#E.# 'Young Musgrave,' Campbell MSS, II,_The English and Scottish popular ballads, volume 2 (of 5)

#F.# 'Lord Barnaby,' Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 170.

#G.# 'Wee Messgrove,' Motherwell's MS., p. 643.

#H.# 'Little Musgrave,' Motherwell's MS., p. 120.

#I.# 'Little Sir Grove,' Motherwell's MS., p. 305.

#J.# 'Lord Barnabas' Lady,' Motherwell's MS., p. 371.

#K.# Dr Joseph Robertson's Journal of Excursions, No 5.

#L.# 'Lord Barnett and Little Munsgrove,' Buchan's MSS,

I, 27: Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads,

Percy Society, XVII, 21.

#M.# 'Little Mushiegrove,' Motherwell's Minstrelsy,

Appendix, p. xx, XXI, one stanza.

#N.# 'Little Massgrove,' communicated by Miss Reburn, as

learned in County Meath, Ireland, two stanzas.

A copy of this ballad in Dryden's Miscellany, III, 312, 1716, agrees

with the one in Wit and Drollery. That in Ritson's Select Collection

of English Songs, II, 215, 1783, agrees with Dryden's save in two or

three words. The broadside #C a# was printed for Henry Gosson, who

is said by Chappell to have published from 1607 to 1641. If the lower

limit be correct, this is the earliest impression known.[136] The other

broadsides, #C b-e#, are later, but all of the seventeenth century.

Percy inserted the ballad in his Reliques, III, 67, 1765, making a

broadside in the British Museum his basis, and correcting as usual.

Percy remarks: This ballad is ancient, and has been popular; we find

it quoted in many old plays. Cases cited by him are: Beaumont and

Fletcher's Knight of the Burning Pestle, V, 3, Dyce II, 223, of about

1611:

And some they whistled, and some they sung,

Hey down, down

And some did loudly say,

Ever as the lord Barnet's horn blew,

Away, Musgrave, away!

Again, Sir William Davenant's play 'The Wits,' where Sir Thwack boasts,

"I sing Musgrove, and for the Chevy Chase no lark comes near me," Act

III, p. 194, of ed. 1672; and 'The Varietie,' a comedy, Act IV, 1649.

In Beaumont and Fletcher's 'Bonduca,' V, 2, Dyce, V, 88, dating before

March, 1619, we find this stanza, which is perhaps #A# 26, loosely

remembered:

She set the sword unto her breast,

Great pity it was to see

That three drops of her life-warm blood

Run trickling down her knee.

And two stanzas in Fletcher's 'Monsieur Thomas,' IV, 11, Dyce VII, 375,

earlier than 1639, may well be #A# 11, 12 parodied:

If this be true, thou little tiny page,

This tale that thou tellst me,

Then on thy back will I presently hang

A handsome new livery.

But if this be false, thou little tiny page,

As false it well may be,

Then with a cudgel of four foot long

I'll beat thee from head to toe.

Jamieson says, in a prefatory note to #F#, that he had heard 'Little

Musgrave' repeated, with very little variation, both in Morayshire and

the southern counties of Scotland. All the Scottish versions are late,

and to all seeming derived, indirectly or immediately, from print.[137]

As a recompense we have a fine ballad upon the same theme, 'The Bonny

Birdy,' which is not represented in England.

In the English broadside and most of the northern versions the lovers

try a bribe, a threat, or both, to make the page keep counsel. In some

of these Musgrave, when detected, ejaculates a craven imprecation of

woe to the fair woman that lies in his arms asleep, #G# 23, #H# 16, #I#

14, #J# 20, #L# 37. In #I# the men are brothers; in #E#, #F# Musgrave

has a wife of his own; in #C#, #G# Lord Barnard kills himself; in #E#

he is hanged! None of these divergences from the story as we have it in

#A# are improvements, but it is an improvement that the lady should die

by stroke of steel as in #C#, #E#, #H#, #J#, #K#, #L#, in exchange for

the barbarity of #A#. The penance in #L# is a natural and common way of

ending such a tragedy. The collecting of the lady's heart's blood in a

basin of pure silver, #G# 28-30, is probably borrowed from 'Lammikin,'

where this trait is very effective.

The heathen child, #B# 13^1, is a child unchristened. An unbaptized

child seems still to be called so in Norway, and so is a woman between

childbirth and churching. In modern Icelandic usage a boy or girl

before confirmation is called heathen, from confusion between baptism

and confirmation: Ivar Aasen, at the word heiden; Vigfusson, at the

word heiðinn.[138]

#K# 12,

O he's taen out a lang, lang brand,

And stripped it athwart the straw,

explains a corruption in #E# 18^2, where the manuscript reads, He's

struck _her_ in the straw, and another in #J# 9. The sword is wiped or

whetted on straw in 'Clerk Saunders,' #A# 15, #C# 13, #D# 8, #G# 17;

'Willie and Lady Maisry,' #B# 19; 'Lord Thomas and Fair Annet,' #B#

36; 'Lady Diamond,' Buchan, II, 206, st. 8. Child Maurice dries his

sword on the grass, John Steward dries his on his sleeve, #A# 27, 28;

Glasgerion dries his sword on his sleeve, #A# 22; Horn wipes his sword

on his arm, King Horn, ed. Wissmann, 622 f.

#a.# Wit Restord, 1658, in the reprint 'Facetiæ,' London,

1817, I, 293. #b.# Wit and Drollery, 1682, p. 81.

As it fell one holy-day,

Hay downe

As many be in the yeare,

When young men and maids together did goe,

Their mattins and masse to heare,

Little Musgrave came to the church-dore;

The preist was at private masse;

But he had more minde of the faire women

Then he had of our lady['s] grace.

The one of them was clad in green,

Another was clad in pall,

And then came in my lord Bernard's wife,

The fairest amonst them all.

She cast an eye on Little Musgrave,

As bright as the summer sun;

And then bethought this Little Musgrave,

This lady's heart have I woonn.

Quoth she, I have loved thee, Little Musgrave,

Full long and many a day;

'So have I loved you, fair lady,

Yet never word durst I say.'

'I have a bower at Buckelsfordbery,

Full daintyly it is deight;

If thou wilt wend thither, thou Little Musgrave,

Thou 's lig in mine armes all night.'

Quoth he, I thank yee, faire lady,

This kindnes thou showest to me;

But whether it be to my weal or woe,

This night I will lig with thee.

With that he heard, a little tynë page,

By his ladye's coach as he ran:

'All though I am my ladye's foot-page,

Yet I am Lord Barnard's man.

'My lord Barnard shall knowe of this,

Whether I sink or swim;'

And ever where the bridges were broake

He laid him downe to swimme.

'A sleepe or wake, thou Lord Barnard,

As thou art a man of life,

For Little Musgrave is at Bucklesfordbery,

A bed with thy own wedded wife.'

'If this be true, thou little tinny page,

This thing thou tellest to me,

Then all the land in Bucklesfordbery

I freely will give to thee.

'But if it be a ly, thou little tinny page,

This thing thou tellest to me,

On the hyest tree in Bucklesfordbery

Then hanged shalt thou be.'

He called up his merry men all:

'Come saddle me my steed;

This night must I to Buckellsfordbery,

For I never had greater need.'

And some of them whistld, and some of them sung,

And some these words did say,

And ever when my lord Barnard's horn blew,

'Away, Musgrave, away!'

'Methinks I hear the thresel-cock,

Methinks I hear the jaye;

Methinks I hear my lord Barnard,

And I would I were away.'

'Lye still, lye still, thou Little Musgrave,

And huggell me from the cold;

'Tis nothing but a shephard's boy,

A driving his sheep to the fold.

'Is not thy hawke upon a perch?

Thy steed eats oats and hay;

And thou a fair lady in thine armes,

And wouldst thou bee away?'

With that my lord Barnard came to the dore,

And lit a stone upon;

He plucked out three silver keys,

And he opend the dores each one.

He lifted up the coverlett,

He lifted up the sheet:

'How now, how now, thou Littell Musgrave,

Doest thou find my lady sweet?'

'I find her sweet,' quoth Little Musgrave,

'The more 'tis to my paine;

I would gladly give three hundred pounds

That I were on yonder plaine.'

'Arise, arise, thou Littell Musgrave,

And put thy clothës on;

It shall nere be said in my country

I have killed a naked man.

'I have two swords in one scabberd,

Full deere they cost my purse;

And thou shalt have the best of them,

And I will have the worse.'

The first stroke that Little Musgrave stroke,

He hurt Lord Barnard sore;

The next stroke that Lord Barnard stroke,

Little Musgrave nere struck more.

With that bespake this faire lady,

In bed whereas she lay:

'Although thou'rt dead, thou Little Musgrave,

Yet I for thee will pray.

'And wish well to thy soule will I,

So long as I have life;

So will I not for thee, Barnard,

Although I am thy wedded wife.'

He cut her paps from off her brest;

Great pitty it was to see

That some drops of this ladie's heart's blood

Ran trickling downe her knee.

'Woe worth you, woe worth, my mery men all

You were nere borne for my good;

Why did you not offer to stay my hand,

When you see me wax so wood?

'For I have slaine the bravest sir knight

That ever rode on steed;

So have I done the fairest lady

That ever did woman's deed.

'A grave, a grave,' Lord Barnard cryd,

'To put these lovers in;

But lay my lady on the upper hand,

For she came of the better kin.'

Percy MS., p. 53, Hales and Furnivall, I, 119.

* * * * * * *

. . . . . . .

'Ffor this same night att [Bucklesfeildberry]

Litle Musgreue is in bed w_i_th thy wife.'

'If it be trew, thou litle foote-page,

This tale thou hast told to mee,

Then all my lands in Buckle[s]feildberry

I'le freely giue to thee.

'But if this be a lye, thou little foot-page,

This tale thou hast told to mee,

Then on the highest tree in Bucklesfeildberry

All hanged that thou shalt bee.'

Saies, Vpp and rise, my merrymen all,

And saddle me my good steede,

For I must ride to Bucklesfeildberry;

God wott I had neuer more need!

But some they whistled, and some thé sunge,

And some they thus cold say,

When euer as Lo_rd_ Barnetts horne blowes,

'Away, Musgreue, away!'

'Mie thinkes I heare the throstlecocke,

Me thinkes I heare the iay,

Me thinkes I heare Lo_rd_ Barnetts horne,

Away, Musgreue, away!'

'But lie still, lie still, Litle Musgreue,

And huddle me from the cold,

For it is but some sheaperds boy,

Is whistling sheepe ore the mold.

'Is not thy hauke vpon a pearch,

Thy horsse eating corne and hay?

And thou, a gay lady in thine armes,

And yett thou wold goe away!'

By this time Lo_rd_ Barnett was come to the dore,

And light vpon a stone,

And he pulled out three silver kayes,

And opened the dores euery one.

And first he puld the couering downe,

And then puld downe the sheete;

Saies, How now? How now, Litle Musgreue?

Dost find my gay lady sweet?

'I find her sweete,' saies Litle Musgreue,

'The more is my greefe and paine;'

. . . . . . .

* * * * * * *

. . . . . . .

'Soe haue I done the fairest lady

_Tha_t euer wore womans weede.

'Soe haue I done a heathen child,

W_hi_ch ffull sore greiueth mee,

For w_hi_ch Ile repent all the dayes of my life,

And god be with them all three!'

#a.# Pepys Ballads, I, 364, No 187. #b.# Pepys Ballads,

III, 314, No 310. #c.# Roxburghe Ballads, III, 146. #d.#

Roxburghe Ballads, III, 340. #e.# Bagford Ballads, I, 36.

As it fell on a light holyday,

As many more does in the yeere,

Little Mousgrove would to the church and pray,

To see the faire ladyes there.

Gallants there were of good degree,

For beauty exceeding faire,

Most wonderous lovely to the eie,

That did to that church repaire.

Some came downe in red velvet,

And others came downe in pall,

But next came downe my Lady Barnet,

The fairest amongst them all.

She cast a looke upon Little Mousgrove,

As bright as the summer's sunne;

Full well perceived then Little Mousgrove

Lady Barnet's love he had wonne.

Then Lady Barnet most meeke and mild

Saluted this Little Mousgrove,

Who did repay her kinde courtesie

With favour and gentle love.

'I have a bower in merry Barnet,

Bestrowed with cowslips sweet;

If that it please you, Little Mousgrove,

In love me there to meete,

'Within mine armes one night to sleepe,

For you my heart have wonne,

You need not feare my suspicious lord,

For he from home is gone.'

'Betide me life, betide me death,

This night I will sleepe with thee,

And for thy sake I'le hazzard my breath,

So deare is thy love to me.'

'What shall wee doe with our little foot-page,

Our counsell for to keepe,

And watch for feare Lord Barnet comes,

Whilest wee together doe sleepe?'

'Red gold shall be his hier,' quoth he,

'And silver shall be his fee,

If he our counsell safely doe keepe,

That I may sleepe with thee.'

'I will have none of your gold,' said he,

'Nor none of your silver fee;

If I should keepe your counsell, sir,

'Twere great disloyaltie.

'I will not be false unto my lord,

For house nor yet for land;

But if my lady doe prove untrue,

Lord Barnet shall understand.'

Then swiftly runnes the little foot-page,

Unto his lord with speed,

Who then was feasting with his deare friends,

Not dreaming of this ill deede.

Most speedily the page did haste,

Most swiftly did he runne,

And when he came to the broken bridge

He lay on his brest and swumme.

The page did make no stay at all,

But went to his lord with speed,

That he the truth might say to him

Concerning this wicked deed.

He found his lord at supper then,

Great merriment there they did keepe:

'My lord,' quoth he, 'this night, on my word,

Mousgrove with your lady does sleepe.'

'If this be true, my little foot-page,

And true as thou tellest to me,

My eldest daughter I'le give to thee,

And wedded thou shalt be.

'If this be a lye, my little foot-page,

And a lye as thou tellest to mee,

A new paire of gallowes shall straight be set,

And hanged shalt thou be.'

'If this be a lye, my lord,' said he,

'A lye that you heare from me,

Then never stay a gallowes to make,

But hang me up on the next tree.'

Lord Barnet then cald up his merry men,

Away with speed he would goe;

His heart was so perplext with griefe,

The truth of this he must know.

'Saddle your horses with speed,' quoth he,

'And saddle me my white steed;

If this be true as the page hath said,

Mousgrove shall repent this deed.'

He charg'd his men no noise to make,

As they rode all along on the way;

'Nor winde no hornes,' quoth he, 'on your life,

Lest our comming it should betray.'

But one of the men, that Mousgrove did love,

And respected his friendship most deare,

To give him knowledge Lord Barnet was neere,

Did winde his bugle most cleere.

And evermore as he did blow,

'Away, Mousgrove, and away;

For if I take thee with my lady,

Then slaine thou shalt be this day.'

'O harke, fair lady, your lord is neere,

I heare his little horne blow;

And if he finde me in your armes thus,

Then slaine I shall be, I know.'

'O lye still, lye still, Little Mousgrove,

And keepe my backe from the cold;

I know it is my father's shepheard,

Driving sheepe to the pinfold.'

Mousgrove did turne him round about,

Sweete slumber his eyes did greet;

When he did wake, he then espied

Lord Barnet at his bed's feete.

'O rise up, rise up, Little Mousgrove,

And put thy clothës on;

It shall never be said in faire England

I slew a naked man.

'Here's two good swords,' Lord Barnet said,

'Thy choice, Mousgrove, thou shalt make;

The best of them thy selfe shalt have,

And I the worst will take.'

The first good blow that Mousgrove did strike,

He wounded Lord Barnet sore;

The second blow that Lord Barnet gave,

Mousgrove could strike no more.

He tooke his lady by the white hand,

All love to rage did convert,

That with his sword, in most furious sort,

He pierst her tender heart.

'A grave, a grave,' Lord Barnet cryde,

'Prepare to lay us in;

My lady shall lie on the upper side,

Cause she's of the better kin.'

Then suddenly he slue himselfe,

Which grieves his friends full sore;

The deaths of these thra worthy wights

With teares they did deplore.

This sad mischance by lust was wrought;

Then let us call for grace,

That we may shun this wicked vice,

And mend our lives apace.

Kinloch MSS, I, 287.

There were four and twenty gentlemen

A playing at the ba,

And lusty Lady Livingstone

Cuist her ee out oure them a'.

She cuist her ee on Lord Barnard,

He was baith black and broun;

She cuist her ee on Little Musgrave,

As bricht as the morning sun.

. . . . . . .

'What'll I gie ye, my Little Musgrave,

Ae nicht wi me to sleep?'

'Ae nicht wi you to sleep,' he says,

'O that wad breed meikle strife;

For the ring on your white finger

Shows you Lord Barnard's wife.'

'O Lord Barnard he is gane frae hame,

He'll na return the day;

He has tane wi him a purse o goud,

For he's gane hind away.'

Up startit then the wylie foot-page,

. . . . . . .

'What will ye gie to me,' he said,

'Your council for to keep?'

'O goud sall be my little boy's fee,

And silver sall be his hire;

But an I hear a word mair o this,

He sall burn in charcoal fire.'

But the wylie foot-page to the stable went,

Took out a milk-white steed,

And away, away, and away he rade,

Away wi meikle speed.

It's whan he cam to the water-side,

He smoothd his breist and swam,

And whan he cam to gerss growing,

He set down his feet and ran.

'Whan he cam to Lord Barnard's towr

Lord Barnard was at meat;

He said, 'If ye kend as meikle as me,

It's little wad ye eat.'

'Are onie o my castles brunt?' he says,

'Or onie my towrs won?

Or is my gay ladie broucht to bed,

Of a dochter or a son?'

'There is nane o your castles brunt,

Nor nane o your towrs won;

Nor is your gay ladie broucht to bed,

Of a dochter or a son.

'But Little Musgrave, that gay young man,

Is in bed wi your ladie,

. . . . . . .

'If this be true ye tell to me,

It's goud sall be your fee;

But if it be fause ye tell to me,

I'se hang ye on a tree.'

* * * * * * *

Whan they cam to yon water-side,

They smoothd their breists and swam;

And whan they cam to gerss growing,

They set doun their feet and ran.

* * * * * * *

'How do ye like my sheets?' he said,

'How do ye like my bed?

And how do ye like my gay ladie,

Wha's lying at your side?'

'O I do like your sheets,' he said,

'Sae do I like your bed;

But mair do I like your gay ladie,

Wha's lying at my side.'

'Get up, get up, young man,' he said,

'Get up as swith 's ye can;

Let it never be said that Lord Barnard

Slew in bed a nakit man.'

* * * * * * *

'How do ye like his bluidy cheeks?

Or how do ye like me?'

'It's weill do I like his bluidy cheeks,

Mair than your haill bodie.'

Then she has kissd his bluidy cheeks,

It's oure and oure again.'

. . . . . . .

Campbell MSS, II, 43.

Four and twenty gay ladies

Were playing at the ba,

And [out] came Lord Barnaby's lady,

The fairest o them a'.

She coost her eyes on Little Musgrave,

And he on her again;

She coost her eyes on Little Musgrave,

As they twa lovers had been.

'I have a hall in Mulberry,

It stands baith strong and tight;

If you will go to there with me,

I'll lye with you all night.'

'To lye with you, madam,' he says,

'Will breed both sturt and strife;

I see by the rings on your fingers

You are Lord Barnaby's wife.'

'Lord Barnaby's to the hunting gone,

And far out oer the hill,

And he will not return again

Till the evening tide untill.'

They were not well lain down,

Nor yet well fallen asleep,

Till up started Lord Barnaby's boy,

Just up at their bed-feet.

She took out a little penknife,

Which hung down low by her gair:

'If you do not my secret keep,

A word ye's neer speak mair.'

The laddie gae a blythe leer look,

A blythe leer look gave he,

And he's away to Lord Barnaby,

As fast as he can hie.

* * * * * * *

'If these tidings binna true,

These tidings ye tell to me,

A gallows-tree I'll gar be made

And hanged ye shall be.

'But if these tidings are true,

These tidings ye tell me,

The fairest lady in a' my court

I'll gar her marry thee.'

He's taen out a little horn,

He blew baith loud and sma,

And aye the turning o the tune

'Away, Musgrave, awa!'

They were not well lain down,

Nor yet well fallen asleep,

Till up started Lord Barnaby,

Just up at their bed-feet.

'O how like ye my blankets, Musgrave?

And how like ye my sheets?

And how like ye my gay lady,

So sound in your arms that sleeps?'

'Weel I like your blankets, Sir,

And far better yere sheets;

And better far yere gay lady,

So sound in my arms that sleeps.'

'Get up, get up, now, Little Musgrave,

And draw to hose and sheen;

It's neer be said in my country

I'd fight a naked man.

'There is two swords into my house,

And they cost me right dear;

Take you the best, and I the worst,

I'll fight the battle here.'

The first stroke that Lord Barnaby gave,

It was baith deep and sore;

The next stroke that Lord Barnaby gave,

A word he never spoke more.

He's taen out a rappier then,

He's struck it in the straw,

And thro and thro his lady's sides

He gard the cauld steel gae.

'I am not sae wae for Little Musgrave,

As he lys cauld and dead;

But I'm right wae for his lady,

For she'll gae witless wud.

'I'm not sae wae for my lady,

For she lies cauld and dead;

But I'm right wae for my young son,

Lies sprawling in her blood.'

First crew the black cock,

And next crew the sparrow;

And what the better was Lord Barnaby?

He was hanged on the morrow.

Jamieson's Popular Ballads and Songs, I, 170.

'I have a tower in Dalisberry,

Which now is dearly dight,

And I will gie it to Young Musgrave,

To lodge wi me a' night.'

'To lodge wi thee a' night, fair lady,

Wad breed baith sorrow and strife;

For I see by the rings on your fingers

You're good Lord Barnaby's wife.'

'Lord Barnaby's wife although I be,

Yet what is that to thee?

For we'll beguile him for this ae night,

He's on to fair Dundee.

'Come here, come here, my little foot-page,

This gold I will give thee,

If ye will keep thir secrets close

'Tween Young Musgrave and me.

'But here I hae a little pen-knife,

Hings low down by my gare;

Gin ye winna keep thir secrets close,

Ye'll find it wonder sair.'

Then she's taen him to her chamber,

And down in her arms lay he;

The boy coost aff his hose and shoon,

And ran to fair Dundee.

When he cam to the wan water,

He slackd his bow and swam,

And when he cam to growin grass,

Set down his feet and ran.

And when he cam to fair Dundee,

Wad neither chap nor ca,

But set his braid bow to his breast,

And merrily jumpd the wa.

'O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,

Waken, and come away!'

'What ails, what ails my wee foot-page,

He cries sae lang ere day?

'O is my bowers brent, my boy?

Or is my castle won?

Or has the lady that I loe best

Brought me a daughter or son?'

'Your ha's are safe, your bowers are safe,

And free frae all alarms,

But, oh! the lady that ye loe best

Lies sound in Musgrave's arms.'

'Gae saddle to me the black,' he cried,

'Gae saddle to me the gray;

Gae saddle to me the swiftest steed,

To hie me on my way.'

'O lady, I heard a wee horn toot,

And it blew wonder clear;

And ay the turning o the note,

Was, Barnaby will be here!

'I thought I heard a wee horn blaw,

And it blew loud and high;

And ay at ilka turn it said,

Away, Musgrave, away!'

'Lie still, my dear, lie still, my dear,

Ye keep me frae the cold;

For it is but my father's shepherds,

Driving their flocks to the fold.'

Up they lookit, and down they lay,

And they're fa'en sound asleep;

Till up stood good Lord Barnaby,

Just close at their bed-feet.

'How do you like my bed, Musgrave?

And how like ye my sheets?

And how like ye my fair lady,

Lies in your arms and sleeps?'

'Weel like I your bed, my lord,

And weel like I your sheets,

But ill like I your fair lady,

Lies in my arms and sleeps.

'You got your wale o se'en sisters,

And I got mine o five;

Sae tak ye mine, and I's tak thine,

And we nae mair sall strive.'

'O my woman's the best woman

That ever brak world's bread,

And your woman's the worst woman

That ever drew coat oer head.

'I hae twa swords in ae scabbert,

They are baith sharp and clear;

Tak ye the best, and I the warst,

And we'll end the matter here.

'But up, and arm thee, Young Musgrave,

We'll try it han to han;

It's neer be said o Lord Barnaby,

He strack at a naked man.'

The first straik that Young Musgrave got,

It was baith deep and sair,

And down he fell at Barnaby's feet,

And word spak never mair.

* * * * * * *

'A grave, a grave,' Lord Barnaby cried,

'A grave to lay them in;

My lady shall lie on the sunny side,

Because of her noble kin.'

But oh, how sorry was that good lord,

For a' his angry mood,

Whan he beheld his ain young son

All weltring in his blood!

Motherwell's MS., p. 643, from the recitation of Mrs

McConechie, Kilmarnock.

Lord Barnard's awa to the green wood,

To hunt the fallow deer;

His vassals a' are gane wi him,

His companie to bear.

His lady wrate a braid letter,

And seald it wi her hand,

And sent it aff to Wee Messgrove,

To come at her command.

When Messgrove lookt the letter on,

A waefu man was he;

Sayin, Gin I'm gript wi Lord Barnard's wife,

Sure hanged I will be.

When he came to Lord Barnard's castel

He tinklit at the ring,

And nane was so ready as the lady hersell

To let Wee Messgrove in.

'Welcome, welcome, Messgrove,' she said,

'You're welcome here to me;

Lang hae I loed your bonnie face,

And lang hae ye loed me.

'Lord Barnard is a hunting gane,

I hope he'll neer return,

And ye sall sleep into his bed,

And keep his lady warm.'

'It cannot be,' Messgrove he said,

'I ween it cannot be;

Gin Lord Barnard suld come hame this nicht,

What wuld he do to me?'

'Ye naething hae to fear, Messgrove,

Ye naething hae to fear;

I'll set my page without the gate,

To watch till morning clear.'

But wae be to the wee fut-page,

And an ill death mat he die!

For he's awa to the green wood,

As hard as he can flee.

And whan he to the green wood cam,

'Twas dark as dark could bee,

And he fand his maister and his men

Asleep aneth a tree.

'Rise up, rise up, maister,' he said,

'Rise up, and speak to me;

Your wife's in bed wi Wee Messgrove,

Rise up richt speedilie.'

'Gin that be true ye tell to me,

A lord I will mak thee;

But gin it chance to be a lie,

Sure hanged ye sall be.'

'It is as true, my lord,' he said,

'As ever ye were born;

Messgrove's asleep in your lady's bed,

All for to keep her warm.'

He mounted on his milk-white steed,

He was ane angry man;

And he reachd his stately castell gate

Just as the day did dawn.

He put his horn unto his mouth,

And he blew strong blasts three;

Sayin, He that's in bed with anither man's wife,

He suld be gaun awa.

Syne out and spak the Wee Messgrove,

A frichtit man was he;

'I hear Lord Barnard's horn,' he said,

'It blaws baith loud and hie.'

'Lye still, lye still, my Wee Messgrove,

And keep me frae the cauld;

'Tis but my father's shepherd's horn,

A sounding in the fauld.'

He put his horn unto his mouth,

And he blew loud blasts three;

Saying, He that's in bed wi anither man's wife,

'Tis time he was awa.

Syne out and spak the Wee Messgrove,

A frichtit man was he:

'Yon surely is Lord Barnard's horn,

And I maun een gae flee.'

Lye still, lye still, Messgrove,' she said,

'And keep me frae the cauld;

'Tis but my father's shepherd's horn,

A sounding in the fauld.'

And ay Lord Barnard blew and blew,

Till he was quite wearie;

Syne he threw down his bugle horn,

And up the stair ran he.

'How do you like my blankets, Sir?

How do you like my sheets?

How do ye like my gay ladie,

That lies in your arms asleep?'

'Oh weel I like your blankets, Sir,

And weel I like your sheet;

But wae be to your gay ladie,

That lyes in my arms asleep!'

'I'll gie you ae sword, Messgrove,

And I will take anither;

What fairer can I do, Messgrove,

Altho ye war my brither?'

The firsten wound that Messgrove gat,

It woundit him richt sair;

And the second wound that Messgrove gat,

A word he neer spak mair.

'Oh how do ye like his cheeks, ladie?

Or how do ye like his chin?

Or how do ye like his fair bodie,

That there's nae life within?'

'Oh weel I like his cheeks,' she said,

'And weel I like his chin;

And weel I like his fair bodie,

That there's nae life within.'

'Repeat these words, my fair ladie,

Repeat them ower agane,

And into a basin of pure silver

I'll gar your heart's bluid rin.'

'Oh weel I like his cheeks,' she said,

'And weel I like his chin;

And better I like his fair bodie

Than a' your kith and kin.'

Syne he took up his gude braid sword,

That was baith sharp and fine,

And into a basin of pure silver

Her heart's bluid he gart rin.

'O wae be to my merrie men,

And wae be to my page,

That they didna hald my cursed hands

When I was in a rage!'

He leand the halbert on the ground,

The point o 't to his breast,

Saying, Here are three sauls gaun to heaven,

I hope they'll a' get rest.

Motherwell's MS., p. 120.

Little Musgrove is to the church gone,

Some ladies for to sply;

Doun came one drest in black,

And one came drest in brown,

And down and came Lord Barlibas' lady,

The fairest in a' the town.

* * * * * * *

'I know by the ring that's on your finger

That you'r my Lord Barlibas' lady:'

'Indeed I am the Lord Barlibas' lady,

And what altho I bee?'

* * * * * * *

'Money shall be your hire, foot-page,

And gold shall be your fee;

You must not tell the secrets

That's between Musgrove and me.'

'Money shall not be hire,' he said,

'Nor gold shall be my fee;

But I'll awa to my own liege lord,

With the tidings you've told to me.'

When he cam to the broken brig,

He coost aff his clothes and he swimd,

And when he cam to Lord Barlibas' yett,

He tirled at the pin.

'What news, what news, my little foot-page?

What news have ye brocht to me?

Is my castle burnt?' he said,

'Or is my tower tane?

Or is my lady lighter yet,

Of a daughter or son?'

'Your castle is not burnt,' he says,

'Nor yet is your tower tane,

Nor yet is your lady brocht to bed,

Of a daughter or a son;

But Little Musgrove is lying wi her,

Till he thinks it is time to be gane.'

'O if the news be a lie,' he says,

'That you do tell unto me,

I'll ca up a gallows to my yard-yett,

And hangd on it thou shallt be.

'But if the news be true,' he says,

'That you do tell unto me,

I have a young fair dochter at hame,

Weel wedded on her you shall be.'

He called upon his merry men,

By thirties and by three:

'Put aff the warst, put on the best,

And come along with me.'

He put a horn to his mouth,

And this he gard it say:

'The man that's in bed wi Lord Barlibas' lady,

It's time he were up and away.'

'What does yon trumpet mean?' he sayd,

'Or what does yon trumpet say?

I think it says, the man that's in bed wi Lord Barlibas' lady,

It's time he were up and away.'

'O lie you still, my Little Musgrove,

And cover me from the cold,

For it is but my father's sheepherd,

That's driving his sheep to the fold.'

. . . . . . .

In a little while after that,

Up started good Lord Barlibas,

At Little Musgrove his feet.

'How do you like my blankets?' he says,

'Or how do you like my sheets?

Or how do you like mine own fair lady,

That lies in your arms and sleeps?'

'I like your blankets very well,

And far better your sheets;

But woe be to this wicked woman,

That lies in my arms and sleeps!'

'Rise up, rise up, my Little Musgrove,

Rise up, and put your clothes on;

It's neer be said on no other day

That I killed a naked man.

'There is two swords in my chamber,

I wot they cost me dear;

Take you the best, give me the warst,

We'll red the question here.'

The first stroke that Lord Barlibas struck,

He dang Little Musgrove to the ground;

The second stroke that Lord Barlibas gave

Dang his lady in a deadly swound.

'Gar mak, gar mak a coffin,' he says,

'Gar mak it wide and long,

And lay my lady at the right hand,

For she's come of the noblest kin.'

Motherwell's MS., p. 305, from the recitation of Rebecca

Dunse, 4th May, 1825: one of her mother's songs, an old

woman.

* * * * * * *

'It's gold shall be your hire,' she says,

'And silver shall be your fee,

If you will keep the secrets

Between Little Sir Grove and me.'

'Tho gold should be my hire,' he says,

'And silver should be my fee,

It's I'll not keep the secret

Betwixt Little Sir Grove and thee.'

Up he rose, and away he goes,

And along the plain he ran,

And when he came to Lord Bengwill's castle,

He tinkled at the pin;

And who was sae ready as Lord Bengwill himsell

To let this little page in.

'Is any of my towers burnt?' he said,

'Or any of my castles taen?

Or is Lady Bengwill brought to bed,

Of a daughter or a son?'

'It's nane of your towers are burnt,' he said,

'Nor nane of your castles taen;

But Lady Bengwill and Little Sir Grove

To merry bed they are gane.'

'If this be true that you tell me,

Rewarded you shall be;

And if it's a lie that you tell me,

You shall be hanged before your ladie's ee.

'Get saddled to me the black,' he says,

'Get saddled to me the brown;

Get saddled to me the swiftest steed

That ever man rode on.'

The firsten town that he came to,

He blew baith loud and schill,

And aye the owre-word o the tune

Was, 'Sir Grove, I wish you well.'

The nexten town that he came to,

He blew baith loud and long,

And aye the owre-word of the tune

Was 'Sir Grove, it is time to be gone.'

'Is yon the sound of the hounds?' he says,

'Or is yon the sound of the deer?

But I think it's the sound of my brother's horn,

That sounds sae schill in my ear.'

'Lye still, lye still, Sir Grove,' she says,

'And keep a fair lady from cold;

It's but the sound of my father's herd-boys,

As they're driving the sheep to the fold.'

They lay down in each other's arms,

And they fell fast asleep,

And neer a one of them did wake

Till Lord Bengwill stood at their feet.

'How do you love my soft pillow?

Or how do you love my sheets?

Or how do you love my fair lady,

That lies in your arms and sleeps?'

'Full well I love your soft pillow,

Far better I love your sheets;

But woe be to your fair lady,

That lies in my arms and sleeps!'

'Rise up, rise up, Sir Grove,' he says,

'Some clothes there put you upon;

Let it never be said in fair England

I fought with a naked man.'

'Oh where shall I go, or where shall I fly,

Or where shall I run for my life?

For you've got two broadswords into your hand,

And I have never a knife.'

'You shall take the one sword,' he says,

'And I shall take the other,

And that is as fair I'm sure to day

As that you are my born brother.'

'Hold your hand, hold your hand, my brother dear,

You've wounded me full sore;

You may get a mistress in every town,

But a brother you'll never get more.'

The very first stroke that Lord Bengwill gave him,

He wounded him full sore;

The very next stroke that Lord Bengwill gave him,

A word he never spoke more.

He's lifted up Lady Bengwill,

And set her on his knee,

Saying, Whether do you love Little Sir Grove

Better than you do me?

'Full well I love your cherry cheeks,

Full well I love your chin,

But better I love Little Sir Grove, where he lies,

Than you and all your kin.'

* * * * * * *

'A grave, a grave,' Lord Bengwill cried,

'To put these lovers in,

And put Lady Bengwill uppermost,

For she's come of the noblest kin.'

Motherwell's MS., p. 371, from the recitation of Agnes

Lyle, Kilbarchan.

Four and twenty ladies fair

Was playing at the ba,

And out cam the lady, Barnabas' lady,

The flower amang them a'.

She coost an ee on Little Mossgrey,

As brisk as any sun,

And he coost anither on her again,

And they thocht the play was won.

'What would you think, Little Mossgrey,

To lye wi me this nicht?

Good beds I hae in Barnabey,

If they were ordered richt.'

'Hold thy tongue, fair lady,' he says,

'For that would cause much strife;

For I see by the rings on your fingers

That you're Lord Barnabas' wife.'

'Lord Barnabas' lady indeed I am,

And that I'll let you ken,

But he's awa to the king's court,

And I hope he'll neer come hame.'

Wi wrapped arms in bed they lay

Till they fell both asleep,

When up and starts Barnabas' boy,

And stood at their bed-feet.

'How likes thou the bed, Mossgrey?

Or how likes thou the sheets?

Or how likes thou my master's lady,

Lyes in thy arms and sleeps?'

'Weel I love the bed,' he said,

'And far better the sheets;

But foul may fa your master's lady,

Lies in my arms and sleeps!'

She pulled out a rusty sword,

Was sticking by the stroe;

Says, Tell no tidings of me, my boy,

Or thou'll neer tell no moe.

He's awa to the king's court,

As fast as he can dree;

He's awa to the king's court,

For to tell Barnaby.

'Are there any of my biggins brunt?

Or any of my young men slain?

Or is my lady brocht to bed,

Of a dochter or a son?'

'There is none of your biggings brunt,

There's none of your young men slain;

But Little Mossgrey and your lady

They are both in a bed within.'

'If that be true, my bonnie boy,

Thou tellest unto me,

I have not a dochter but only one,

And married ye shall be.

'But if it be a lie, my bonnie boy,

You're telling unto me,

On the highest tree of Bailsberry,

Thereon I'll gar hang thee.'

There was a man in the king's court

Had a love to Little Mossgrey;

He took a horn out of his pocket,

And blew both loud and hie:

'He that's in bed wi Barnabas' lady,

It's time he were away!'

'Oh am I not the maddest man

Ere lay in a woman's bed!

I think I hear his bridle ring,

But and his horse feet tread.'

'Lye still, lye still, Little Mossgrey,

And keep me from the cold;

It's but my father's small sheep-herd,

Calling his sheep to the fold.'

With wrapped arms in bed they lay

Till they fell both asleep,

Till up and darts Barnabas himsell,

And stood at their bed-fit.

'How likest thou the bed, Mossgrey?

And how loves thou the sheets?

And how loves thou my lady fair,

Lyes in your arms and sleeps?'

'Well I love your bed,' he says,

'And far better your sheets;

But foul may fa your lady fair,

Lyes in my arms and sleeps!'

'Rise, O rise, Little Mossgrey,

Put on your hose and shoon;

I'll neer hae't said in a far countrie

I killed a naked man.'

Slowly, slowly rose he up,

And slowly put he on,

And slowly down the stairs he goes,

And thinking to be slain.

'Here's two swords,' Barnabas said,

'I wad they cost me dear;

Tak thou the best, I'll tak the warst,

We'll try the battle here.'

The first stroke that Mossgrey got,

It was baith sharp and sore;

And the next stroke his lady got,

One word she neer spak more.

'Ye'll mak a coffin large and wide,

And lay this couple in;

And lay her head on his right hand,

She's come o the highest kin.'

Dr Joseph Robertson's Journal of Excursions, No 5, taken

down from a man in the parish of Leochel, Aberdeenshire,

February 12, 1829.

It's four and twenty bonny boys

Were playin at the ba,

And out it cums Lord Barnet's ladie,

And playit out ower them a'.

And aye she shot it's Little Mousgray,

As clear as any sun:

'O what wad ye gie, it's Little Mousgray,

It's in o my arms to won?'

'For no, for no, my gay ladie,

For no, that maunna be;

For well ken I by the rings on your fingers,

Lord Barnet's ladie are ye.'

When supper was over, and mass was sung,

And a' man boun for bed,

It's Little Mousgray and that lady

In ae chamber was laid.

It's up and starts her little foot-page,

Just up at her bed-feet:

'Hail weel, hail weel, my little foot-page,

Hail well this deed on me,

An ever I lee my life to brook,

I 'se pay you well your fee.'

Out it spaks it's Little Mousgray:

'I think I hear a horn blaw;

She blaws baith loud and shill at ilka turning of the tune,

Mousgray, gae ye your wa!'

'Lie still, lie still, it's Little Mousgray,

Had the caul win frae my back;

It's bat my father's proud shepherds,

The're huntin their hogs to the fauld.'

O up it starts the bold Barnet:

. . . . . . .

'Win up, win up, it's Little Mousgray,

Draw ti your stockins and sheen;

I winna have it for to be said

I killed a naked man.

'There is two swords in my scabbart,

They cost me many a pun;

Tak ye the best, and I the warst,

And we sall to the green.'

The firsten strok Lord Barnet strak,

He wound Mousgray very sore;

The nexten stroke Lord Barnet strak,

Mousgray spak never more.

O he's taen out a lang, lang brand,

And stripped it athwart the straw,

And throch and throu his ain ladie

And he's gart it cum and ga.

There was nae main made for that ladie,

In bower whar she lay dead!

But a' was for her bonny young son,

Lay blobberin amang the bluid.

Buchan's MSS, I, 27; Scottish Traditional Versions of

Ancient Ballads, Percy Society, XVII, 21.

Four an twenty handsome youths

Were a' playing at the ba,

When forth it came him Little Munsgrove,

The flower out ower them a'.

At times he lost, at times he wan,

Till the noon-tide o the day,

And four an twenty gay ladies

Went out to view the play.

Some came down in white velvet,

And other some in green;

Lord Burnett's lady in red scarlet,

And shin'd like ony queen.

Some came down in white velvet,

And other some in pale;

Lord Burnett's lady in red scarlet,

Whose beauty did excell.

She gae a glance out ower them a',

As beams dart frae the sun;

She fixed her eyes on Little Munsgrove,

For him her love lay on.

'Gude day, gude day, ye handsome youth,

God make ye safe and free;

What woud ye gie this day, Munsgrove,

For ae night in bower wi me?'

'I darena for my lands, lady,

I darena for my life;

I ken by the rings on your fingers

Ye are Lord Burnett's wife.'

'It woud na touch my heart, Munsgrove,

Nae mair than 't woud my tae,

To see as much o his heart's blood

As twa brands coud let gae.

'I hae a bower in fair Strathdon,

And pictures round it sett,

And I hae ordered thee, Munsgrove,

In fair Strathdon to sleep.'

Her flattering words and fair speeches,

They were for him too strong,

And she's prevailed on Little Munsgrove

With her to gang along.

When mass was sung, and bells were rung,

And a' man bound for bed,

Little Munsgrove and that lady

In ae chamber were laid.

'O what hire will ye gie your page,

If he the watch will keep,

In case that your gude lord come hame

When we're fair fast asleep?'

'Siller, siller's be his wage,

And gowd shall be his hire;

But if he speak ae word o this,

He'll die in a burning fire.'

'The promise that I make, Madam,

I will stand to the same;

I winna heal it an hour langer

Than my master comes hame.'

She's taen a sharp brand in her hand,

Being in the tidive hour;

He ran between her and the door,

She never saw him more.

Where he found the grass grow green,

He slacked his shoes an ran,

And where he found the brigs broken,

He bent his bow an swam.

Lord Burnett ower a window lay,

Beheld baith dale and down;

And he beheld his ain foot-page

Come hastening to the town.

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

Ye bring sae hastilie?'

'Bad news, bad news, my master,' he says,

'As ye will plainly see.'

'Are any of my biggins brunt, my boy?

Or are my woods hewed down?

Or is my dear lady lighter yet,

O dear daughter or son?'

'There are nane o your biggins brunt, master,

Nor are your woods hewn down;

Nor is your lady lighter yet,

O dear daughter nor son.

'But ye've a bower in fair Strathdon,

And pictures round it sett,

Where your lady and Little Munsgrove

In fair Strathdon do sleep.'

'O had your tongue! why talk you so

About my gay ladye?

She is a gude and chaste woman

As in the North Countrie.'

'A word I dinna lie, my lord,

A word I dinna lie;

And if ye winna believe my word,

Your ain twa een shall see.'

'Gin this be a true tale ye tell,

That ye have tauld to me,

I'll wed you to my eldest daughter,

And married you shall be.

'But if it be a fause story

That ye hae tauld to me,

A high gallows I'll gar be built,

And hanged shall ye be.'

He's called upon his landlady,

The reckoning for to pay,

And pulled out twa hands fou o gowd;

Says, We'll reckon anither day.

He called upon his stable-groom,

To saddle for him his steed,

And trampled ower yon rocky hills

Till his horse hoofs did bleed.

There was a man in Lord Burnett's train

Was ane o Munsgrove's kin,

And aye as fast as the horsemen rade,

Sae nimbly 's he did rin.

He set a horn to his mouth,

And he blew loud and sma,

And aye at every sounding's end,

'Awa, Munsgrove, awa!'

Then up it raise him Little Munsgrove,

And drew to him his sheen;

'Lye still, lye still,' the lady she cried,

'Why get ye up sae seen?'

'I think I hear a horn blaw,

And it blaws loud and sma;

And aye at every sounding's end,

Awa, Munsgrove, awa!'

'Lye still, lye still, ye Little Munsgrove,

Had my back frae the wind;

It's but my father's proud shepherd,

Caing his hogs to town.'

'I think I hear a horn blaw,

And it blaws loud and shrill,

And aye at every sounding's end

Bids Munsgrove take the hill.'

'Lye still, my boy, lye still, my sweet,

Had my back frae the cauld;

It's but the sugh o the westlin wind,

Blawing ower the birks sae bauld.'

He turned him right and round about,

And he fell fast asleep;

When up it started Lord Burnett,

And stood at their bed-feet.

'Is't for love o my blankets, Munsgrove?

Or is't for love o my sheets?

Or is't for love o my gay lady?

Sae soun in your arms she sleeps!'

'It's nae for love o your blankets, my lord,

Nor yet for love o your sheets;

But wae be to your gay ladye,

Sae soun in my arms she sleeps!'

'Win up, win up, ye Little Munsgrove,

Put all your armour an;

It's never be said anither day

I killed a naked man.

'I hae twa brands in ae scabbard,

Cost me merks twenty-nine;

Take ye the best, gie me the warst,

For ye're the weakest man.'

The first an stroke that Munsgrove drew

Wounded Lord Burnett sair;

The next an stroke Lord Burnett drew,

Munsgrove he spake nae mair.

He turned him to his ladye then,

And thus to her said he:

'All the time we've led our life

I neer thought this o thee.

'How like ye now this well-faird face,

That stands straight by your side?

Or will ye hate this ill-faird face,

Lyes weltering in his blude?'

'O better love I this well-faird face,

Lyes weltering in his blude,

Then eer I'll do this ill-faird face,

That stands straight by my side.'

Then he's taen out a sharp dagger,

It was baith keen and smart,

And he has wounded that gay ladye

A deep wound to the heart.

'A grave, a grave,' cried Lord Burnett,

'To bury these two in,

And lay my ladye in the highest flat,

She's chiefest o the kin.

'A grave, a grave,' said Lord Burnett,

'To bury these two in;

Lay Munsgrove in the lowest flat,

He's deepest in the sin.

'Ye'll darken my windows up secure,

Wi staunchions round about,

And there is not a living man

Shall eer see me walk out.

'Nae mair fine clothes my body deck,

Nor kame gang in my hair,

Nor burning coal nor candle light

Shine in my bower mair.'

Motherwell's Minstrelsy, Appendix, p. xx, XXI.

It fell upon a Martinmas time,

When the nobles were a' drinking wine,

That Little Mushiegrove to the kirk he did go,

For to see the ladies come in.

Communicated by Miss Margaret Reburn, as heard in County

Meath, Ireland, about 1860.

'How do you like my rug?' he said,

'And how do you like my sheets?

And how do you like my false ladie,

That lies in your arms asleep?'

'Well I like your rug my lord,

And well I like your sheets;

But better than all your fair ladie,

That lies in my arms asleep.'

* * * * *

#A. a.#

3^2. in pale.

6^2. geight.

6^3. wilt wed.

9^2. or sinn.

17^3. thou fair.

29^3. on upper.

#b.#

1^4. Their masses and mattins.

2^2. _omits_ private.

3^2. pale.

3^4. among.

4^4. I have.

5^4. Yet word I never durst.

6^2. daintily bedight.

7^1. lady fair.

7^2. you shew.

7^4. will I.

8^1. All this was heard by.

8^3. Quo he, though I am my ladies page.

8^4. my lord.

9^2. Although I lose a limb.

9^3. whereas.

10^4. thy none.

11^4. _omits_ will.

14^3. when as the.

14^4. Away, thou little Musgrave.

15^3. Bernards horn.

16^4. to fold.

17^1. the perch.

17^3. thy fair.

18^2. lighted upon a stone.

19^4. Doest find my lady so sweet.

20^3. hunder'd pound.

21^4. That I killed.

25^3. not do.

25^4. Though I.

26^1. _omits_ That: heart.

27^2. ne're were.

28^2. on a.

#B.#

5^4. Musgerue.

_6 is written in the MS. after 8, but a marginal note by

the scribe directs this stanza to be put two higher than

it is written._ Furnivall.

8^4. awaw.

9^3. out 3.

11^2. _Between here and 12^3 half a page is gone._

13^4. all 3.

#C.#

#a.# The lamentable Ditty of Little Mousgrove and the

Lady Barnet... London, printed for H. Gosson. _Stanzas of

eight lines._

#b.# London: printed for J. Clark, W. Thackeray, and T.

Passenger.

#c.# A Lamentable Ballad of the Little Musgrove and the

Lady Barnet... London, printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, J.

Wright, and J. Clarke.

#e.# London: printed by and for W. O., and are to be sold

by the Booksellers.

#a.#

15^3. might lay.

_After_ 16: The second part.

#b., c.#

Musgrove _throughout_.

1^1. light _wanting_.

1^2. more be.

2^4. which did to the.

3^2. some came. #c.# pale.

3^3. The next: the lady.

3^4. #c.# among.

4^1. upon.

4^3. well thou perceived.

5^1. The: most _wanting_.

5^3. #b.# reply.

6^3. that you please.

7^2. my love.

8^1. #b.# my life: my death.

8^2. will lye.

8^4. #c.# my love to thee.

9^3. come.

9^4. While: doe _wanting_.

10^3. So he: doe _wanting_.

11^1. he said.

13^1. ran this.

13^3. #b.# He then.

13^3. his own.

14^2. #c.# he did.

14^4. bent his.

15^2. to the.

15^3. #b.# my say. #c.# may say.

16^2. there _wanting_. #c.# did make.

16^3. upon.

16^4. doth.

17^2. that thou. #b.# telst.

17^2. to _wanting_.

18^2. as _wanting_. #b.# to _wanting_.

18^3. shall be set up.

18^4. thou shalt.

19^2. thou hearest of. #c.# And a.

19^3. Never stay a pair of gallows to make. #b.# to

_wanting_.

19^4. me on.

20^1. Lord Barnet calld his merry men all.

20^3. was so.

21^1. he said.

21^4. #b.# his deed.

22^1. to make no noise.

22^2. all... on _wanting_.

22^3. horn.

23^1. #c.# of them that.

23^3. him notice: was come.

23^4. wind the.

24^1. did sound.

24^3. if he.

26^4. into the.

27^3. awake: did espy. #b.# then he.

27^4. the beds.

28^2. cloathing.

28^3. #c.# never shall.

28^3. England fair.

28^4. That I.

29^1. #b.# Here is two swords.

29^2. #c.# The choice: Musgrove shall.

29^3. shall.

30^1. good _wanting_.

30^{1, 3}. that _wanting_.

31^2. did _wanting_.

31^3. And with: furious wise.

32^4. she's the better skin: #c.# she is.

33^2. #b.# grieved. #c.# grievd.

33^3. #c.# death of these worthy.

34^1. #c.# mischief.

34^3. #b.# shun the.

34^4. And fly from sin.

#d.#

1^1. a high.

9^1. with this.

11^3. counsel, Madam.

21^2. my milk-white.

23^4. wind his bugle horn clear.

33^3. these three lovely.

#e.#

1^1. a high.

1^3. Little _wanting_.

3^3. Then next.

8^1. my life: my death.

13^3. He then.

15^3. might tell to.

19^2. that _wanting_.

26^4. unto the.

28^2. an _for_ on.

29^1. Here is two.

29^2. Musgrove thy choice now make.

31^3. most _wanting_.

34^3. shun the.

#E.#

10^1. this tidings.

12^3. Banburry.

15^3. It neer.

18^2. struck her.

19^4. wud: (with it) _in margin_.

#G.#

10^1. (cam) to the green wood cam.

#H.#

13^1. Oh.

#I.#

9^3. old word.

#K.#

2^1. _Corrupt_: cf. #A#4, #C#4, #D#2, _etc._

13^2. lay slain.

#L.#

9^4 On.

48^1. decks.

[136] #C a# was most obligingly copied, and #C b# collated, for me by

Professor Skeat with his own hand.

[137] #L#, one of two copies in Buchan's MSS, would certainly have been

but the slightest loss if omitted, as another, MSS II, 152, being a

broadside made over for the stalls, has been.

[138] Pagani appellati interdum infantes quorum certis ex causis

differebatur baptismus; Ducange, s. v. Pagani, who cites, Infans

infirmus et paganus commendatus presbytero, etc. Ethnicus was used in

the same way.

THE BONNY BIRDY

Jamieson-Brown MS., fol. 42; Jamieson's Popular Ballads,

I, 162.

Jamieson, in printing this ballad, gave the husband the name Lord

Randal, made many changes, and introduced several stanzas, "to fill

up chasms." But the chasms, such as they are, are easily leapt by

the imagination, and Jamieson's interpolations are mere bridges of

carpenter's work. The admirably effective burden is taken into the

story at stanza 11. As Jamieson remoulds the ballad, it is no burden,

but a part of the dialogue throughout.

The main part of the action is the same as in 'Little Musgrave.' The

superior lyrical quality of the Scottish ballad makes up for its

inferiority as a story, so that on the whole it cannot be prized much

lower than the noble English ballad.

* * * * *

Cunningham has rewritten the ballad in his own style, pretending,

as often, to have known another recited copy: 'Sir Hugh,' Songs of

Scotland, II, 130.

There was a knight, in a summer's night,

Was riding oer the lee, diddle

An there he saw a bonny birdy,

Was singing upon a tree. diddle

O wow for day! diddle

An dear gin it were day! diddle

Gin it were day, an gin I were away!

For I ha na lang time to stay. diddle

'Make hast, make hast, ye gentle knight,

What keeps you here so late?

Gin ye kent what was doing at hame,

I fear you woud look blate.'

'O what needs I toil day an night,

My fair body to kill,

Whan I hae knights at my comman,

An ladys at my will?'

'Ye lee, ye lee, ye gentle knight,

Sa loud's I hear you lee;

Your lady's a knight in her arms twa

That she lees far better nor the.'

'Ye lee, you lee, you bonny birdy,

How you lee upo my sweet!

I will tak out my bonny bow,

An in troth I will you sheet.'

'But afore ye hae your bow well bent,

An a' your arrows yare,

I will flee till another tree,

Whare I can better fare.'

'O whare was you gotten, and whare was ye clecked?

My bonny birdy, tell me:'

'O I was clecked in good green wood,

Intill a holly tree;

A gentleman my nest herryed,

An ga me to his lady.

'Wi good white bread an farrow-cow milk

He bade her feed me aft,

An ga her a little wee simmer-dale wanny,

To ding me sindle and saft.

'Wi good white bread an farrow-cow milk

I wot she fed me nought,

But wi a little wee simmer-dale wanny

She dang me sair an aft:

Gin she had deen as ye her bade,

I woudna tell how she has wrought.'

The knight he rade, and the birdy flew,

The live-lang simmer's night,

Till he came till his lady's bowr-door,

Then even down he did light:

The birdy sat on the crap of a tree,

An I wot it sang fu dight.

'O wow for day! diddle

An dear gin it were day! diddle

Gin it were day, an gin I were away!

For I ha na lang time to stay.' diddle

'What needs ye lang for day, diddle.

An wish that you were away? diddle

Is no your hounds i my cellar,

Eating white meal an gray?' diddle

O wow, etc.

'Is nae your steed in my stable,

Eating good corn an hay?

An is nae your hawk i my perch-tree,

Just perching for his prey?

An is nae yoursel i my arms twa?

Then how can ye lang for day?'

'O wow for day! diddle

An dear gin it were day! diddle

For he that's in bed wi anither man's wife

Has never lang time to stay.' diddle

Then out the knight has drawn his sword,

An straiked it oer a strae,

An thro and thro the fa'se knight's waste

He gard cauld iron gae:

An I hope ilk ane sal sae be servd

That treats ane honest man sae.

* * * * *

_The burden stands thus in the manuscript after the first stanza_:

O wow for day, diddle

An dear gin it were day, diddle

Gin it were day, diddle

I were away,

For I ha na lang time to stay. diddle

13^1. nae you. (?)

CHILD MAURICE

#A.# 'Childe Maurice,' Percy MS., p. 346; Hales and

Furnivall, II, 502.

#B.# 'Child Noryce,' Motherwell's MS., p. 255;

Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 282.

#C.# 'Bob Norice,' Motherwell's MS., p. 510.

#D.# 'Gill Morice,' Motherwell's MS., p. 480.

#E.# 'Chield Morice,' Motherwell's MS., p. 165;

Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 269.

#F. a.# 'Gil Morrice,' Percy's Reliques, III, 93, 1765.

#b.# Letter of T. Gray, June, 1757 (?).

#G.# Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 18, three stanzas;

Jamieson, in The Scots Magazine, 1803, LXV, 698, two

stanzas.

#A# was printed from the Percy manuscript by Jamieson, in his Popular

Ballads, I, 8. Of #B# Motherwell says, 1827: "By testimony of a most

unexceptionable description, but which it would be tedious here to

detail, the editor can distinctly trace this ballad as existing in its

present shape at least a century ago."

In his preface to the copy of the ballad in the Reliques of Ancient

Poetry (#F#), Percy remarks: "The following piece has lately run

through two editions in Scotland, the second printed at Glasgow in

1755, 8vo. Prefixed to them both is an advertisement, setting forth

that the preservation of this poem was owing 'to a lady, who favored

the printers with a copy as it was carefully collected from the

mouths of old women and nurses;' and 'any reader that can render

it more correct or complete' is desired to oblige the public with

such improvements. In consequence of this advertisement sixteen

additional verses have been produced and handed about in manuscript,

which are here inserted in their proper places." The copy printed in

1755[139] and earlier had already "received very considerable modern

improvements," as Percy goes on to say, the most noticeable of which is

a conclusion of eight stanzas, in the taste of the middle of the last

century. These, as also the four stanzas which had been handed about in

manuscript, are omitted from this reprint.

Home's tragedy of Douglas, produced in Edinburgh in 1756, was founded

upon the story of Gil Morice, and the popularity of the play seems to

have given vogue to the ballad.[140] The sophisticated copy passed

into recitation, and may very likely have more or less infected those

which were repeated from earlier tradition. An old woman (Mrs Thomson,

the reciter of #E#), who was born about the time when the ballad was

printed, told Motherwell that she had learned 'Chield Morice' in

her infancy from her grandmother, but at a later period of her life

committed to memory 'Gil Morice,' "which began, with young lasses like

her, to be a greater favorite and more fashionable than the set which

her grandmother and old folks used to sing."[141]

Gray writes to Mason, June, 1757 (?): "I have got the old Scotch ballad

on which Douglas was founded; it is divine, and as long as from hence

[Cambridge] to Aston."[142] He cites the first fifteen lines.

The copy in Smith's Scottish Minstrel, III, 106, is Herd's (Percy's),

with omissions and changes. 'Child Nourice,' a fragment, in Buchan's

MSS, I, 143, is of recent make.

The name of Barnard, a name, says Aytoun, quite foreign to Scotland,

may have been adopted from 'Little Musgrave.' There is a marked

similarity in the conclusion of the two ballads.

Aytoun, in his compilation, I, 147, 149, rejects the two stanzas, #F#

13, 14, beginning, "And when he came to broken brigue," as taken from

'Lady Maisry.' These stanzas are the most favorite of all commonplaces,

and belong as much to one ballad as another. They occur in one version

or another of 'Lord Ingram,' 'Little Musgrave,' 'The Clerk's Twa Sons,'

etc., and wearisomely often in the ballads in Buchan's collection.

The popularity of 'Gil Morice' since the middle of the last century has

caused the story to be localized. The green wood, says Motherwell, was

believed to be "the ancient forest of Dundaff, in Stirlingshire, and

Lord Barnard's castle to have occupied a precipitous cliff overhanging

the Water of Carron, on the lands of Halbertshire." Gil Morice,

"according to the unvarying traditions of the country, was remarkable

for the extreme length and loveliness of his yellow hair." Motherwell

considers that the embellishments of the ballad may have been suggested

by these traditions. But why should not these traditions have been

derived from the embellished ballad? There had already been nearly

fourscore years for them to grow up at the date of the publication of

his Minstrelsy.

* * * * *

#B# is translated by Wolff, Halle der Völker, I, 11, Hausschatz, p.

222; #F# by Loève-Veimars, p. 316, with some retrenchment; Allingham's

copy by Knortz, Lieder u. Romanzen Alt-Englands, No 31.

Percy MS., p. 346; Hales and Furnivall, II, 502.

Childe Maurice hunted ithe siluer wood,

He hunted itt round about,

And noebodye _tha_t he ffound therin,

Nor none there was w_i_th-out.

. . . . . . .

And he tooke his siluer combe in his hand,

To kembe his yellow lockes.

He sayes, Come hither, thou litle ffoot-page,

_Tha_t runneth lowlye by my knee,

Ffor thou shalt goe to Iohn Stewards wiffe

And pray her speake w_i_th mee.

' . . . . . . .

. . . . . . .

I, and greete thou doe _tha_t ladye well,

Euer soe well ffroe mee.

'And, as itt ffalls, as many times

As knotts beene knitt on a kell,

Or marchant men gone to leeue London,

Either to buy ware or sell.

'And, as itt ffalles, as many times

As any hart can thinke,

Or schoole-masters are in any schoole-house,

Writting w_i_th pen and inke:

Ffor if I might, as well as shee may,

This night I wold w_i_th her speake.

'And heere I send her a mantle of greene,

As greene as any grasse,

And bidd her come to the siluer wood,

To hunt w_i_th Child Maurice.

'And there I send her a ring of gold,

A ring of p_re_cyous stone,

And bidd her come to the siluer wood,

Let ffor no kind of man.'

One while this litle boy he yode,

Another while he ran,

Vntill he came to Iohn Stewards hall,

I-wis he neuer blan.

And of nurture the child had good,

Hee ran vp hall and bower ffree,

And when he came to this lady ffaire,

Sayes, God you saue and see!

'I am come ffrom Ch[i]ld Maurice,

A message vnto thee;

And Child Maurice, he greetes you well,

And euer soe well ffrom mee.

'And, as itt ffalls, as oftentimes

As knotts beene knitt on a kell,

Or marchant-men gone to leeue London,

Either ffor to buy ware or sell.

'And as oftentimes he greetes you well

As any hart can thinke,

Or schoolem_aster_s [are] in any schoole,

Wryting w_i_th pen and inke.

'And heere he sends a mantle of greene,

As greene as any grasse,

And he bidds you come to the siluer wood,

To hunt w_i_th Child Maurice.

'And heere he sends you a ring of gold,

A ring of the p_re_cyous stone;

He prayes you to come to the siluer wood,

Let ffor no kind of man.'

'Now peace, now peace, thou litle ffoot-page,

Ffor Christes sake, I pray thee!

Ffor if my lo_rd_ heare one of these words,

Thou must be hanged hye!'

Iohn Steward stood vnder the castle-wall,

And he wrote the words euerye one,

. . . . . . .

And he called vnto his hors-keep_er_,

'Make readye you my steede!'

I, and soe hee did to his chamberlaine,

'Make readye thou my weede!'

And he cast a lease vpon his backe,

And he rode to the siluer wood,

And there he sought all about,

About the siluer wood.

And there he ffound him Child Maurice

Sitting vpon a blocke,

W_i_th a siluer combe in his hand,

Kembing his yellow locke[s.]

* * * * * * *

But then stood vp him Child Maurice,

And sayd these words trulye:

'I doe not know yo_u_r ladye,' he said,

'If _tha_t I doe her see.'

He sayes, How now, how now, Child Maurice?

Alacke, how may this bee?

Ffor thou hast sent her loue-tokens,

More now then two or three.

'Ffor thou hast sent her a mantle of greene,

As greene as any grasse,

And bade her come to the siluer woode,

To hunt w_i_th Child Maurice.

'And thou [hast] sent her a ring of gold,

A ring of p_re_cyous stone,

And bade her come to the siluer wood,

Let ffor noe kind of man.

'And by my ffaith, now, Child Maurice,

The tone of vs shall dye!'

'Now be my troth,' sayd Child Maurice,

'And _tha_t shall not be I.'

But hee pulled forth a bright browne sword,

And dryed itt on the grasse,

And soe ffast he smote att Iohn Steward,

I-wisse he neuer [did] rest.

Then hee pulled fforth his bright browne sword,

And dryed itt on his sleeue,

And the ffirst good stroke Iohn Stewart stroke,

Child Maurice head he did cleeue.

And he pricked itt on his swords poynt,

Went singing there beside,

And he rode till he came to _tha_t ladye ffaire,

Wheras this ladye lyed.

And sayes, Dost thou know Child Maurice head,

If _tha_t thou dost itt see?

And lapp itt soft, and kisse itt offt,

Ffor thou louedst him better than mee.'

But when shee looked on Child Maurice head,

Shee neuer spake words but three:

'I neuer beare no child but one,

And you haue slaine him trulye.'

Sayes, Wicked be my merrymen all,

I gaue meate, drinke, and clothe!

But cold they not haue holden me

When I was in all _tha_t wrath!

'Ffor I haue slaine one of the curteousest k_nigh_ts

_Tha_t euer bestrode a steed,

Soe haue I done one [of] the fairest ladyes

_Tha_t euer ware womans weede!'

Motherwell's MS., p. 255; Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p.

282. From the singing of Widow McCormick, Paisley,

January 19, 1825. Learned by her of an old woman in

Dumbarton: Motherwell's Note Book, fol. 4.

Child Noryce is a clever young man,

He wavers wi the wind;

His horse was silver-shod before,

With the beaten gold behind.

He called to his little man John,

Saying, You don't see what I see;

For O yonder I see the very first woman

That ever loved me.

'Here is a glove, a glove,' he said,

'Lined with the silver grey;

You may tell her to come to the merry green-wood,

To speak to Child Nory.

'Here is a ring, a ring,' he says,

'It's all gold but the stane;

You may tell her to come to the merry green-wood,

And ask the leave o nane.'

'So well do I love your errand, my master,

But far better do I love my life;

O would ye have me go to Lord Barnard's castle,

To betray away his wife?'

'O don't I give you meat,' he says,

'And don't I pay you fee?

How dare you stop my errand?' he says;

'My orders you must obey.'

O when he came to Lord Bernard's castle,

He tinkled at the ring;

Who was as ready as Lord Barnard himself

To let this little boy in?

'Here is a glove, a glove,' he says,

'Lined with the silver grey;

You are bidden to come to the merry green-wood,

To speak to Child Nory.

'Here is a ring, a ring,' he says,

'It's all gold but the stane;

You are bidden to come to the merry green-wood,

And ask the leave o nane.'

Lord Barnard he was standing by,

And an angry man was he:

'O little did I think there was a lord in the world

My lady loved but me!'

O he dressed himself in the holland smock,

And garments that was gay,

And he is away to the merry green-wood,

To speak to Child Nory.

Child Noryce sits on yonder tree,

He whistles and he sings:

'O wae be to me,' says Child Noryce,

'Yonder my mother comes!'

Child Noryce he came off the tree,

His mother to take off the horse:

'Och alace, alace,' says Child Noryce,

'My mother was neer so gross!'

Lord Barnard he had a little small sword,

That hung low down by his knee;

He cut the head off Child Noryce,

And put the body on a tree.

And when he came home to his castell,

And to his ladie's hall,

He threw the head into her lap,

Saying, Lady, there's a ball!

She turned up the bloody head,

She kissed it frae cheek to chin:

'Far better do I love this bloody head

Than all my royal kin.

'When I was in my father's castel,

In my virginity,

There came a lord into the North,

Gat Child Noryce with me.'

'O wae be to thee, Lady Margaret,' he sayd,

'And an ill death may you die;

For if you had told me he was your son,

He had neer been slain by me.'

Motherwell's MS., p. 510, from the singing of Mrs Storie,

wife of William Storie, laborer, Lochwinnoch. A song of

Mrs Storie's grandmother.

Bob Norice is to the grein-wud gane,

He is awa wi the wind;

His horse is siller-shod afore,

In the shynand gowd ahind.

He said unto his wee boy John,

I sie what ye dinna sie;

I see the [first] woman that I eer luvit,

Or ever luvit me.

'Gae tak to hir this pair o gluvis,

They're o the siller-gray,

And tell her to cum to the merrie grein-wud

An speik to Bob Norice.

'Gae tak to her this gay gowd ring,

And it's aw gowd but the stane,

And tell her to cum to the merrie grein-wud,

And ask the leive o nane.

'Gae tak to her this braw manteil,

It's a' silk but the sleive,

And tell her to cum to the merrie green-wud,

And ax nae bauld Barnet's leive.'

'I daurna gang to Lord Barnet's castel,

I daurna gang for my lyfe;

I daurna gang to Lord Barnet's castell,

To twyne him o his wife.'

'Do I nae pay you gowd?' he said,

'Do I nae pay you fee?

How daur you stand my bidding, Sir,

Whan I bid you to flee?'

'Gif I maun gang to Lord Barnet's castel,

Sae sair agane my will,

I vow a vow, and I do protest,

It sall be dune for ill.'

But whan he came to Lord Barnet's castel

He tinklet at the ring;

Tha war nane sae ready as Lord Barnet himsell

To let the wee calland in.

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

What news hae ye to me?'

'Nae news, nae news, Lord Barnet,' he said,

'But your ladie I fain would see.

'Here is a pair o gluves to her,

Thay'r o the silver gray;

And tell her to cum to the merrie green-wud,

And speik to Bob Norice.

'Here is a gay gowd ring to her,

It's aw gowd but the stane;

And she maun cum to the merrie green-wud,

And speir the leive o nane.

'Here is a gay manteil to her,

It's aw silk but the sleive;

And she maun cum to the merrie grein-wud,

And ask not bauld Barnet's leive.'

Then out bespack the yellow nurse,

Wi the babie on her knee,

Sayand, Gif thay be cum frae Bob Norice,

They are welcum to me.

'O haud your tung, ye yellow nurse,

Aloud an I heir ye lie;

For they're to Lord Barnet's lady,

I trew that this be she.'

Lord Barnet's to a dressing-room,

And buskt him in woman's array,

And he's awa to the merrie green-wud,

To speik to Bob Norrice.

Bob Norrice he sits on a tree,

He is whissland and singand;

Says, Merrie, merrie may my hert be,

I see my mither cumand.

Bob Norice he cam doun frae the trie,

To help his mother to licht fra her horss;

'Och alace, alace,' says Bob Norice,

'My mither was neer sae gross!'

Lord Barnet had a not-brown sword,

That hung down by his knee,

And he has cut Bob Norice heid

Aff frae his fair bodie.

He tuke the bluidy head in his hand,

And he brocht it to the ha,

And flang it into his lady's lap,

Sayand, Lady, there is a ba!

She took the bluidy heid in her hand,

And kisst it frae cheik to chin,

Sayand, Better I lyke that well faurit face

Nor aw my royal kin.

'Whan I was in my father's bour,

A' in my dignity,

An Englis lord a visit came,

Gat Bob Norice wi me.'

Then out bespak Lord Barnet syne,

And a wae, wae man was he,

Sayand, Gif I had kent he was your son,

He wuld neer been killit be me.

Motherwell's MS., p. 480, from the recitation of

Widow Michael, a very old woman, as learned by her in

Banffshire seventy years before. August, 1826.

Gill Morice stood in stable-door,

With red gold shined his weed;

A bonnie boy him behind,

Dressing a milk-white steed.

'Woe's me for you, maister,

Your name it waxes wide;

It is not for your rich, rich robes,

Nor for your meikle pride,

But all is for yon lord's ladie,

She lives on Ithan side.'

'Here's to thee, my bonnie wee boy,

That I pay meat and fee;

You will run on to Ithan side

An errand unto me.'

'If ye gar me that errand run,

Sae sair against my will,

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

I'll do your errand ill.'

'I fear nae ill of thee, boy,

I fear nae ill of thee;

I fearna ill of my bonnie boy,

My sister's son are ye.

'Ye'll tak here this green manteel,

It's lined with the frieze;

Ye'll bid her come to gude green-wood,

To talk with Gill Morice.

'Ye'll tak here this sark o silk,

Her ain hand sewed the sleeve;

Ye'll bid her come to gude green-wood,

And ask not Burnard's leave.'

When he gade to Ithan side

They were hailing at the ba,

And four and twenty gay ladyes

They lookd ower castle wa.

'God mak you safe, you ladies all,

God mak you safe and sure;

But Burnard's lady amang you all,

My errand is to her.

'Ye'll tak here this green manteel,

It's a' lined wi the frieze;

Ye're bidden come to gude green-wood

And speak to Gill Morice.

'Ye'll tak here this sark of silk,

Your ain hand sewed the sleeve;

Ye're bidden come to gude green-wood,

And ask not Burnard's leave.'

Up it stood the little nurice,

She winked with her ee:

'Welcome, welcome, bonnie boy,

With luve-tidings to me.

'Ye lie, ye lie, ye false nurice,

Sae loud's I hear ye lie;

It's to the lady of the house,

I'm sure ye are not shee.'

Then out and spoke him bold Burnard,

Behind the door stood he:

'I'll go unto gude green-wood,

And see what he may be.

'Come, bring to me the gowns of silk,

Your petticoats so small,

And I'll go on to gude green-wood,

I'll try with him a fall.'

Gill Morice stood in gude green-wood,

He whistled and he sang:

'I think I see the woman come

That I have loved lang.'

'What now, what now, ye Gill Morice,

What now, and how do ye?

How lang hae ye my lady luved?

This day come tell to me.'

'First when I your lady loved,

In green-wood amang the thyme,

I wot she was my first fair love

Or ever she was thine.

'First when I your lady loved,

In green-wood amang the flouirs,

I wot she was my first fair love

Or ever she was yours.'

He's taen out a lang, lang brand

That he was used to wear,

And he's taen aff Gill Morice head,

And put it on a spear:

The soberest boy in a' the court

Gill Morice head did bear.

He's put it in a braid basin,

And brocht it in the ha,

And laid it in his lady's lap;

Said, Lady, tak a ba!

'Play ye, play ye, my lady,' he said,

'Play ye frae ha to bower;

Play ye wi Gill Morice head,

He was your paramour.'

'He was not my paramour,

He was my son indeed;

I got him in my mother's bower,

And in my maiden-weed.

'I got him in my mother's bower,

Wi meikle sin and shame;

I brocht him up in good green-wood,

Got mony a shower o rain.

'But I will kiss his bluidy head,

And I will clap his chin;

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

I'll never kiss man again.

'Oftimes I by his cradle sat,

And fond to see him sleep;

But I may walk about his grave,

The saut tears for to weep.'

'Bring cods, bring cods to my ladye,

Her heart is full of wae;'

'None of your cods, Burnet,' she says,

'But lay me on the strae.'

'Pox on you, my lady fair,

That wudna telled it me;

If I had known he was your son,

He had not been slain by me;

And for ae penny ye wud hae gien

I wud hae gien him three.'

'Keep weel your land, Burnet,' she said,

'Your land and white monie;

There's land eneuch in Norroway

Lies heirless I wot the day.'

The one was killed in the mornin air,

His mother died at een,

And or the mornin bells was rung

The threesome were a' gane.

Motherwell's MS., p. 165; Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p.

269. From the recitation of Mrs Thomson, Kilbarchan,

seventy years of age, as learned from her mother at the

Water of Leven, Dumbarton, when she was ten years old.

March, 1825.

Chield Morrice was an earl's son,

His name it waxed wide;

It was nae for his parentage,

Nor yet his meikle pride,

But it was for a lady gay,

That lived on Carron side.

'O Willie, my man, my errand gang,

And you maun rin wi speed;

When other boys run on their feet,

On horseback ye shall ride.

'O master dear, I love you weel,

And I love you as my life,

But I will not go to Lord Barnard's ha,

For to tryst forth his wife.

'For the baron he's a man of might,

He neer could bide a taunt,

And ye shall see or it be late

How meikle ye'll hae to vaunt.'

'O you must rin my errand, Willie,

And you must rin wi speed,

And if you don't obey my high command

I'll gar your body bleed.

'And here it is a gay manteel,

It's a' gowd but the hem;

Bid her come speak to Chield Morice,

Bring naebody but her lane.

'And here it is a holland smock,

Her own hand sewed the sleeve;

Bid her come speak to Chield Morice,

Ask not the baron's leave.'

'Since I must run this errand for you,

So sore against my will,

I've made a vow, and I'll keep it true,

It shall be done for ill.'

For he did not ask the porter's leave,

Tho he stood at the gate,

But straight he ran to the big hall,

Where great folk sat at meat.

'Good hallow, gentle sir and dame,

My errand canna wait;

Dame, ye must go speak to Chield Morice,

Before it be too late.

'And here it is a gay manteel,

It's a' goud but the hem;

Ye must come speak to Child Morice,

Bring nae body but your lane.

'And here it is a holland smock,

Your ain hand sewed the sleeve;

You must come speak to Chield Morice,

Ask not the baron's leave.'

O aye she stamped wi her foot,

And winked wi her ee,

But a' that she could say or do,

Forbidden he wad na be.

'It's surely to my bouir-woman,

It canna be to me:'

'I brocht it to Lord Barnard's lady,

And I trow that thou art she.'

Out then spak the wylie nurse,

Wi the bairn just on her knee:

'If this be come fra Chield Morice,

It's dear welcome to me.'

'Thou lies, thou lies, thou wylie nurse,

Sae loud's I hear thee lie;

I brought it to Lord Barnard's lady,

And I trow thou binna she.'

Then up and rose him the bold baron,

And an angry man was he;

He took the table wi his foot,

And keppd it wi his knee,

Till silver cup and ezar dish

In flinders they did flee.

'Go bring me one of thy cleeding,

That hings upon the pin,

And I'll awa to the good green-wood,

And crack wi your leman.'

'I would have you stay at home, Lord Barnard,

I would have you stay at home;

Never wyte a man for violence douce

That never thought you wrong.'

And when he to the green-wood went,

No body saw he there

But Chield Morice, on a milk-white steed,

Combing down his yellow hair.

Chield Morice sat in the gay green-wood,

He whistled and he sang:

'O what means a' thir folks coming?

My mother tarries lang.'

'No wonder, no wonder, Chield Morice,' he said,

'My lady loved thee weel;

For the whitest bit of my body

Is blacker than thy heel.

'But nevertheless now, Chield Morice,

For a' thy gay beautie,

O nevertheless, Chield Morice,

Thy head shall go with me.'

He had a rapier by his side,

Hung low down by his knee;

He struck Chield Morrice on the neck,

Till aff his head did flee.

Then he's taen up that bloody head,

And stuck it on a spear,

And the meanest man in a' his train

Gat Chield Morice head to bear.

The lady looked owre the castle-wa,

Wi meikle dool and down,

And there she saw Chield Morice head,

Coming trailing to the town.

But he's taen up this bluidy head,

And dashed it gainst the wa:

'Come down, come down, you ladies fair,

And play at this foot-ba.'

Then she's taen up this bluidy head,

And she kissed it both cheek and chin:

'I would rather hae a kiss o that bluidy head

Than a' thy earldom.

'I got him in my father's bouir,

Wi meikle sin and shame,

And I brought him up in gay green-wood,

Beneath the heavy rain.

'Many a day have I rockd thy cradle,

And fondly seen thee sleep,

But now I'll go about thy grave,

And sore, sore will I weep.'

'O woe be to thee, thou wild woman,

And an ill deid may thou die!

For if ye had tauld me he was your son,

He should hae ridden and gane wi me.'

'O hold your tongue, you bold baron,

And an ill death may ye die!

He had lands and rents enew of his ain,

He needed nane fra thee.'

'Then I'll curse the hand that did the deed,

The heart that thought him ill,

The feet that carried me speedilie

This comely youth to kill.'

This lady she died gin ten o'clock,

Lord Barnard died gin twall,

And bonnie boy now, Sweet Willie,

What's come o him I canna tell.

#a.# Percy's Reliques, III, 93, 1765. #b.# Letter of T.

Gray to Mason, June, 1757 (?): Gray's Works, ed. Gosse,

II, 316.

Gil Morrice was an erles son,

His name it waxed wide;

It was nae for his great riches,

Nor yet his mickle pride,

Bot it was for a lady gay,

That livd on Carron side.

'Whair sall I get a bonny boy,

That will win hose and shoen,

That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha,

And bid his lady cum?

'And ye maun rin errand, Willie,

And ye may rin wi pride;

When other boys gae on their foot,

On horseback ye sall ride.'

'O no! Oh no! my master dear,

I dare nae for my life;

I'll no gae to the bauld baron's,

For to triest furth his wife.'

'My bird Willie, my boy Willie,

My dear Willie,' he sayd,

'How can ye strive against the stream?

For I sall be obeyd.'

'Bot, O my master dear,' he cry'd,

'In grene-wod ye're your lain;

Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ye rede,

For fear ye should be tain.'

'Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha,

Bid hir cum here wi speid;

If ye refuse my heigh command,

I'll gar your body bleid.

'Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,

'Tis a' gowd but the hem;

Bid hir cum to the gude grene-wode,

And bring nane bot hir lain.

'And there it is, a silken sarke,

Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;

And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,

Speir nae bauld baron's leave.'

'Yes, I will gae your black errand,

Though it be to your cost;

Sen ye by me will nae be warnd,

In it ye sall find frost.

'The baron he's a man of might,

He neir could bide to taunt;

As ye will see, before it's nicht,

How sma ye hae to vaunt.

'And sen I maun your errand rin,

Sae sair against my will,

I'se mak a vow, and keip it trow,

It sall be done for ill.'

And when he came to broken brigue,

He bent his bow and swam;

And when [he] came to grass growing,

Set down his feet and ran.

And when he came to Barnard's ha,

Would neither chap nor ca,

Bot set his bent bow to his breist,

And lichtly lap the wa.

He wauld nae tell the man his errand,

Though he stude at the gait;

Bot straiht into the ha he cam,

Whair they were set at meit.

'Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame,

My message winna waite;

Dame, ye maun to the gude grene-wod,

Before that it be late.

'Ye're bidden tak this gay mantel,

'Tis a' gowd bot the hem;

You maun gae to the gude grene-wode,

Evn by your sel alane.

'And there it is, a silken sarke,

Your ain hand sewd the sleive;

Ye maun gae speik to Gill Morice,

Speir nae bauld baron's leave.'

The lady stamped wi hir foot,

And winked wi hir ee;

But a' that she coud say or do,

Forbidden he wad nae bee.

'It's surely to my bowr-woman;

It neir could be to me:'

'I brocht it to Lord Barnard's lady;

I trow that ye be she.'

Then up and spack the wylie nurse,

The bairn upon hir knee:

'If it be cum frae Gill Morice,

It's deir welcum to mee.'

'Ye leid, ye leid, ye filthy nurse,

Sae loud's I heire ye lee;

I brocht it to Lord Barnard's lady;

I trow ye be nae shee.'

Then up and spack the bauld baron,

An angry man was hee;

He's tain the table wi his foot,

Sae has he wi his knee,

Till siller cup and ezar dish

In flinders he gard flee.

'Gae bring a robe of your cliding,

That hings upon the pin,

And I'll gae to the gude grene-wode,

And speik wi your lemman.'

'O bide at hame, now, Lord Barnard,

I warde ye bide at hame;

Neir wyte a man for violence

That neir wate ye wi nane.'

Gil Morice sate in gude grene-wode,

He whistled and he sang:

'O what mean a' the folk coming?

My mother tarries lang.'

The baron came to the grene-wode,

Wi mickle dule and care,

And there he first spied Gill Morice,

Kameing his yellow hair.

'Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,

My lady loed thee weel;

The fairest part of my body

Is blacker than thy heel.

'Yet neir the less now, Gill Morice,

For a' thy great bewty,

Ye's rew the day ye eir was born;

That head sall gae wi me.'

Now he has drawn his trusty brand,

And slaited on the strae,

And thro Gill Morice fair body

He's gard cauld iron gae.

And he has tain Gill Morice head,

And set it on a speir;

The meanest man in a' his train

Has gotten that head to bear.

And he has tain Gill Morice up,

Laid him across his steid,

And brocht him to his painted bowr,

And laid him on a bed.

The lady sat on castil-wa,

Beheld baith dale and doun,

And there she saw Gill Morice head

Cum trailing to the toun.

'Far better I loe that bluidy head,

Bot and that yellow hair,

Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,

As they lig here and thair.'

And she has tain hir Gill Morice,

And kissd baith mouth and chin:

'I was once as fow of Gill Morice

As the hip is o the stean.

'I got ye in my father's house,

Wi mickle sin and shame;

I brocht thee up in gude green-wode,

Under the heavy rain.

'Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,

And fondly seen thee sleip;

Bot now I gae about thy grave,

The saut tears for to weip.'

And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,

And syne his bluidy chin:

'O better I loe my Gill Morice

Than a' my kith and kin!'

'Away, away, ye ill woman,

And an il deith mait ye dee!

Gin I had kend he'd bin your son,

He'd neir bin slain for mee.'

Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 18; Jamieson, in The Scots

Magazine, 1803, LXV, 698, stanzas 1, 3.

Gil Morrice sat in silver wood,

He whistled and he sang:

'Whar sall I get a bonny boy

My errand for to gang?'

He ca'd his foster-brither Willie:

'Come, win ye hose and shoon,

And gae unto Lord Barnard's ha,

And bid his lady come.'

* * * * * * *

And she has taen the bloody head,

And cast it i the brim,

Syne gathered up her robes o green,

And fast she followed him.

* * * * *

#A.#

1^1. siluen: _compare 7^3, 8^3, 14^3, 15^3, etc._

2^{3, 4}. _In the MS., these go with 3: compare 20._

3^2. rumeth.

4^{3, 4}. _These precede what is printed as 6._

5^1, 6^1, 12^1. out many.

6^3. as schoole masters: _compare 13^3._

6^{5, 6}. _These lines may be the last half of a stanza.

There is nothing corresponding in the page's repetition

of his master's message._

17^{1, 2}. _Joined in the MS. with 18._

18^4. then my.

21. _At least one stanza must be lost after 20._

22^{1, 2} _precede 21, and 22^{3, 4} make a stanza with

21^{3, 4}: the order being 22^{1, 2}, 21, 22^{3, 4}._

22^4. 2 or 3.

26^1. _Only half the ~n~ in the MS. Furnivall._

30^2. but 3.

32^1. curteouset.

And _for_ & _throughout._

#B.#

2^3. For _is a later insertion._

2^3, 6^1. Oh.

6^{1, 2}. _Originally_, O do I not, And do I not.

9^3. to go to: come _written over_ go.

13^2, 14^3. of.

14^2. That _is a later insertion._

18^2. And _is a later insertion._

18^4. _Originally_, He should neer have been.

#C.#

"This ballad was forwarded to me by my good friend Andrew

Crawfurd, of John's Hill, Lochwinnoch. He wrote it from

the recitation of Mrs Storie, wife of William Storie,

laborer, in Lochwinnoch. It was a song of Mrs Storie's

grandmother. It is queried if this should not be Babe

Norice.... The interlineary corrections were made in

consequence of Mrs Storie singing the ballad over to

myself." _Motherwell. The interlineary corrections have

been adopted. The earlier readings follow._

Barnard _for_ Barnet.

5^4. speir nae bauld baron's.

6^1. Barnard's ha.

8^3. and I doubly vow.

10^1. wee lad.

12^1. gay _wanting._

13^1. braw manteil.

13^4. nae bauld baron's.

16^1. to a busking gane.

16^2. drest him.

19^1. Barnard liftit his.

19^3. has sneddit.

19^4. And aff frae his bodie.

20^4. lady _wanting._

_The affected spelling I suppose to be Crawfurd's._

7^4, 9^1. quhan.

_In the Appendix to his Minstrelsy, p. xvii, Motherwell

adopts the reading ~Babe Norice~ in 1^1, and prints

~burning gowd~ in 1^4._

#D.#

"This copy is from the recitation of Margaret Paterson,

_alias_ widow Michael, a very old woman residing at

Dovecote Ha, Barhead. She is a native of Banffshire, and

learned the ballad there in her infancy. She mentions

that she has heard it sung with many variations, but this

copy was considered to be the right way. It is seventy

years since she committed it to her memory. 4th August,

1826." _Motherwell._

#E.#

_In his Minstrelsy, p. 269, Motherwell says that the

reciter learned the ballad from her grandmother. He goes

on to say:_ She mentions that at a later period of her

life she also committed to memory 'Gill Morice,' which

began with young lasses like her to be a greater favorite

and more fashionable than the set which her grandmother

and other old folks used to sing, under the title of

'Chield Morice.'

17^5. _Written ~and dezar dish~, the ~d~ of ~and~ being

carried on to the word following._

19^3. douce _makes no apparent sense. Motherwell prints

done._

20^1. _Stood originally_ And when he came to the green

wood.

26^2. _No doubt a corruption of the familiar_ Beheld

baith dale and down.

29^4. heaviy, _perhaps representing the actual sound.

Motherwell prints_ heavy.

#F. a.#

_In eight-line stanzas. ~Wh~ and ~y~ are substituted for

the initial ~quh~ and ~z~ cherished by ballad imitators._

5^4. shall.

30^4. He's gar.

#b.#

1^2. fame it wexed.

1^4. Nae for.

1^6. Carron's.

3^1. Ye maun rin this.

3^2. maun rin.

3^3. feet.

4^1. Ah na, ah na.

_The four stanzas which follow, "~produced and

handed about in manuscript~," in consequence of an

advertisement, were introduced into his copy by Percy._

_After 26:_

His hair was like the threeds of gold,

Drawne frae Minerva's loome;

His lipps like roses drapping dew,

His breath was a' perfume.

His brow was like the mountain snae,

Gilt by the morning beam;

His cheeks like living roses glow,

His een like azure stream.

The boy was clad in robes of grene,

Sweete as the infant spring,

And like the mavis on the bush

He gart the vallies ring.

_After 27:_

That sweetly wavd around his face,

That face beyond compare;

He sang sae sweet, it might dispel

A' rage but fell dispair.

_The following stanzas were appended to the ballad in the

edition reprinted by Percy:_

'Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard,

Obraid me not for shame!

With that saim speir O pierce my heart,

And put me out o pain.

'Since nothing bot Gill Morice head

Thy jelous rage could quell,

Let that saim hand now tak hir life

That neir to thee did ill.

'To me nae after days nor nichts

Will eir be saft or kind;

I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,

And greet till I am blind.'

'Enouch of blood by me's bin spilt,

Seek not your death frae mee;

I rather lourd it had been my sel

Than eather him or thee.

'With waefo wae I hear your plaint;

Sair, sair I rew the deid,

That eir this cursed hand of mine

Had gard his body bleid.

'Dry up your tears, my winsom dame,

Ye neir can heal the wound;

Ye see his head upon the speir,

His heart's blude on the ground.

'I curse the hand that did the deid,

The heart that thocht the ill,

The feet that bore me wi sik speid

The comely youth to kill.

'I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,

As gin he were my ain;

I'll neir forget the dreiry day

On which the youth was slain.'

_The copy lent me by Mr Macmath lacks the four stanzas

inserted by Percy, but has the eight given immediately

above. The following are the variations from #F#._

2^1. will I.

7^4. thy body.

10^2. thy cost.

18^3. maun cum.

26^1. sits.

26^3. means a' these folks.

26^4. she tarrys.

27^1. And whan he cam to guid.

27^3. first saw.

27^4. Kemeing down.

28^2. Than my, _misprint_.

30^4. gard.

34^4. they lay.

35^4. hip was.

_The eight stanzas follow which are printed immediately

above._

[139] The edition of 1755 is not known now to exist. Mr David Laing

showed Motherwell a copy, without place or date, with the title: Gill

Morice, An Ancient Scots Poem. The foundation of the tragedy called

Douglas, as it is now acted in the Concert-Hall, Canongate. There

was no material difference between this edition and that which was

reprinted in the Reliques, except that it lacked the four stanzas which

Percy introduced. Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 259, note.

In Herd's MSS, I, 7, II, 70, there are half a dozen more stanzas, from

The Weekly Magazine, August 13, 1772, which continue the story still

further. My lady flings herself over a craig, my lord seeks death in

battle. But, as Sir Walter Scott notes in the margin, these verses are

"formed on the conclusion of Douglas, which tragedy is founded on the

original ballad." These stanzas are printed by Jamieson, I, 21.

Mr Macmath has communicated to me an early copy of 'Gil Morice,'

without place or date, in conjunction with a parody, entitled The Seven

Champions of the Stage, printed in 1757, which satirizes Parson Home's

efforts to get his Agis and his Douglas acted by Garrick. This copy of

'Gil Morice' might be another edition of that which Mr Laing possessed.

Its variations, which are of slight consequence, will be given in the

notes to #F#.

[140] The name of the heroine in the tragedy of Douglas was originally

Lady Barnard, as in the ballad; it was altered to Lady Randolph when

the play was produced in London. Motherwell, p. 257, note.

[141] Minstrelsy, p. 269, note. Mr Aytoun considers that #E# is only

the copy printed in the middle of the last century purged, in the

process of oral transmission, of what was not to the popular taste,

"and altered more." There is no doubt that a copy learned from print

may be transformed in this way, but it is certain that old tradition

does not come to a stop when a ballad gets into print. Mrs Thomson's

account of the matter Aytoun does not heed. It is difficult to

understand why Aytoun printed the stanzas from Percy's Reliques, at I,

149 f, 2d ed., except as a simple courtesy to his correspondent.

[142] Already cited in The Ballad Minstrelsy of Scotland, Glasgow,

1871, p. 316.

BONNY BARBARA ALLAN

#A. a.# 'Bonny Barbara Allan,' Tea-Table Miscellany, IV,

46, ed. 1740; here from the edition of London, 1763, p.

343. #b.# 'Sir John Grehme and Barbara Allan,' Percy's

Reliques, 1765, III, 131.

#B. a.# 'Barbara Allen's Cruelty,' etc., Roxburghe

Ballads, II, 25; reprint of the Ballad Society, III, 433.

#b.# Roxburghe Ballads, III, 522. #c.# Broadside formerly

belonging to Percy. #d.# Percy's Reliques, 1765, III, 125.

#C.# 'Barbara Allan,' Motherwell's MS., p. 288, from

recitation.

#A a# is wrongly said by Stenhouse, The Scots Musical Museum, IV, 213,

to have appeared in Ramsay's Miscellany in 1724. It is not even in the

edition of 1733, but, according to Mr Chappell, was first inserted in

that of 1740. Ramsay's copy is repeated in Herd, 1769, p. 29, 1776, I,

19, Johnson's Museum, p. 230, No 221, and Ritson's Scotish Song, II,

196. #C# was perhaps derived from Ramsay, but possibly may have come

down by purely oral tradition. Some later copies of #B# have Reading

Town for Scarlet Town (Chappell).

The Scottish ballad is extended in Buchan's MSS, I, 90, Motherwell's

MS., p. 671, to forty-one stanzas. In this amplified copy, which has

no claim to be admitted here, the dying lover leaves his watch and

gold ring, his Bible and penknife, a mill and thirty ploughs, nine

meal-mills and the freights of nine ships, all to tocher Barbara

Allan. This is the ballad referred to by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe in

Stenhouse's edition of the Museum, IV, 300*, as sung by the peasantry

of Allandale. Doubtless it was learned by them from some stall-print.

Pepys makes this entry in his Diary, January 2, 1666: "In perfect

pleasure I was to hear her [Mrs Knipp, an actress] sing, and especially

her little Scotch song of Barbary Allen." Goldsmith, in his third

essay, 1765, p. 14, writes: The music of the finest singer is

dissonance to what I felt when an old dairy-maid sung me into tears

with 'Johnny Armstrong's Last Good-night,' or 'The Cruelty of Barbara

Allen.'[143]

* * * * *

#A b# is translated by Loève-Veimars, p. 379, von Marées, p. 34; #B d#

by Bodmer, I, 85.

#a.# The Tea-Table Miscellany, IV, 46, ed. 1740; here

from the London edition of 1763, p. 343. #b.# Percy's

Reliques, III, 131, ed. 1765, "with a few conjectural

emendations from a written copy."

It was in and about the Martinmas time,

When the green leaves were a falling,

That Sir John Græme, in the West Country,

Fell in love with Barbara Allan.

He sent his men down through the town,

To the place where she was dwelling:

'O haste and come to my master dear,

Gin ye be Barbara Allan.'

O hooly, hooly rose she up,

To the place where he was lying,

And when she drew the curtain by,

'Young man, I think you're dying.'

'O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick,

And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan:'

'O the better for me ye's never be,

Tho your heart's blood were a spilling.

'O dinna ye mind, young man,' said she,

'When ye was in the tavern a drinking,

That ye made the healths gae round and round,

And slighted Barbara Allan?'

He turnd his face unto the wall,

And death was with him dealing:

'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,

And be kind to Barbara Allan.'

And slowly, slowly raise she up,

And slowly, slowly left him,

And sighing said, she coud not stay,

Since death of life had reft him.

She had not gane a mile but twa,

When she heard the dead-bell ringing,

And every jow that the dead-bell geid,

It cry'd, Woe to Barbara Allan!

'O mother, mother, make my bed!

O make it saft and narrow!

Since my love died for me to-day,

I'll die for him to-morrow.'

#a.# Roxburghe Ballads, II, 25; reprint of the Ballad

Society, III, 433. #b.# Roxburghe Ballads, III, 522. #c.#

A broadside formerly belonging to Bishop Percy, #d.#

Percy's Reliques, 1765, III, 125.

In Scarlet Town, where I was bound,

There was a fair maid dwelling,

Whom I had chosen to be my own,

And her name it was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,

When green leaves they was springing,

This young man on his death-bed lay,

For the love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his man unto her then,

To the town where she was dwelling:

'You must come to my master dear,

If your name be Barbara Allen.

'For death is printed in his face,

And sorrow's in him dwelling,

And you must come to my master dear,

If your name be Barbara Allen.'

'If death be printed in his face,

And sorrow's in him dwelling,

Then little better shall he be

For bonny Barbara Allen.'

So slowly, slowly she got up,

And so slowly she came to him,

And all she said when she came there,

Young man, I think you are a dying.

He turnd his face unto her then:

'If you be Barbara Allen,

My dear,' said he, 'come pitty me,

As on my death-bed I am lying.'

'If on your death-bed you be lying,

What is that to Barbara Allen?

I cannot keep you from [your] death;

So farewell,' said Barbara Allen.

He turnd his face unto the wall,

And death came creeping to him:

'Then adieu, adieu, and adieu to all,

And adieu to Barbara Allen!'

And as she was walking on a day,

She heard the bell a ringing,

And it did seem to ring to her

'Unworthy Barbara Allen.'

She turnd herself round about,

And she spy'd the corps a coming:

'Lay down, lay down the corps of clay,

That I may look upon him.'

And all the while she looked on,

So loudly she lay laughing,

While all her friends cry'd [out] amain,

'Unworthy Barbara Allen!'

When he was dead, and laid in grave,

Then death came creeping to she:

'O mother, mother, make my bed,

For his death hath quite undone me.

'A hard-hearted creature that I was,

To slight one that lovd me so dearly;

I wish I had been more kinder to him,

The time of his life when he was near me.'

So this maid she then did dye,

And desired to be buried by him,

And repented her self before she dy'd,

That ever she did deny him.

Motherwell's MS., p. 288; from Mrs Duff, Kilbirnie,

February 9, 1825.

It fell about the Lammas time,

When the woods grow green and yellow,

There came a wooer out of the West

A wooing to Barbara Allan.

'It is not for your bonny face,

Nor for your beauty bonny,

But it is all for your tocher good

I come so far about ye.'

'If it be not for my comely face,

Nor for my beauty bonnie,

My tocher good ye'll never get paid

Down on the board before ye.'

'O will ye go to the Highland hills,

To see my white corn growing?

Or will ye go to the river-side,

To see my boats a rowing?'

O he's awa, and awa he's gone,

And death's within him dealing,

And it is all for the sake of her,

His bonnie Barbara Allan.

O he sent his man unto the house,

Where that she was a dwelling:

'O you must come my master to see,

If you be Barbara Allan.'

So slowly aye as she put on,

And so stoutly as she gaed till him,

And so slowly as she could say,

'I think, young man, you're lying.'

'O I am lying in my bed,

And death within me dwelling;

And it is all for the love of thee,

My bonny Barbara Allan.'

She was not ae mile frae the town,

Till she heard the dead-bell ringing:

'Och hone, oh hone, he's dead and gone,

For the love of Barbara Allan!'

* * * * *

#A. b.#

1^3. o the.

4^4. a _wanting_.

5^1. Remember ye nat in the tavern, sir.

5^2. Whan ye the cups wer fillan.

5^3. How ye.

6^4. And _wanting_.

7^1. Then hooly, hooly.

7^2. And hooly, hooly.

8^2. deid-bell knellan.

8^3. that _wanting_.

8^4. It _wanting_.

9^4. I 'se.

#B. a.#

Barbara Allen's Cruelty, or, The Youngman's Tragedy.

With Barbara Allen's Lamentation for her Unkindness to

her Lover and her Self.... Printed for P. Brooksby, J.

Deacon, J. Blare, J. Back. Black Letter.

13^4. undone we.

#b.#

Barbara Allen's Cruelty, or, The Young Man's Tragedy. _No

name of printer._

1^3. for my own.

2^2. they were.

2^4. the sake of.

3^4. name is.

4^4. thy name is.

5^3. Then _wanting_.

6^1. she came to him.

6^3. came to him.

6^4. a _wanting_.

7^2. you are.

7^4. As I am on my death-bed lying.

8^1. If you are on your death-bed lying.

8^3. from your.

8^4. Then farewell: said _wanting_.

9^2. on him.

9^3. and _wanting_: to you all.

10^1. And _wanting_: out one day.

10^2. bells.

10^3. And they.

11^2. And saw.

11^3. corps said she.

12^3. cry'd out.

13^1. in his.

13^4. will quite undo me.

14^1. A _wanting_.

14^3. more kind.

14^4. In time of life.

15^3. eer.

16.

As she was lying down to die,

A sad feud she fell in;

She said, I pray take warning by

Hard-hearted Barbara Allen.

#c.#

_Title the same as in #a#._ Printed and sold at the

Printing-office in Bow-Church-Yard, London.

1^3. for my own.

2^2. they wore.

3^4. name is.

4^3. And thou.

4^4. thy name is.

5^3. O little.

6^1. she came to him.

6^3. came to him.

6^4. a _wanting_.

7^2. you are.

7^4. As I am on my death-bed lying.

8^3. from your.

8^4. Then farewell: said _wanting_.

9^2. on him.

9^3. to you all.

10^1. And _wanting_: out one day.

10^2. bells.

10^3. And they.

11^2. And espy'd.

11^3. corps said she.

12^3. cry'd out.

13^4. will quite undo me.

14^1. A _wanting_.

14^3. more kind.

14^4. In time of life.

15^4. eer.

16 _as in_ #b#.

_#d# was "given, with some corrections, from an old

printed copy in the editor's possession." That these

corrections were considerable, we know from the [***] at

the end. The old printed copy is very likely to have been

#c#, and, if so, the ballad was simply written over. It

does not seem necessary to give the variations under the

circumstances. In 2^3 Percy has ~Yong Jemmye Grove~._

#C.#

2^1. bonny _should perhaps be ~comely~, as in 3^1._

4^2. _Originally written_ To see my white... courting.

5^2. _Originally_ dwelling.

5^3. _Originally_ it's.

5^4. The _is written over ~His~, probably as a

conjecture._

7^2. _After ~stoutly~, ~slowly?~ as a conjectural

emendation._

7^4. lying. _'An ingenious friend' of Percy's suggested

the transposition of ~lying~ and ~dying~ in #A# 3^{2, 4}._

[143] Pepys is cited by James Farquhar Graham, The Scottish Songs, II,

157, and Goldsmith by Chappell, The Roxburghe Ballads, III, 433.

LADY ALICE

#A.# 'Lady Alice.' #a.# Bell's Ancient Poems, Ballads,

and Songs of the Peasantry of England, p. 127. #b.#

Notes and Queries, Second Series, I, 418. #c.# Notes and

Queries, Second Series, I, 354.

#B.# 'Giles Collins and Proud Lady Anna,' Gammer Gurton's

Garland, p. 38, ed. 1810.

This little ballad, which is said to be still of the regular stock of

the stalls, is a sort of counterpart to 'Lord Lovel.' A writer in Notes

and Queries, Second Series, I, 418, says: This old song was refined and

modernized by the late Richard Westall, R. A.

#a.# Bell's Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the

Peasantry of England, p. 127, a stall copy. #b.# Edward

Hawkins, in Notes and Queries, Second Series, I, 418.

#c.# Notes and Queries, Second Series, I, 354, as heard

sung forty years before 1856, "Uneda," Philadelphia.

#E.# 'Young Musgrave,' Campbell MSS, II, 43.