland, II, 198.

It fell on a Wodensday,

Love Gregory's taen the sea,

And he has left his lady Janet,

And a weary woman was she.

But she had na been in child-bed

A day but barely three,

Till word has come to Lady Janet

Love Gregory she would never see.

She's taen her mantle her middle about,

Her cane into her hand,

And she's awa to the salt-sea side,

As fast as she could gang.

'Whare will I get a curious carpenter,

Will make a boat to me?

I'm going to seek him Love Gregory,

In's lands where eer he be.'

'Here am I, a curious carpenter,

Will make a boat for thee,

And ye may seek him Love Gregory,

But him ye'll never see.'

She sailed up, she sailed down,

Thro many a pretty stream,

Till she came to that stately castle,

Where Love Gregory lay in.

'Open, open, Love Gregory,

O open, and lat me in;

Your young son is in my arms,

And shivering cheek and chin.'

'Had awa, ye ill woman,

Had far awa frae me;

Ye're but some witch, or some warlock,

Or the mermaid, troubling me.

'My lady she's in Lochranline,

Down by Lochlearn's green;

This day she wadna sail the sea,

For goud nor warld's gain.

'But if ye be my lady Janet,

As I trust not well ye be,

Come tell me oer some love-token

That past 'tween thee an me.'

'Mind on, mind on now, Love Gregory,

Since we sat at the wine;

The rings that were on your fingers,

I gied thee mine for thine.

'And mine was o the good red goud,

Yours o the silly tin,

And mine's been true, and very true,

But yours had a fause lynin.

'But open, open, Love Gregory,

Open, and let me in;

Your young son is in my arms,

He'll be dead ere I win in.'

'Had awa, ye ill woman,

Had far awa frae me;

Ye're but some witch, or some warlock,

Or the mermaid, troubling me.

'But if ye be my lady Janet,

As I trust not well ye be;

Come tell me o'er some love-token

That past tween thee and me.'

'Mind on, mind on, Love Gregory,

Since we sat at the wine;

The shifts that were upon your back,

I gave thee mine for thine.

'And mine was o the good holland,

And yours o the silly twine,

And mine's been true, and very true,

But yours had fause lynin.'

* * * * * * *

Communicated by Mr G. C. Mahon, of Ann Arbor, Michigan,

as sung by a laborer, at Tyrrelspass, West Meath,

Ireland, about 1830.

'Oh who'll comb my yellow locks,

With the brown berry comb?

And who'll be the child's father,

Until Gregory comes home?'

'Oh ...

. . . . . . .

And God will be the child's father,

Until Gregory comes home.'

* * * * * * *

'The dew wets my yellow locks,

The rain wets my skin,

The babe's cold in my arms,

Oh Gregory, let me in!'

'Oh if you be the lass of Aughrim,

As I suppose you not to be,

Come tell me the last token

Between you and me.'

The dew wets, etc.

'Oh Gregory, don't you remember

One night on the hill,

When we swapped rings off each other's hands,

Sorely against my will?'

Mine was of the beaten gold,

Yours was but black tin.'

The dew wets, etc.

'Oh if you be the lass of Aughrim,

As I suppose you not to be,

Come tell me the last token

Between you and me.'

The dew wets, etc.

'Oh Gregory don't you remember

One night on the hill,

When we swapped smocks off each other's backs,

Sorely against my will?

Mine was of the holland fine,

Yours was but Scotch cloth.'

The dew wets, etc.

'Oh if you be the lass of Aughrim,

As I suppose you not to be,

Come tell me the last token

Between you and me.'

The dew wets, etc.

'Oh Gregory, don't you remember,

In my father's hall,

When you had your will of me?

And that was worse than all.'

. . . . . . .

The dew wets, etc.

Johnson's Museum, I, 5, No 5, 1787.

'Oh open the door, Lord Gregory,

Oh open, and let me in;

The rain rains on my scarlet robes,

The dew drops oer my chin.'

'If you are the lass that I lovd once,

As I true you are not she,

Come give me some of the tokens

That past between you and me.'

'Ah wae be to you, Gregory,

An ill death may you die!

You will not be the death of one,

But you'll be the death of three.

'Oh don't you mind, Lord Gregory,

'Twas down at yon burn-side

We changd the ring of our fingers,

And I put mine on thine?'

Motherwell's Note-Book, p. 12.

'O wha will shoe my pretty little foot?

And wha will glove my hand?

And who will lace my middle jimp

Wi this lang London whang?

'And wha will comb my yellow, yellow hair,

Wi this fine rispen kame?

And wha will be my bairn's father,

Till Lord Gregory come hame?'

Stenhouse's Johnson's Museum, IV, *107, communicated by

Kirkpatrick Sharpe, "as generally sung by the people of

Galloway and Dumfriesshire."

'O open the door, Love Gregory,

O open, and let me in;

The wind blows through my yellow hair,

And the dew draps oer my chin.'

* * * * *

#A.#

8^2. kine.

11. His mother: _margin of the MS._

20. Mother: _margin_.

22. Lady.

23. Gregory: _margin_.

24. Mother: _margin_.

#B.#

1^3. who.

2^2, 4^2. _Herd prints_ Tabean birben.

12. His mother speaks to her from the house and she

thinks it him: _margin of the MS._

14^1. has (?).

_15 _follows_ 17 in the MS._

16^3. _Herd prints_ maidenhead.

20. The son speaks: _margin_.

25^1. corp(?).

#C.#

_After 2._ Then Lord Gregory's mother answers,

counterfeiting her son.

_After 4._ The mother, still counterfeiting her son, says.

_The old woman who sang the ballad, says Pitcairn_,

murmured over these words as a sort of recitative, and

then resumed the song, with a slight variation of voice.

#D.#

3^4. linnen; _probably a way of pronouncing_ London.

_Jamieson adopts several readings from_ #E# a, _besides

making some slight alterations of his own, and inserts

these two stanzas_, "from memory," _between 21 and 22_:

Tak down, tak down the mast o goud,

Set up the mast o tree;

Ill sets it a forsaken lady

To sail sae gallantlie.

Tak down, tak down the sails o silk,

Set up the sails o skin;

Ill sets the outside to be gay

Whan there's sic grief within.

_For the first of these see_ #B# 19.

#E. a.#

quha, ze, _etc._, _of the MS. are printed_ wha, ye, _etc._

#b.#

_Scott's version, described as composed from #B#, #E a#,

#F#, and two recited copies, is rather #E a#, excepting

6^{3, 4} and 16, interpolated with six stanzas from #B#,

five from #F#, and two lines from other sources, with

a few verbal changes. It is, neglecting these verbal

changes (also in part derived from #B#, #E a#, #F#), made

up thus_:

1-5==#E a# 1-5; 6==#F# 3^1 + #F# 3^4 + _two lines from

other sources_; 7-9==#F# 4-6; 10==#B# 10; 11==#F# 7;

12==#E a# 7; 13==#F# 8; 14-20==#E a# 8-14; 21==#B# 16;

22==#E a# 15; 23-25==#B# 15, 18, 19; 26==#E a# 17;

27==#B# 20; 28-38==#E a# 18-28; 39==#E a# 28^{1-3} + #B#

25^4.

_Scott has_ Lord Gregory _for_ Love Gregor, _or_ Love

Gregory, _throughout, and_ Lochroyan _for_ Rough (Roch)

Royal.

3^4. Till Lord Gregory come to land.

6^{3, 4}.

The sails were o the light-green silk,

The tows o taffety.

24^{3, 4}.

Fair Annie floated through the faem,

But the babie raise no more.

#G.#

4^4. Ands lands: _Buchan prints_ In's.

6^2. For mony: _Buchan prints_ Thro mony.

12^4. fause reason: _Buchan prints_ fause lynin.

14^3. _Buchan prints_ or vile warlock.

#H.#

"I find myself quite unable to arrange the fragments of

the 'Lass of Aughrim' in anything like decent symmetry.

The idea that I have of the arrangement is that the Lass

begins with a sort of soliloquy, lamenting her condition;

that she sings this at the door of a castle, shut

against her; that she hears Gregory's voice within, and

then appeals to him for admittance; and then comes the

dialogue between them.

"The [third] stanza, as I heard the thing sung, was

repeated as a burden after all the succeeding stanzas,

even when the Lad and not the Lass speaks; but I do not

think it followed the [first two] stanzas; they were a

sort of introduction." _Mr Mahon, December, 1884, May,

1885._

[125] Jamieson tells us, p. 44, that when a boy he had frequently heard

the ballad chanted in Morayshire, and no mention was ever made of

"fairy charms."

[126] #C# 3, 4 are evidently misplaced, and belong in that part of the

story where #B# 8, 9 occur.

[127] Liebrecht has noted many of the above in his 'Volkskunde.' A man

requires identification of a woman in a very ill preserved ballad in

Motherwell's MS., p. 320.

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST

#A.# 'Sweet William's Ghost,' Ramsay's Tea Table

Miscellany, "4th volume, 1740;" here from the London

edition of 1763, p. 324.

#B.# Herd's MSS, I, 177, II, 49, stanzas 27 ff.

#C.# 'Marjorie and William,' Motherwell's MS., p. 262,

'William and Marjorie,' Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 186.

#D.# Dr Joseph Robertson's Note-Book, 'Adversaria,' p. 86.

#E.# 'Sweet William and May Margaret,' Kinloch's Ancient

Scottish Ballads, p. 241.

#F.# Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 83, stanzas 26 ff.

#G.# Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, III, 183, ed.

1833.

Ramsay's copy, #A#, was reprinted by Percy, Reliques, 1765, III,

128, and by Herd, 1769, p. 194, 1776, I, 76. Percy remarks that the

concluding stanza seems modern. There can be no doubt that both that

and the one before it are modern; but, to the extent of Margaret's

dying on her lover's grave, they are very likely to represent original

verses not remembered in form. #B# constitutes, in Herd's MSS, and

#F#, in Jamieson's Popular Ballads, the termination of a copy of

'Clerk Saunders.' Scott appended the three stanzas given as #G# to the

later edition of his _rifacimento_ of the copies of 'Clerk Saunders'

in Herd's MSS, and says of them: "I am informed by the reciter that

it was usual to separate from the rest that part of the ballad which

follows the death of the lovers, as belonging to another story." The

first part of #F# was evidently derived from 'Proud Lady Margaret,' No.

47.

Motherwell notes, Minstrelsy, p. lxiii, 6, that in recited copies

he had heard this stanza repeated, "which does not occur in printed

copies" (and can easily be spared), after #A# 14.[128]

My meikle tae is my gavil-post,

My nose is my roof-tree,

My ribs are kebars to my house,

And there is nae room for thee.

The story of this ballad seems to have become disordered in most of

the versions. #A# alone, the first published, has perhaps retained

the original form. The principal idea is, however, preserved in all

the full versions, #A-E#; the dead lover returns to ask back his

unfulfilled troth-plight. His mistress, not knowing that he is dead,

demands that he shall first come within her bower and kiss her, #A#,

#B#, #C#. He answers that if he does this her days will not be long.

She persists; he shall take her to kirk,[129] and wed her with a ring,

#A#, #E#. He then tells her distinctly that he is dead, and she returns

to him his faith and troth. She streaks her troth on a long wand and

gives it to him through a window, #B#. In #A# she stretches out her

white hand, "to do her best;" in #C# "takes up" her white hand, and

strikes him on the breast; in #E# takes her white hand and smooths it

on his breast; all of which are possibly corruptions of the ceremony

performed in #B#. In #D# she takes a silver key and strikes him three

times on the breast. She follows the dead till he comes to his grave,

#A#, #B#, #C#, #D# (?) #F#, which is wrongly said in #A#, #E# to be far

beyond the sea. She asks if there is room for her in his grave, and is

told there is not, #A#, #F# [there is room, #B#, #D#]. She dies at his

grave, #A#; is told that her days will not be long, #F#; in #G#, goes

weeping away.

Margaret will not give William back his faith and troth, in #B#, #D#,

#E#, unless he resolves certain questions about the state of the dead;

what becomes of women that die in travail; where the women go who hang

themselves for sin; where unbaptized children. Mere curiosity does not

sort well with this very seriously conceived ballad, and these passages

have probably grown out of a not unnatural inquiry on the part of

Margaret as to her lover's personal state, extended in #E# 12 to "tell

me the pleasures o heaven, and pains o hell how they be." The scene at

the grave in #C# 11-13 may be judged grotesque, but is not trivial or

unimpressive. These verses may be supposed not to have belonged to the

earliest form of the ballad, and one does not miss them from #A#, but

they cannot be an accretion of modern date.

Sir Walter Scott informs us, in the Advertisement to The Pirate, that

the lady whose affections had been engaged by Goff, the historical

prototype of Cleveland, "went up to London to see him before his death,

and that, arriving too late, she had the courage to request a sight

of his body; and then touching the hand of the corpse, she formally

resumed the troth-plight which she had bestowed." "Without going

through this ceremony," Scott goes on to say, "she could not, according

to the superstition of the country, have escaped a visit from the ghost

of her departed lover, in the event of her bestowing upon any living

suitor the faith which she had plighted to the dead."[130]

'Sweet William's Ghost' has much in common with one of the most

beautiful and celebrated of the Scandinavian ballads, and may well be a

different development of the same story:

#Danish.# 'Fæstemanden i Graven' ('Aage og Else'), Grundtvig, No 90,

II, 492-97, III, 870-74, #A# from a manuscript of the seventeenth

century, #B# from about 1700, #C# from recent tradition. #Swedish.#

'Sorgens Magt,' #A#, #B#, Afzelius, No 6, I, 29, II, 204; #C#,

Arwidsson, No 91, II, 103; #D#, Wigström, Skånska Visor, No 8, the

same, Folkdiktning, I, 17, No 6, 'Den döde brudgummen:' all from recent

tradition.

According to the oldest version, Danish #A#,[131] from which the

others do not materially vary, a man dies just as he is to be married.

His love grieves for him passionately. The dead hears her under the

ground, comes to her bower with his coffin on his back, and knocks.

She lets him in after he has proved himself to be "a spirit of health"

by uttering the name of Jesus, combs his hair, and asks him how it

is under the black earth (cf. English, #E# 12). It is like the bliss

of heaven. May she follow him into his grave? It is like blackest

hell. Every time she weeps for him his coffin is filled with lappered

blood. But when she sings and is happy, his grave is all hung with

rose-leaves. The cock crows, the white, the red, the black; he takes

up his coffin and goes wearily back to the graveyard. His love follows

through the mirk wood (so Swedish #A# 9, cf. English #B# 11), to the

churchyard, and into the church. Then his yellow hair falls away, his

rosy color wans. He bids her go home and never weep for him more. "Look

up at the sky, the night is going;" and as she looks he slips into his

grave. She goes sadly home, prays God that she may not live out a year

and a day, falls sick, and dies within a month.

The Scandinavian ballad agrees in many particulars with the conclusion

of the second lay of Helgi Hundingsbani in the older Edda. Helgi,

having been slain by Sigrún's brother, is bitterly bewailed by Sigrún.

He quits his barrow to come to her. Sigrún will kiss him, but his hair

is thick with hoar-frost, he is drenched in blood, and how is this?

These are the grim tears that Sigrún has shed, every one of which falls

on his breast. Sigrún says she will sleep in his arms as though he

were alive, and goes into the barrow with him. The end of the story

is lost; according to a prose tradition which professes to supply the

close, Sigrún soon died of grief. The source of the later ballads is

perceptible here.

In the English ballad the dead lover returns of his own motion, simply

to ask back his troth; in the Scandinavian, his betrothed grieves him

out of his grave, "hon sörjer sin fästeman ur graf," and the object of

his visit is to admonish her to restrain her tears, which prevent his

happy repose. A fragmentary story with this turn, which perhaps may

even have been a variety of 'Sweet William's Ghost,' will be found in

the ballad which follows this.

In a somewhat popular German ballad, 'Der todte Freier,' a dead man

comes to the window of his betrothed in the night and calls her. She

does not recognize him; says he smells of the ground. He has been

eight years in the ground, and that may be. He bids her summon father,

mother, and friends, for her bridegroom has come. She is decked as for

her wedding; at the first sound of the bell makes her will or receives

the sacrament, and dies at the second.[132]

A young man goes to the grave of his betrothed and asks his love-tokens

back; she refers him to her mother, and tells him she will join

him in a year: Haupt u. Schmaler, I, 88, No 55. This returning of

gifts by the dead is not an infrequent phenomenon: Čelakowský,

I, 4, No 2==Wenzig, Slawische Volkslieder, p. 57, and III, 16, No

6; Beaurepaire, p. 53, Le Héricher, Lit. pop. de Normandie, p. 160

f; Briz y Candi, I, 140, Milá, Observaciones, p. 155, No 50, Milá,

Romancerillo, pp 320-22, No 337, #D#, #E#, #A#^{11}, #B#^{11}.

* * * * *

#A# is translated by Grundtvig, Engelske og skotske Folkeviser, p.

34, No 4; by Herder, Book III, No 8; Bodmer, II, 36; Wackernagel,

Altdeutsche Blätter, I, 189; Döring, p. 391; Knortz, Lieder u. Romanzen

Alt-Englands, p. 86, No 23; von Marées, p. 24. #C# by Grundtvig, p.

319, No 90; Wolff, Halle der Völker, I, 30, Hausschatz, p. 205; Knortz,

as above, p. 179, No 49. A compound of #D#, #C#, #A#, by Rosa Warrens,

Schottische Volkslieder, p. 53, No 12.

Ramsay's Tea Table Miscellany, "4th volume, 1740;" here

from the London edition of 1763, p. 324.

There came a ghost to Margret's door,

With many a grievous groan,

And ay he tirled at the pin,

But answer made she none.

'Is that my father Philip,

Or is't my brother John?

Or is't my true-love, Willy,

From Scotland new come home?'

''Tis not thy father Philip,

Nor yet thy brother John;

But 'tis thy true-love, Willy,

From Scotland new come home.

'O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,

I pray thee speak to me;

Give me my faith and troth, Margret,

As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou's never get,

Nor yet will I thee lend,

Till that thou come within my bower,

And kiss my cheek and chin.'

'If I shoud come within thy bower,

I am no earthly man;

And shoud I kiss thy rosy lips,

Thy days will not be lang.

'O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,

I pray thee speak to me;

Give me my faith and troth, Margret,

As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou's never get,

Nor yet will I thee lend,

Till you take me to yon kirk,

And wed me with a ring.'

'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard,

Afar beyond the sea,

And it is but my spirit, Margret,

That's now speaking to thee.'

She stretchd out her lilly-white hand,

And, for to do her best,

'Hae, there's your faith and troth, Willy,

God send your soul good rest.'

Now she has kilted her robes of green

A piece below her knee,

And a' the live-lang winter night

The dead corp followed she.

'Is there any room at your head, Willy?

Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your side, Willy,

Wherein that I may creep?'

'There's no room at my head, Margret,

There's no room at my feet;

There's no room at my side, Margret,

My coffin's made so meet.'

Then up and crew the red, red cock,

And up then crew the gray:

'Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,

That you were going away.'

No more the ghost to Margret said,

But, with a grievous groan,

Evanishd in a cloud of mist,

And left her all alone.

'O stay, my only true-love, stay,'

The constant Margret cry'd;

Wan grew her cheeks, she closd her een,

Stretchd her soft limbs, and dy'd.

Herd's MSS, I, 177, II, 49, stanzas 27 ff.

Whan bells war rung, an mass was sung,

A wat a' man to bed were gone,

Clark Sanders came to Margret's window,

With mony a sad sigh and groan.

'Are ye sleeping, Margret,' he says,

'Or are ye waking, presentlie?

Give me my faith and trouthe again,

A wat, trew-love, I gied to thee.'

'Your faith and trouth ye's never get,

Nor our trew love shall never twain,

Till ye come with me in my bower,

And kiss me both cheek and chin.'

'My mouth it is full cold, Margret,

It has the smell now of the ground;

And if I kiss thy comely mouth,

Thy life-days will not be long.

'Cocks are crowing a merry mid-larf,

I wat the wild fule boded day;

Gie me my faith and trouthe again,

And let me fare me on my way.'

'Thy faith and trouth thou shall na get,

Nor our trew love shall never twin,

Till ye tell me what comes of women

Awat that dy's in strong traveling.'

'Their beds are made in the heavens high,

Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee,

Well set about wi gilly-flowers,

A wat sweet company for to see.

'O cocks are crowing a merry midd-larf,

A wat the wilde foule boded day;

The salms of Heaven will be sung,

And ere now I'le be misst away.'

Up she has tain a bright long wand,

And she has straked her trouth thereon;

She has given [it] him out at the shot-window,

Wi many a sad sigh and heavy groan.

'I thank you, Margret, I thank you, Margret,

And I thank you hartilie;

Gine ever the dead come for the quick,

Be sure, Margret, I'll come again for thee.'

It's hose an shoon an gound alane

She clame the wall and followed him,

Untill she came to a green forest,

On this she lost the sight of him.

'Is their any room at your head, Sanders?

Is their any room at your feet?

Or any room at your twa sides?

Whare fain, fain woud I sleep.'

'Their is na room at my head, Margret,

Their is na room at my feet;

There is room at my twa sides,

For ladys for to sleep.

'Cold meal is my covering owre,

But an my winding sheet;

My bed it is full low, I say,

Down among the hongerey worms I sleep.

'Cold meal is my covering owre,

But an my winding sheet;

The dew it falls na sooner down

Then ay it is full weet.'

Motherwell's MS., p. 262, Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p.

186, from the recitation of Mrs McCormick, and learned by

her in Dumbarton, from an old woman, thirty years before:

January 19, 1825.

Lady Marjorie, Lady Marjorie,

Sat sewing her silken seam;

By her came a pale, pale ghost,

With many a sich and mane.

'Are ye my father, the king?' she says,

'Or are ye my brother John?

Or are you my true-love, Sweet William,

From England newly come?'

'I'm not your father, the king,' he says,

'No, no, nor your brother John;

But I'm your true love, Sweet William,

From England that's newly come.'

'Have ye brought me any scarlets so red?

Or any silks so fine?

Or have ye brought me any precious things,

That merchants have for sale?'

'I have not brought you any scarlets sae red,

No, no, nor the silks so fine;

But I have brought you my winding-sheet,

Oer many's the rock and hill.

'O Lady Marjory, Lady Marjory,

For faith and charitie,

Will you give to me my faith and troth,

That I gave once to thee?'

'O your faith and troth I'll not give thee,

No, no, that will not I,

Until I get one kiss of your ruby lips,

And in my arms you come [lye].'

'My lips they are so bitter,' he says,

'My breath it is so strong,

If you get one kiss of my ruby lips,

Your days will not be long.

'The cocks they are crowing, Marjory,' he says,

'The cocks they are crawing again;

It's time the deid should part the quick,

Marjorie, I must be gane.'

She followed him high, she followed him low,

Till she came to yon church-yard;

O there the grave did open up,

And young William he lay down.

'What three things are these, Sweet William,' she says,

'That stands here at your head?'

'It's three maidens, Marjorie,' he says,

'That I promised once to wed.'

'What three things are these, Sweet William,' she says,

'That stands here at your side?'

'It is three babes, Marjorie,' he says,

'That these three maidens had.'

'What three things are these, Sweet William,' she says,

'That stands here at your feet?'

'It is three hell-hounds, Marjorie,' he says,

'That's waiting my soul to keep.'

She took up her white, white hand,

And she struck him in the breast,

Saying, Have there again your faith and troth,

And I wish your soul good rest.

From tradition: Dr Joseph Robertson's Note-Book,

"Adversaria," p. 86.

Lady Margaret was in her wearie room,

Sewin her silken seam,

And in cam Willie, her true-love,

Frae Lundin new come hame.

'O are ye my father Philip,

Or are ye my brither John?

Or are ye my true-love, Willie,

Frae London new come home?'

'I'm nae your father Philip,

Nor am I your brother John;

But I am your true-love, Willie,

An I'm nae a levin man.

'But gie me my faith and troth, Margrat,

An let me pass on my way;

For the bells o heaven will be rung,

An I'll be mist away.'

'Yere faith and troth ye'se never get,

Till ye tell me this ane;

Till ye tell me where the women go

That hang themsell for sin.'

'O they gang till the low, low hell,

Just by the devil's knee;

It's a' clad ower wi burnin pitch,

A dreadfu sicht to see.'

'But your faith and troth ye'se never get,

Till you tell me again;

Till you tell me where the children go

That die without a name.'

'O they gang till the high, high heaven,

Just by our Saviour's knee,

An it's a' clad ower wi roses red,

A lovelie sicht to see.

'But gie me my faith and troth, Margrat,

And let me pass on my way;

For the psalms o heaven will be sung,

An I'll be mist away.'

'But your faith and troth yese never get

Till ye tell me again;

Till ye tell me where the women go

That die in child-beddin.'

'O they gang till the hie, hie heaven,

Just by our Saviour's knee,

And every day at twal o clock

They're dipped oer the head.

'But gie me my faith and troth, Margret,

And let me pass on my way;

For the gates o heaven will be shut,

And I'll be mist away.'

Then she has taen a silver key,

Gien him three times on the breast;

Says, There's your faith and troth, Willie,

I hope your soul will rest.

'But is there room at your head, Willie?

Or is there room at your feet?

Or is there room at any o your sides,

To let in a lover sweet?'

'There is nae room at my head, Margrat,

There's nae room at my feet,

But there is room at baith my sides,

To lat in a lover sweet.'

Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 241.

As May Margret sat in her bouerie,

In her bouer all alone,

At the very parting o midnicht

She heard a mournfu moan.

'O is it my father? O is it my mother?

Or is it my brother John?

Or is it Sweet William, my ain true-love,

To Scotland new come home?'

'It is na your father, it is na your mother,

It is na your brother John;

But it is Sweet William, your ain true-love,

To Scotland new come home.'

'Hae ye brought me onie fine things,

Onie new thing for to wear?

Or hae ye brought me a braid o lace,

To snood up my gowden hair?'

'I've brought ye na fine things at all,

Nor onie new thing to wear,

Nor hae I brought ye a braid of lace,

To snood up your gowden hair.

'But Margaret, dear Margaret,

I pray ye speak to me;

O gie me back my faith and troth,

As dear as I gied it thee.'

'Your faith and troth ye sanna get,

Nor will I wi ye twin,

Till ye come within my bouer,

And kiss me, cheek and chin.'

'O should I come within your bouer,

I am na earthly man;

If I should kiss your red, red lips,

Your days wad na be lang.

'O Margaret, dear Margaret,

I pray ye speak to me;

O gie me back my faith and troth,

As dear as I gied it thee.'

'Your faith and troth ye sanna get,

Nor will I wi ye twin,

Till ye tak me to yonder kirk,

And wed me wi a ring.'

'My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard,

It's far ayont the sea;

And it is my spirit, Margaret,

That's speaking unto thee.'

'Your faith and troth ye sanna get,

Nor will I twin wi thee,

Till ye tell me the pleasures o heaven,

And pains of hell how they be.'

'The pleasures of heaven I wat not of,

But the pains of hell I dree;

There some are hie hangd for huring,

And some for adulterie.'

Then Margret took her milk-white hand,

And smoothd it on his breast:

'Tak your faith and troth, William,

God send your soul good rest!'

Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 83, stanzas 26 ff.

When seven years were come and gane,

Lady Margaret she thought lang;

And she is up to the hichest tower,

By the lee licht o the moon.

She was lookin oer her castle high,

To see what she might fa,

And there she saw a grieved ghost,

Comin waukin oer the wa.

'O are ye a man of mean,' she says,

'Seekin ony o my meat?

Or are you a rank robber,

Come in my bower to break?'

'O I'm Clerk Saunders, your true-love,

Behold, Margaret, and see,

And mind, for a' your meikle pride,

Sae will become of thee.'

'Gin ye be Clerk Saunders, my true-love,

This meikle marvels me;

O wherein is your bonny arms,

That wont to embrace me?'

'By worms they're eaten, in mools they're rotten,

Behold, Margaret, and see,

And mind, for a' your mickle pride,

Sae will become o thee.'

* * * * * * *

O, bonny, bonny sang the bird,

Sat on the coil o hay;

But dowie, dowie was the maid

That followd the corpse o clay.

'Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?

Is there ony room at your feet?

Is there ony room at your twa sides,

For a lady to lie and sleep?'

'There is nae room at my head, Margaret,

As little at my feet;

There is nae room at my twa sides,

For a lady to lie and sleep.

'But gae hame, gae hame now, May Margaret,

Gae hame and sew your seam;

For if ye were laid in your weel made bed,

Your days will nae be lang.'

Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, III, 183, ed. 1833,

the last three stanzas.

* * * * * * *

'But plait a wand o bonny birk,

And lay it on my breast,

And shed a tear upon my grave,

And wish my saul gude rest.

'And fair Margret, and rare Margret,

And Margret o veritie,

Gin eer ye love another man,

Neer love him as ye did me.'

Then up and crew the milk-white cock,

And up and crew the grey;

The lover vanishd in the air,

And she gaed weeping away.

* * * * *

#A.#

8^3. yon kirk-yard.

#B.#

1^2, _~And every one~ is substituted for ~A wat a' man~,

no doubt by a reviser._

1^4, 9^4. grown.

5^1, 8^1. _~mid larf~, ~midd larf~ I retain, though I do

not understand ~larf~._

9^2. _~on it~ struck out at the end of the line, and

~thereon~ written over. Qy ~it on~?_

14^4. _A line is drawn through ~Down~ and ~the~._

15^1. _~is my bed~, written after ~weet~, is struck out._

_The copy in Herd's second volume is a transcript of the

other, and its variations have no apparent authority._

#C.#

7^4. _MS. ~come (lye)~._

9^4. _~away~ written over ~be gane~._

10^2. _Motherwell prints ~churchyard green~._

14^1. _~white~ thrice._

_Motherwell makes not a few slight changes in printing._

#D.#

15^1. at my head, Willie.

#E.#

_8 follows 10 in Kinloch._

[128] Motherwell probably meant 13.

[129] So #E# 10; #A# 9 has, in Ramsay, kirk-yard, which obviously

requires to be corrected.

[130] In a note in the Kinloch MSS, VII, 277, Kinloch says that Sir

Walter Scott told him that he had received this story from an old woman

in Shetland.

[131] The ballad has been often translated, mostly after the compounded

form in the Danske Viser, No 29: Prior, III, 76 (Danish #A#), 81;

"London Magazine, 1820, I, 152;" Borrow, Foreign Quarterly Review,

1830, VI, 62, and p. 47 of his Romantic Ballads; Buchanan, p. 112.

[132] Hoffmann von Fallersleben in Deutsches Museum, 1852, II,

162==Erk's Wunderhorn, IV, 73, and Liederhort, p. 75, No 24^a, Mittler,

No 545; Wagner in Deutsches Museum, 1862, II, 802, 803; Liederhort,

No 24, p. 74; Ditfurth, II, 1, No 2; Meier, p. 355, No 201; Peter, I,

199, No 14; A. Müller, p. 95; Meinert, p. 3==Erlach, IV, 196, Erk's

Wunderhorn, IV, 74, Liederhort, p. 76, No 24^b, Zuccalmaglio, p. 130,

No 60, Mittler, No 544; Schleicher, Volkstümliches aus Sonneberg, p.

112, No 22.

THE UNQUIET GRAVE

#A.# 'The Unquiet Grave,' Folk-Lore Record, I, 60, 1868.

#B.# Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, VII, 486.

#C.# Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, VII, 387.

#D.# 'The Ghost and Sailor,' Buchan's MSS, I, 268.

The vow in the second stanza of all the copies is such as we find in

'Bonny Bee-Ho'm,' and elsewhere (see p. 156f of this volume), and #A#,

#B#, #D# 4, 5, #C# 3, 4 are nearly a repetition of 'Sweet William's

Ghost,' #A# 5, 6, #B# 3, 4, #C# 7, 8, #D# 7, 10. This may suggest a

suspicion that this brief little piece is an aggregation of scraps. But

these repetitions would not strike so much if the ballad were longer,

and we must suppose that we have it only in an imperfect form. Even

such as it is, however, this fragment has a character of its own. It

exhibits the universal popular belief that excessive grieving for the

dead interferes with their repose. We have all but had 'The Unquiet

Grave' before, as the conclusion of two versions of 'The Twa Brothers:'

She ran distraught, she wept, she sicht,

She wept the sma brids frae the tree,

She wept the starns adown frae the lift,

She wept the fish out o the sea.

'O cease your weeping, my ain true-love,

Ye but disturb my rest;'

'Is that my ain true lover, John,

The man that I loe best?'

''Tis naething but my ghaist,' he said,

'That's sent to comfort thee;

O cease your weeping, my true-love,

And 'twill gie peace to me.'

(I, 440, #C# 18-20.)

She put the small pipes to her mouth,

And she harped both far and near,

Till she harped the small birds off the briers,

And her true-love out of the grave.

'What's this? what's this, Lady Margaret?' he says,

'What's this you want of me?'

'One sweet kiss of your ruby lips,

That's all I want of thee.'

'My lips they are so bitter,' he says,

'My breath it is so strong,

If you get one kiss of my ruby lips,

Your days will not be long.'

(I, 439, #B# 10-12.)

Sir Walter Scott has remarked that the belief that excessive grieving

over lost friends destroyed their peace was general throughout

Scotland: Redgauntlet, Note 2 to Letter XI. See also Gregor's Notes on

the Folk-Lore of the North-East of Scotland, p. 69. We have recent

testimony that this belief survives in England (1868), Folk Lore

Record, I, 60. It was held in Ireland that inordinate tears would

pierce a hole in the dead: Killinger, Erin, VI, 65, 449 (quoting a

writer that I have not identified).

The common notion is that tears wet the shroud or grave-clothes.

Scott relates a story of a Highlander who was constrained to come

back and say to a kinswoman: My rest is disturbed by your unnecessary

lamentation; your tears scald me in my shroud.

Mrs Grant of Laggan tells a similar story. An only sister had lost an

only brother. Night after night she sat up, weeping incessantly and

calling upon his name. At length her brother appeared to her in his

shroud, and seemed wet and shivering. "Why," said he, "am I disturbed

with the extravagance of thy sorrow? Till thou art humble and penitent

for this rebellion against the decrees of Providence, every tear thou

sheddest falls on this dark shroud without drying, and every night thy

tears still more chill and encumber me." Essays on the Superstitions of

the Highlanders of Scotland, ed. New York, 1813, p. 95 f.

A dead boy appears to his mother, and begs her to cease weeping, for

all her tears fall upon his shirt and wet it so that he cannot sleep.

The mother gives heed, her child comes again and says, Now my shirt is

dry, and I have peace. Grimms, K. u. H. märchen, No 109.

In another form of this tradition a child has to carry all its mother's

tears in a large pitcher, and cannot keep up with a happy little band

to which it would belong, 'Die Macht der Thränen,' Erk, Neue Sammlung,

III, I, No 35==Wunderhorn, IV, 95, Liederhort, p. 8, No 3, Mittler,

No 557; Hoffmann u. Richter, p. 341, No 290; Börner, Volkssagen aus

dem Orlagau, pp 142, 152; or lags behind because its clothes are heavy

with these tears, Geiler von Kaisersberg's Trostspiegel, 1510, cited by

Rochholz in Wolf's Zeitschrift für deutsche Mythologie, II, 252; Thomas

Cantipratensis, Bonum Universale, "l. ii, c. 53, § 17," about 1250; or

the child collects its mother's tears in its hands, Müllenhoff, No 196.

A wife's tears wet her dead husband's shirt in the German ballad 'Der

Vorwirth:' Meinert, p. 13==Erk's Wunderhorn, IV, 96, Erk's Liederhort,

p. 160, No 46^a, Mittler, No 555; Hoffmann in Deutsches Museum, 1852,

II, 161==Wunderhorn, IV, 98, Liederhort, p. 158, No 46, Mittler, No

556; Peter, I, 200, No 15.

Saint Johannes Eleemosynarius and a couple of his bishops are fain to

rise from their graves because their stoles are wet through with a

woman's tears, Legenda Aurea, c. 27, § 12, Grässe, p. 132, last half of

the thirteenth century (cited by Liebrecht); and Saint Vicelin, because

his robes are drenched with the tears of his friend Eppo, Helmold,

Chronica Slavorum, l. i, 78, p. 15, ed. Lappenberg, last half of the

twelfth century (cited by Müllenhoff).

Sigrún weeps bitter tears for Helgi's death every night ere she

sleeps. The hero comes out of his mound to comfort her, but also to

tell her how she discommodes him. He is otherwise well off, but every

drop pierces, cold and bloody, to his breast: Helgakviða Hundingsbana

II, 45. So in some of the ballads which apparently derive from this

lay, the tears of Else or Kerstin fill her lover's coffin with blood:

Grundtvig, II, 495, 497, No 90, #A# 17, #B# 8; Afzelius, I, 31, No 6,

st. 14, Wigström, Folkdiktning, I, 18, st. 9.

Almost the very words of the Highland apparition in Scott's tale are

used by an Indian sage to a king who is inconsolable for the loss of

his wife; "the incessant tears of kinsfolk burn the dead, so it is

said:" Kâlidâsas, Raghuvansa, VIII, 85, ed. Stenzler, p. 61 of his

translation. Another representation is that the dead have to swallow

the rheum and tears of their mourning relations, and therefore weeping

must be abstained from: Yâjnavalkya's Gesetzbuch, Sanskrit u. Deutsch,

Stenzler, III, 11, p. 89.

The ancient Persians also held that immoderate grief on the part of

survivors was detrimental to the happiness of the dead. Weeping for the

departed is forbidden, because the water so shed forms an impediment

before the bridge Tchînavar (over which souls pass to heaven). Sad-der,

Porta XCVII, Hyde, Veterum Persarum et Parthorum Religionis Historia,

p. 486, ed. Oxford, 1700. Again, Ardai Viraf, seeing a deep and fetid

river, which is carrying away a multitude of souls in all the agony

of drowning, and asking what this is, is told: The river that you see

before you is composed of the tears of mankind, tears shed, against the

express command of the Almighty, for the departed; therefore, when you

return again to the earth inculcate this to mankind, that to grieve

immoderately is in the sight of God a most heinous sin; and the river

is constantly increased by this folly, every tear making the poor

wretches who float on it more distant from ease and relief. The Ardai

Viraf Nameh, translated from the Persian, by J. A. Pope, London, 1816,

p. 53 f.[133]

The Greeks and Romans also reprehend obstinate condolement as troubling

the dead, and perhaps, if we had the popular views on the subject,

these might be found to have taken an expression like some of the

above. In Lucian De Luctu, c. 16, the ghost of a son who had died in

the bloom of youth is made to reproach the disconsolate father in

these words: ω κακοδαιμον ανθρωπε, τι κεκραγας; τι δε μοι παρεχεις

πραγματα;[134]

See, also, Maurer, Isländische Volkssagen, p. 312 f, No 9; Luzel,

I, 65, 'La jeune fille et l'âme de sa mère;' Karadshitch, I, 272,

No 368, Talvj, I, 84, ed. 1853; Kapper, Gesänge der Serben, II,

116; Nibelungen, 2302, ed. Bartsch; Blaas, in Germania, XXV, 429,

No 34; Grimm, Deutsche Mythologie, III, 447, No 397; Müllenhoff, No

195; Wunderhorn, IV, 94, last stanza; Wolf, Beiträge zur deutschen

Mythologie, I, 215, No 149.

Communicated to the Folk Lore Record, I, 60, by Miss

Charlotte Latham, as written down from the lips of a girl

in Sussex.

'The wind doth blow today, my love,

And a few small drops of rain;

I never had but one true-love,

In cold grave she was lain.

'I'll do as much for my true-love

As any young man may;

I'll sit and mourn all at her grave

For a twelvemonth and a day.'

The twelvemonth and a day being up,

The dead began to speak:

'Oh who sits weeping on my grave,

And will not let me sleep?'

''Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,

And will not let you sleep;

For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,

And that is all I seek.'

'You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;

But my breath smells earthy strong;

If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,

Your time will not be long.

''Tis down in yonder garden green,

Love, where we used to walk,

The finest flower that ere was seen

Is withered to a stalk.

'The stalk is withered dry, my love,

So will our hearts decay;

So make yourself content, my love,

Till God calls you away.'

Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, VII, 436, cited by W. R.

S. R., from the Ipswich Journal, 1877: from memory, after

more than seventy years.

'How cold the wind do blow, dear love,

And see the drops of rain!

I never had but one true-love,

In the green wood he was slain.

'I would do as much for my own true-love

As in my power doth lay;

I would sit and mourn all on his grave

For a twelvemonth and a day.'

A twelvemonth and a day being past,

His ghost did rise and speak:

'What makes you mourn all on my grave?

For you will not let me sleep.'

'It is not your gold I want, dear love,

Nor yet your wealth I crave;

But one kiss from your lily-white lips

Is all I wish to have.

'Your lips are cold as clay, dear love,

Your breath doth smell so strong;'

'I am afraid, my pretty, pretty maid,

Your time will not be long.'

"From a yeoman in Suffolk, who got it from his nurse;" B.

Montgomerie Ranking, in Notes and Queries, Fifth Series,

VII, 387.

'Cold blows the wind oer my true-love,

Cold blow the drops of rain;

I never, never had but one sweetheart,

In the greenwood he was slain.

'I did as much for my true-love

As ever did any maid;

. . . . . . .

* * * * * * *

'One kiss from your lily-cold lips, true-love,

One kiss is all I pray,

And I'll sit and weep all over your grave

For a twelvemonth and a day.'

'My cheek is as cold as the clay, true-love,

My breath is earthy and strong;

And if I should kiss your lips, true-love,

Your life would not be long.'

Buchan's MSS, I, 268.

'Proud Boreas makes a hideous noise,

Loud roars the fatal fleed;

I loved never a love but one,

In church-yard she lies dead.

'But I will do for my love's sake

What other young men may;

I'll sit and mourn upon her grave,

A twelvemonth and a day.'

A twelvemonth and a day being past,

The ghost began to speak:

'Why sit ye here upon my grave,

And will not let me sleep?'

'One kiss of your lily-white lips

Is all that I do crave;

And one kiss of your lily-white lips

Is all that I would have.'

'Your breath is as the roses sweet,

Mine as the sulphur strong;

If you get one kiss of my lips,

Your days would not be long.

'Mind not ye the day, Willie,

Sin you and I did walk?

The firstand flower that we did pu

Was witherd on the stalk.'

'Flowers will fade and die, my dear,

Aye as the tears will turn;

And since I've lost my own sweet-heart,

I'll never cease but mourn.'

'Lament nae mair for me, my love,

The powers we must obey;

But hoist up one sail to the wind,

Your ship must sail away.'

[133] Rochholz has cited the Raghuvansa in Deutscher Unsterblichkeits

Glaube, p. 208; the other oriental citations are made by Kuhn, Wolf's

Zeitschrift für deutsche Mythologie, I, 62 f.

[134] Schenkl, in Germania, XI, 451 f; who also cites Tibullus, I, 1,

67, Propertius, IV, 11, 1, and inscriptions, as Gruter, p. 1127, 8.

THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL

#A.# 'The Wife of Usher's Well,' Minstrelsy of the

Scottish Border, II, 111, ed. 1802.

#B.# 'The Clerk's Twa Sons o Owsenford,' stanzas 18-23,

Kinloch MSS, V, 403.

#B# forms the conclusion, as already said, to a beautiful copy of 'The

Clerk's Twa Sons o Owsenford,' recited by the grandmother of Robert

Chambers.

A motive for the return of the wife's three sons is not found in the

fragments which remain to us. The mother had cursed the sea when she

first heard they were lost, and can only go mad when she finds that

after all she has not recovered them; nor will a little wee while, #B#

5, make any difference. There is no indication that the sons come back

to forbid obstinate grief, as the dead often do. But supplying a motive

would add nothing to the impressiveness of these verses. Nothing that

we have is more profoundly affecting.

* * * * *

#A# is translated by Grundtvig, Engelske og skotske Folkeviser, No 14;

by Freiligrath, Zwischen den Garben, II, 227, ed. Stuttgart, 1877; by

Doenniges, p. 61; by Rosa Warrens, Schottische Volkslieder, No 9, with

insertion of #B# 5, 6; and by Knortz, Lieder und Romanzen Alt-Englands,

p. 227, after Allingham.

Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, II, 111, 1802, from

the recitation of an old woman residing near Kirkhill, in

West Lothian.

There lived a wife at Usher's Well,

And a wealthy wife was she;

She had three stout and stalwart sons,

And sent them oer the sea.

They hadna been a week from her,

A week but barely ane,

Whan word came to the carline wife

That her three sons were gane.

They hadna been a week from her,

A week but barely three,

Whan word came to the carlin wife

That her sons she'd never see.

'I wish the wind may never cease,

Nor fashes in the flood,

Till my three sons come hame to me,

In earthly flesh and blood.'

It fell about the Martinmass,

When nights are lang and mirk,

The carlin wife's three sons came hame,

And their hats were o the birk.

It neither grew in syke nor ditch,

Nor yet in ony sheugh;

But at the gates o Paradise,

That birk grew fair eneugh.

* * * * * * *

'Blow up the fire, my maidens,

Bring water from the well;

For a' my house shall feast this night,

Since my three sons are well.'

And she has made to them a bed,

She's made it large and wide,

And she's taen her mantle her about,

Sat down at the bed-side.

* * * * * * *

Up then crew the red, red cock,

And up and crew the gray;

The eldest to the youngest said,

'Tis time we were away.

The cock he hadna crawd but once,

And clappd his wings at a',

When the youngest to the eldest said,

Brother, we must awa.

'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,

The channerin worm doth chide;

Gin we be mist out o our place,

A sair pain we maun bide.

'Fare ye weel, my mother dear!

Fareweel to barn and byre!

And fare ye weel, the bonny lass

That kindles my mother's fire!'

Kinloch MSS, V, 403, stanzas 18-23. 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 the Neidpath Castle, Peeblesshire:

January 1, 1829.

The hallow days o Yule are come,

The nights are lang an dark,

An in an cam her ain twa sons,

Wi their hats made o the bark.

'O eat an drink, my merry men a',

The better shall ye fare,

For my twa sons the are come hame

To me for evermair.'

She has gaen an made their bed,

An she's made it saft an fine,

An she's happit them wi her gay mantel,

Because they were her ain.

O the young cock crew i the merry Linkem,

An the wild fowl chirpd for day;

The aulder to the younger did say,

Dear brother, we maun away.

'Lie still, lie still a little wee while,

Lie still but if we may;

For gin my mother miss us away

She'll gae mad or it be day.'

O it's they've taen up their mother's mantel,

An they've hangd it on the pin:

'O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantel,

Or ye hap us again!'

* * * * *

#A.#

4^2. fishes. _The correction is suggested in ed. 1833 of

the Border Minstrelsy. Aytoun reads ~freshes~._

OLD ROBIN OF PORTINGALE

Percy MS., p. 90; Hales and Furnivall, I, 235.

This fine ballad was printed in the Reliques of Ancient English

Poetry, III, 48, ed. of 1765, "with considerable corrections." The

information given by a page, the reward promised and the alternative

punishment threatened him, the savage vengeance taken on the lady

and the immediate remorse, are repeated in 'Little Musgrave,' No 81.

So the "Sleep you, wake you" of 4^1, a frequent formula for such

occasions,[135] which we find in 'Earl Brand,' No 7, #D# 1, 'King

Arthur and King Cornwall,' No 30, st. 49^3; 'Clerk Saunders,' No

69, #F# 4; 'Willie and Lady Maisry,' No 70, #B# 2, 11; 'The Bent

sae Brown,' No 71, st. 5; 'Lord Thomas and Fair Annet,' No 73, #E#

5; 'Sweet William's Ghost,' No 77, #B# 2; 'Jellon Grame,' #A# 4;

'The Drowned Lovers,' Buchan, I, 140, st. 11; 'Jock o the Side,'

Caw's Museum, st. 16; 'Kinmont Willie,' Scott, st. 35; 'The Baron of

Brackley,' Scarce Ancient Ballads, st. 2; the song or ballad in 'King

Lear,' III, 6, 40; Ravenscroft's Pammelia, 1609, No 30; the interlude

of 'The Four Elements' (Steevens); Íslenzk Fornkvæði, II, 115, st. 26,

27; 'Der todte Freier,' Erk's Liederhort, p. 75, No 24^a, Deutsches

Museum, 1852, II, 167==Mittler No 545, Wunderhorn, IV, 73, etc., and

Deutsches Museum, 1862, II, 803, No 10; Ampère, Instructions, p. 36;

Coussemaker, No 48, st. 5; Kolberg, Pieśni ludu Polskiego, No 7e,

st. 8; etc.

Old Robin, instead of attaching a cross of red cloth to the right

shoulder of his coat or cloak, shapes the cross _in_ his shoulder "of

white flesh and of red," st. 32; that is, burns the cross in with a hot

iron, as was done sometimes by the unusually devout or superstitious,

or for a pious fraud: Mabillon, Annales, ad annum 1095, cited by

Michaud, Histoire des Croisades, I, 110, note, ed. 1825.

* * * * *

Translated by Bodmer, I, 153; by Knortz, Lieder und Romanzen

Alt-Englands, No 66.

* * * * *

God let neuer soe old a man

Marry soe yonge a wiffe

As did Old Robin of Portingale;

He may rue all the dayes of his liffe.

Ffor the maiors daughter of Lin, God wott,

He chose her to his wife,

And thought to haue liued in quiettnesse

W_i_th her all the dayes of his liffe.

They had not in their wed-bed laid,

Scarcly were both on sleepe,

But vpp shee rose, and forth shee goes

To S_i_r Gyles, and fast can weepe.

Saies, Sleepe you, wake you, faire S_i_r Gyles?

Or be not you w_i_thin?

. . . . . . .

'But I am waking, sweete,' he said,

'Lady, what is yo_u_r will?'

'I haue vnbethought me of a wile,

How my wed lord we shall spill.

'Four and twenty knights,' she sayes,

'_Tha_t dwells about this towne,

Eene four and twenty of my next cozens,

Will helpe to dinge him downe.'

W_i_th _tha_t beheard his litle foote-page,

As he was watering his m_aste_rs steed;

Soe s ...

His verry heart did bleed.

He mourned, sikt, and wept full sore;

I sweare by the holy roode,

The teares he for his master wept

Were blend water and bloude.

W_i_th _tha_t beheard his deare m_aster_,

As [he] in his garden sate;

Says, Euer alacke, my litle page,

What causes thee to weepe?

'Hath any one done to thee wronge,

Any of thy fellowes here?

Or is any of thy good friends dead,

W_hi_ch makes thee shed such teares?

'Or if it be my head-kookes-man,

Greiued againe he shalbe,

Nor noe man w_i_thin my howse

Shall doe wrong vnto thee.'

'But it is not yo_u_r head-kookes-man,

Nor none of his degree;

But [f]or to morrow, ere it be noone,

You are deemed to die.

'And of that thanke yo_u_r head-steward,

And after, yo_u_r gay ladie:'

'If it be true, my litle foote-page,

Ile make thee heyre of all my land.'

'If it be not true, my deare m_aste_r,

God let me neuer thye:'

'If it be not true, thou litle foot-page,

A dead corse shalt thou be.'

He called downe his head-kookes-man,

Cooke in kitchen sup_er_ to dresse:

'All and anon, my deare m_aster_,

Anon att yo_u_r request.'

. . . . . . .

'And call you downe my faire lady,

This night to supp w_i_th mee.'

A_n_d downe then came _tha_t fayre lady,

Was cladd all in purple and palle;

The rings _tha_t were vpon her fingers

Cast light thorrow the hall.

'What is yo_u_r will, my owne wed lo_rd_,

What is yo_u_r will w_i_th mee?'

'I am sicke, fayre lady,

Sore sicke, and like to dye.'

'But and you be sicke, my owne wed lo_rd_,

Soe sore it greiueth mee;

But my fiue maydens and my selfe

Will goe and make yo_u_r bedd.

'_An_d at the wakening of yo_u_r first sleepe

You shall haue a hott drinke made,

And at the wakening of yo_u_r next sleepe

Yo_u_r sorrowes will haue a slake.'

He put a silke cote on his backe,

Was thirteen inches folde,

And put a steele cap vpon his head,

Was gilded w_i_th good red gold.

An_d_ he layd a bright browne sword by his side,

And another att his ffeete,

And full well knew Old Robin then

Whether he shold wake or sleepe.

And about the middle time of the night

Came twenty four good knights in;

S_i_r Gyles he was the formost man,

Soe well he knew _tha_t ginne.

Old Robin, w_i_th a bright browne sword,

S_i_r Gyles head he did winne;

Soe did he all those twenty four,

Neu_er_ a one went quicke out [agen].

None but one litle foot-page,

Crept forth at a window of stone,

And he had two armes when he came in,

And [when he went out he had none].

Vpp then came _tha_t ladie light,

W_i_th torches burning bright;

Shee thought to haue brought S_i_r Gyles a drinke,

But shee found her owne wedd k_nigh_t.

And the first thinge _tha_t this ladye stumbled vpon

Was of S_i_r Gyles his ffoote;

Sayes, Euer alacke, and woe is me,

Here lyes my sweete hart-roote!

And the _secon_d thing _tha_t this ladie stumbled on

Was of S_i_r Gyles his head;

Sayes, Euer alacke, and woe is me,

Heere lyes my true-loue deade!

Hee cutt the papps beside he[r] brest,

And bad her wish her will;

And he cutt the eares beside her heade,

And bade her wish on still.

'Mickle is the mans blood I haue spent,

To doe thee and me some good;'

Sayes, Euer alacke, my fayre lady,

I thinke _tha_t I was woode!

He calld then vp his litle foote-page,

And made him heyre of all his land,

. . . . . . .

And he shope the crosse in his right sholder,

Of the white flesh and the redd,

And he went him into the holy land,

Wheras Christ was quicke and dead.

* * * * *

6^{1, 3}, 23^2, 24^3. 24.

8^1. sist.

11^1, 12^1. bookes man: _cf._ 15^1.

14^2. never dye.

15^2. _~Cooke~ seems to be wrongly repeated._

19^3. 5.

20^3. first sleep.

21^2. 13.

25^3. 2.

25^4. _So Hales and Furnivall._

26^1. ladie bright. _Qy_ fayre?

26^2. burning light.

28^1. 2^d.

30^2. thee & and.

32^3. sent him.

And _always for_ &.

[135] As Sir Frederick Madden has observed, who cites some of the

instances given.

LITTLE MUSGRAVE AND LADY BARNARD

#A.# 'Little Musgrave and the Lady Barnard.' #a.# Wit

Restord, 1658, in the reprint "Facetiæ," London, 1817, I,

293. #b.# Wit and Drollery, 1682, p. 81.

#B.# Percy MS., p. 53; Hales and Furnivall, I, 119.

#C. a.# 'Little Mousgrove and the Lady Barnet,' Pepys

Ballads, I, 364. #b.# Pepys Ballads, III, 314. #c.#

Roxburghe Ballads, III, 146. #d.# Roxburghe Ballads, III,

340. #e.# Bagford Ballads, I, 36.

#D.# 'Lord Barnard,' Kinloch MSS, I, 287.