1_The English and Scottish popular ballads, volume 2 (of 5)

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower-window,

Mending her midnight quoif,

And there she saw as fine a corpse

As ever she saw in her life.

'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?

What bear ye on your shoulders?'

'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,

An old and true lover of yours.'

'O lay him down gently, ye six men tall,

All on the grass so green,

And tomorrow, when the sun goes down,

Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

'And bury me in Saint Mary's church,

All for my love so true,

And make me a garland of marjoram,

And of lemon-thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east,

Lady Alice all in the west,

And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave,

They reached Lady Alice's breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,

And he severed those roses in twain;

Sure never were seen such true lovers before,

Nor eer will there be again.

Gammer Gurton's Garland, p. 38, ed. 1810.

Giles Collins he said to his old mother,

Mother, come bind up my head,

And send to the parson of our parish,

For tomorrow I shall be dead. dead,

For tomorrow I shall be dead.

His mother she made him some water-gruel,

And stirrd it round with a spoon;

Giles Collins he ate up his water-gruel,

And died before 't was noon.

Lady Anna was sitting at her window,

Mending her night-robe and coif;

She saw the very prettiest corpse

She'd seen in all her life.

'What bear ye there, ye six strong men,

Upon your shoulders so high?'

'We bear the body of Giles Collins,

Who for love of you did die.'

'Set him down, set him down,' Lady Anna she cry'd,

'On the grass that grows so green;

Tomorrow, before the clock strikes ten,

My body shall lye by hisn.'

Lady Anna was buried in the east,

Giles Collins was buried in the west;

There grew a lilly from Giles Collins

That touchd Lady Anna's breast.

There blew a cold north-easterly wind,

And cut this lilly in twain,

Which never there was seen before,

And it never will again.

* * * * *

#A. a.#

1^2. At midnight mending her quoif.

#b.#

1^2. Mending her midnight coif.

3^3. before the sun.

4. _wanting._

5^3. grow, _misprinted_.

6^1. pass by.

6^2. And severd these.

6^4. ever there will.

#c.#

1^1. at her.

1^2. A mending her midnight coif.

1^3. the finest corpse.

1^4. That ever.

2^2. Upon your shoulders strong.

2^3. Sir Giles.

3, 4. _wanting._

5^1. Lady Alice was.

5^2. Giles Collins all.

5^3. A lily grew out of.

5^4. And touched.

6. _wanting._

YOUNG BENJIE

#A.# 'Young Benjie,' Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,

III, 251, ed. 1803; III, 10, ed. 1833.

#B.# 'Bondsey and Maisry,' Buchan's Ballads of the North

of Scotland, II, 265.

'Verkel Vejemandsøn,' Grundtvig, IV, 151, No 198, invites a comparison

with 'Young Benjie,' although the ballads, in the form in which they

are now extant, are widely divergent. Verkel Vejemandsøn, seeing maid

Gundelild shining in her virgin crown, makes a fiendish vow to rob her

of it. He rides up to her house and asks where her father and mother

are. They are away from home. He carries her off on his horse into the

thickest of a wood, and bids her hold the beast while he makes a bed

of leaves. He loses her in the thicket, and cannot find her, though he

looks for her a day and two days. She goes to the strand and throws

herself into the sea, saying, It was a very different bride-bed that my

mother meant me to have. She is drawn out in a fisherman's net. Verkel

swears that he has not seen her for eight years, but he is convicted

of his crime, on evidence not given, and "clothes three stakes;" that

is, he is hanged, and parts of his body are exposed on the wheels which

crown the three posts of a gallows.

Sir Walter Scott's observations on the passage in which the drowned

maid reveals the author of her death are too interesting to be spared:

"In this ballad the reader will find traces of a singular superstition,

not yet altogether discredited in the wilder parts of Scotland. The

lykewake, or watching a dead body, in itself a melancholy office, is

rendered, in the idea of the assistants, more dismally awful by the

mysterious horrors of superstition. In the interval betwixt death and

interment, the disembodied spirit is supposed to hover round its mortal

habitation, and, if invoked by certain rites, retains the power of

communicating, through its organs, the cause of its dissolution. Such

inquiries, however, are always dangerous, and never to be resorted

to unless the deceased is suspected to have suffered _foul play_, as

it is called. It is the more unsafe to tamper with this charm in an

unauthorized manner, because the inhabitants of the infernal regions

are, at such periods, peculiarly active. One of the most potent

ceremonies in the charm, for causing the dead body to speak, is setting

the door ajar, or half open. On this account the peasants of Scotland

sedulously avoid leaving the door ajar while a corpse lies in the

house. The door must either be left wide open or quite shut; but the

first is always preferred, on account of the exercise of hospitality

usual on such occasions. The attendants must be likewise careful never

to leave the corpse for a moment alone, or, if it is left alone, to

avoid, with a degree of superstitious horror, the first sight of it.

"The following story, which is frequently related by the peasants of

Scotland, will illustrate the imaginary danger of leaving the door

ajar. In former times a man and his wife lived in a solitary cottage on

one of the extensive Border fells. One day the husband died suddenly,

and his wife, who was equally afraid of staying alone by the corpse,

or leaving the dead body by itself, repeatedly went to the door, and

looked anxiously over the lonely moor for the sight of some person

approaching. In her confusion and alarm she accidentally left the door

ajar, when the corpse suddenly started up and sat in the bed, frowning

and grinning at her frightfully. She sat alone, crying bitterly, unable

to avoid the fascination of the dead man's eye, and too much terrified

to break the sullen silence, till a Catholic priest, passing over the

wild, entered the cottage. He first set the door quite open, then put

his little finger in his mouth, and said the paternoster backwards;

when the horrid look of the corpse relaxed, it fell back on the bed,

and behaved itself as a dead man ought to do.

"The ballad is given from tradition. I have been informed by a lady of

the highest literary eminence [Miss Joanna Baillie], that she has heard

a ballad on the same subject, in which the scene was laid upon the

banks of the Clyde. The chorus was,

O Bothwell banks bloom bonny,

and the watching of the dead corpse was said to have taken place in

Bothwell church."

* * * * *

#A# is translated by Schubart, p. 164; by Gerhard, p. 88; by Knortz,

Schottische Balladen, No 31.

Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, III, 251, ed. 1803;

III, 10, ed. 1833. From tradition.

Of a' the maids o fair Scotland

The fairest was Marjorie,

And Young Benjie was her ae true-love,

And a dear true-love was he.

And wow! but they were lovers dear,

And loved fu constantlie;

But ay the mair, when they fell out,

The sairer was their plea.

And they hae quarrelled on a day,

Till Marjorie's heart grew wae,

And she said she'd chuse another luve,

And let Young Benjie gae.

And he was stout, and proud-hearted,

And thought o't bitterlie,

And he's gaen by the wan moon-light

To meet his Marjorie.

'O open, open, my true-love,

O open, and let me in!'

'I dare na open, Young Benjie,

My three brothers are within.'

'Ye lied, ye lied, ye bonny burd,

Sae loud 's I hear ye lie;

As I came by the Lowden banks,

They bade gude een to me.

'But fare ye weel, my ae fause love,

That I hae loved sae lang!

It sets ye chuse another love,

And let Young Benjie gang.'

Then Marjorie turned her round about,

The tear blinding her ee:

'I darena, darena let thee in,

But I'll come down to thee.'

Then saft she smiled, and said to him,

O what ill hae I done?

He took her in his armis twa,

And threw her oer the linn.

The stream was strang, the maid was stout,

And laith, laith to be dang,

But ere she wan the Lowden banks

Her fair colour was wan.

Then up bespak her eldest brother,

'O see na ye what I see?'

And out then spak her second brother,

'It's our sister Marjorie!'

Out then spak her eldest brother,

'O how shall we her ken?'

And out then spak her youngest brother,

'There's a honey-mark on her chin.'

Then they've taen up the comely corpse,

And laid it on the grund:

'O wha has killed our ae sister,

And how can he be found?

'The night it is her low lykewake,

The morn her burial day,

And we maun watch at mirk midnight,

And hear what she will say.'

Wi doors ajar, and candle-light,

And torches burning clear,

The streikit corpse, till still midnight,

They waked, but naething hear.

About the middle o the night

The cocks began to craw,

And at the dead hour o the night

The corpse began to thraw.

'O wha has done the wrang, sister,

Or dared the deadly sin?

Wha was sae stout, and feared nae dout,

As thraw ye oer the linn?'

'Young Benjie was the first ae man

I laid my love upon;

He was sae stout and proud-hearted,

He threw me oer the linn.'

'Sall we Young Benjie head, sister?

Sall we Young Benjie hang?

Or sall we pike out his twa gray een,

And punish him ere he gang?'

'Ye mauna Benjie head, brothers,

Ye mauna Benjie hang,

But ye maun pike out his twa gray een,

And punish him ere he gang.

'Tie a green gravat round his neck,

And lead him out and in,

And the best ae servant about your house

To wait Young Benjie on.

'And ay, at every seven year's end,

Ye'll tak him to the linn;

For that's the penance he maun drie,

To scug his deadly sin.'

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, II, 265.

'O come along wi me, brother,

Now come along wi me;

And we'll gae seek our sister Maisry,

Into the water o Dee.'

The eldest brother he stepped in,

He stepped to the knee;

Then out he jumpd upo the bank,

Says, This water's nae for me.

The second brother he stepped in,

He stepped to the quit;

Then out he jumpd upo the bank,

Says, This water's wondrous deep.

When the third brother stepped in,

He stepped to the chin;

Out he got, and forward wade,

For fear o drowning him.

The youngest brother he stepped in,

Took's sister by the hand;

Said, Here she is, my sister Maisry,

Wi the hinny-draps on her chin.

'O if I were in some bonny ship,

And in some strange countrie,

For to find out some conjurer,

To gar Maisry speak to me!'

Then out it speaks an auld woman,

As she was passing by:

'Ask of your sister what you want,

And she will speak to thee.'

'O sister, tell me who is the man

That did your body win?

And who is the wretch, tell me, likewise,

That threw you in the lin?'

'O Bondsey was the only man

That did my body win;

And likewise Bondsey was the man

That threw me in the lin.'

'O will we Bondsey head, sister?

Or will we Bondsey hang?

Or will we set him at our bow-end,

Lat arrows at him gang?'

'Ye winna Bondsey head, brothers,

Nor will ye Bondsey hang;

But ye'll take out his twa grey een,

Make Bondsey blind to gang.

'Ye'll put to the gate a chain o gold,

A rose garland gar make,

And ye'll put that in Bondsey's head,

A' for your sister's sake.'

PRINCE ROBERT

#A.# 'Prince Robert,' Scott's Minstrelsy, II, 124, ed.

1802; III, 269, ed. 1833.

#B.# 'Earl Robert,' Motherwell's MS., p. 149;

Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 200.

#C.# 'Lord Robert and Mary Florence,' Motherwell's MS.,

p. 321.

#D.# 'Prince Robert,' Harris MS., fol. 29.

Prince Robert's mother poisons him because he has married against her

will. He sends for his bride to come, but she is in time only for the

funeral. The mother will give her nothing of her son's, not even the

ring on his finger, all that she asks for. The bride's heart breaks

before the mother's face.

There are other ballad-stories of a mother's poisoning because of

displeasure at a son's match, but I know of none which demands

comparison with this very slender tale.

* * * * *

#A# is translated by Schubart, p. 122; by Doenniges, p. 57; #A# and #B#

combined by Rosa Warrens, Schottische Volkslieder, No 36.

Scott's Minstrelsy, II, 124, ed. 1802; III, 269, ed.

1833: from the recitation of Miss Christian Rutherford.

Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye,

He has wedded her with a ring;

Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye,

But he daur na bring her hame.

'Your blessing, your blessing, my mother dear,

Your blessing now grant to me!'

'Instead of a blessing ye sall have my curse,

And you'll get nae blessing frae me.'

She has called upon her waiting-maid,

To fill a glass of wine;

She has called upon her fause steward,

To put rank poison in.

She has put it to her roudes lip,

And to her roudes chin;

She has put it to her fause, fause mouth,

But the never a drop gaed in.

He has put it to his bonny mouth,

And to his bonny chin,

He's put it to his cherry lip,

And sae fast the rank poison ran in.

'O ye hae poisoned your ae son, mother,

Your ae son and your heir;

O ye hae poisoned your ae son, mother,

And sons you'll never hae mair.

'O where will I get a little boy,

That will win hose and shoon,

To rin sae fast to Darlinton,

And bid Fair Eleanor come?'

Then up and spake a little boy,

That wad win hose and shoon,

'O I'll away to Darlinton,

And bid Fair Eleanor come.'

O he has run to Darlinton,

And tirled at the pin;

And wha was sae ready as Eleanor's sell

To let the bonny boy in?

'Your gude-mother has made ye a rare dinour,

She's made it baith gude and fine;

Your gude-mother has made ye a gay dinour,

And ye maun cum till her and dine.'

It's twenty lang miles to Sillertoun town,

The langest that ever were gane;

But the steed it was wight, and the ladye was light,

And she cam linkin in.

But when she came to Sillertoun town,

And into Sillertoun ha,

The torches were burning, the ladies were mourning,

And they were weeping a'.

'O where is now my wedded lord,

And where now can he be?

O where is now my wedded lord?

For him I canna see.'

'Your wedded lord is dead,' she says,

'And just gane to be laid in the clay;

Your wedded lord is dead,' she says,

'And just gane to be buried the day.

'Ye'se get nane o his gowd, ye 'se get nane o his gear,

Ye'se get nae thing frae me;

Ye'se na get an inch o his gude broad land,

Tho your heart suld burst in three.'

'I want nane o his gowd, I want nane o his gear,

I want nae land frae thee;

But I'll hae the ring that's on his finger,

For them he did promise to me.'

'Ye'se na get the ring that's on his finger,

Ye'se na get them frae me;

Ye'se na get the ring that's on his finger,

An your heart suld burst in three.'

She's turn'd her back unto the wa,

And her face unto a rock,

And there, before the mother's face,

Her very heart it broke.

The tane was buried in Marie's kirk,

The tother in Marie's quair,

And out o the tane there sprang a birk,

And out o the tother a brier.

And thae twa met, and thae twa plat,

The birk but and the brier,

And by that ye may very weel ken

They were twa lovers dear.

Motherwell's MS. p. 149; Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p.

200; from the recitation of Mrs Thomson, Kilbarchan, a

native of Bonhill, Dumbartonshire, aged betwixt sixty and

seventy.

It's fifty miles to Sittingen's Rocks,

As eer was ridden or gane;

And Earl Robert has wedded a wife,

But he dare na bring her hame.

And Earl Robert has wedded a wife,

But he dare na bring her hame.

His mother, she called to her waiting-maid,

To bring her a pint o wine:

'For I dinna weel ken what hour of the day

That my son Earl Robert shall dine.'

She's put it to her fause, fause cheek,

But an her fause, fause chin;

She's put it to her fause, fause lips,

But never a drap went in.

But he's put it to his bonny cheek,

Aye and his bonny chin;

He's put it to his red rosy lips,

And the poison went merrily doun.

'O where will I get a bonny boy,

That will win hose and shoon,

That will gang quickly to Sittingen's Rocks,

And bid my lady come?'

It's out then speaks a bonny boy,

To Earl Robert was something akin:

'Many a time have I ran thy errand,

But this day wi the tears I'll rin.'

Bat when he came to Sittingin's Rocks,

To the middle of a' the ha,

There were bells a ringing, and music playing,

And ladies dancing a'.

'What news, what news, my bonny boy?

What news have ye to me?

Is Earl Robert in very good health,

And the ladies of your countrie?'

'O Earl Robert's in very good health,

And as weel as a man can be;

But his mother this night has a drink to be druken,

And at it you must be.'

She called to her waiting-maid,

To bring her a riding-weed,

And she called to her stable-groom,

To saddle her milk-white steed.

But when she came to Earl Robert's bouir,

To the middle of a' the ha,

There were bells a ringing, and sheets doun hinging,

And ladies mourning a'.

'I've come for none of his gold,' she said,

'Nor none of his white monie,

Excepting a ring of his smallest finger,

If that you will grant me.'

'Thou'll not get none of his gold,' she said,

'Nor none of his white monie;

Thou'll not get a ring of his smallest finger,

Tho thy heart should break in three.'

She set her foot unto a stane,

Her back unto a tree;

She set her foot unto a stane,

And her heart did break in three.

The one was buried in Mary's kirk,

The other in Mary's quire;

Out of the one there grew a birk,

From the other a bonnie brier.

And these twa grew, and these twa threw,

Till their twa craps drew near;

So all the warld may plainly see

That they loved each other dear.

Motherwell's MS., p. 321, from Agnes Laird, Kilbarchan,

June 21, 1825.

Lord Robert and Mary Florence,

They were twa children young;

They were scarse seven years of age

Till love began to spring.

Lord Robert loved Mary Florence,

And she lovd him above power;

But he durst not for his cruel mother

Bring her unto his bower.

It was nineteen miles to Strawberry Castle,

As good as ever was rode or gane,

But the lord being light, and the steed being swift,

Lord Robert was hame gin noon.

'A blessing, a blessing, dear mother,' he cries,

'A blessing I do crave!'

'A blessing, a blessing, my son Lord Robert,

And a blessing thou shalt have.'

She called on her chamber-maid

To fill up a glass of wine,

And so clever was her cursed fingers

To put the rank poison in.

'O wae be to you, mother dear,' he cries,

'For working such a wae;

For poisoning of your son Lord Robert,

And children you have nae mae.

'O where will I get a pretty little boy

That'll rin him my errands sune?

That will rin unto Strawberry Castle,

And tell Mary Florence to cum?'

'Here am I, a pretty little boy,

Your eldest sister's son,

That will rin unto Strawberry Castle,

And tell Mary Florence to come.'

When he came unto Strawberry Castle

He tirled at the pin,

And so ready was Mary Florence hersell

To open and let him in.

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

What news hast thou brocht here?'

With sichin and sabbin and wringing his hands,

No message he could refer.

'The news that I have gotten,' he says,

'I cannot weel declair;

But my grandmother has prepard a feast,

And fain she would hae thee thair.'

She called on her stable-groom

To dress her swiftest steed;

For she knew very weel by this pretty little boy

That Lord Robert was dead.

And when she came to Knotingale Castle

She tirled at the pin,

And so ready was Lord Robert's mother

To open and let her in.

'What news, what news, Mary Florence?' she says,

'What news has thou to me?'

'I came to see your son Lord Robert,

And fain would I him see.

'I came not for his gude red gold,

Nor for his white monie,

But for the ring on his wee finger,

And fain would I it see.'

'That ring thou cannot see, Mary Florence,

That ring thou'll never see;

For death was so strong in Lord Robert's breast

That the gold ring burst in three.'

She has set her foot unto a stone,

Her back unto a tree;

Before she left Knotingale Castle

Her heart it brak in three.

Harris MS., fol. 29, from the recitation of Mrs Molison.

Prince Robert he has wedded a wife,

An he daurna bring her hame;

The queen ...

His mither was much to blame.

* * * * * * *

'It is the fashion in oor countrie, mither,

I dinna ken what it is here,

To like your wife better than your mither,

That... bought you sae dear.'

She called upon her best marie,

An tippet her wi a ring,

To bring to her the rank poison,

To gie Prince Robert a dram.

She put it to her cheek, her cheek,

She put it to her chin;

She put it to her fause, fause lips,

But neer a drap gaed in.

She put it to his cheek, his cheek,

She put it to his chin;

She put it to his rosy lips,

An the rank poison gaed in.

'Whare will I get a bonnie boy,

Wha will win meat an fee,

Wha will rin on to... bower,

Bring my gude ladie to me?'

'Here am I, a bonnie boy,

Willin to win meat an fee,

Wha will rin on to... bower,

An bring your gude ladie.'

'Whan you come to broken brig,

Tak aff your coat an swim;

An whan you come to grass growin,

Tak aff your shoon an rin.'

An whan he cam to broken brig,

He coost his coat an swam,

An whan he cam to grass growin,

Set doon his feet an ran.

An whan he cam to the ladie's bower,

He fand her a' her lane,

. . . . . . .

* * * * * * *

An syne she kissed his wan, wan lips,

. . . . . . .

* * * * *

#A.#

13^1, 13^3. Oh.

16^3, 17^1, 17^3. ring, _ed. 1802;_ rings, _ed. 1833._

#B.#

2^2. _Changed in the MS. to_ O bring me.

7^2, 11^2. a' _added later._

9^2. a _added later._

15^3. grew an; _the next word looks like ~buk~, but

is erased, and ~birk~ substituted. Motherwell printed

~bush~._

YOUNG JOHNSTONE

#A.# 'The Cruel Knight,' Herd, The Ancient and Modern

Scots Songs, 1769, p. 305; I, 165, ed. 1776.

#B. a.# 'Young Johnstone,' Motherwell's Minstrelsy,

p. 193. #b.# 'The Young Johnstone,' Finlay's Scottish

Historical and Romantic Ballads, II, 71.

#C.# 'Sweet William and the Young Colonel,' Motherwell's

MS., p. 310.

#D.# 'Johnston Hey and Young Caldwell,' Motherwell's MS.,

p. 639.

#E.# 'Lord John's Murder,' Buchan's Ballads of the North

of Scotland, II, 20.

#F.# 'Young Johnston,' Motherwell's Minstrelsy, Appendix,

p. xx, XVIII, one stanza.

Pinkerton inserted Herd's 'Cruel Knight,' #A#, in his Select Scotish

Ballads, I, 69, with alterations and omissions. Motherwell enters in

his Note-Book, p. 6, that he had received from Mrs Gentles, Paisley,

'The Young Johnstone,' "different in some measure from the copy in

Finlay's Ballads." Of the version printed in his Minstrelsy (#B a#),

undoubtedly that which was derived from Mrs Gentles, he says, "for a

few verbal emendations recourse has been had to Mr Finlay's copy (#B

b#)." These versions should therefore not have differed considerably,

Finlay suppressed "Young Johnstone's reason for being sae late a coming

in," "as well as a concluding stanza of inferior merit;" in this

rejection he was not followed by Motherwell. Christie, I, 156, gives

#E# "with some alterations from the way it was sung" by an old woman;

petty variations, such as one must think could not have impressed

themselves upon a memory unapt to retain things of more importance.

'Young Johnstone' in Chambers's Twelve Romantic Scottish Ballads, p.

19, is made up mostly from #B a#, #B b#, #E#, like the copy in the same

editor's Scottish Ballads, p. 293, but handles tradition very freely.

#E# seems to be #A# altered, or imperfectly remembered, with the

addition of a few stanzas. Motherwell remarks of his version, what is

true of all the others but #E#, that the ballad throws no light on

Young Johnstone's motive for stabbing his lady. An explanation was

afforded by the reciter: "The barbarous act was committed unwittingly,

through Young Johnstone's suddenly waking from sleep, and, in that

moment of confusion and alarm, unhappily mistaking his mistress for one

of his pursuers." And this is the turn which is given to the act in #E#

13:

'Ohon, alas, my lady gay,

To come sae hastilie!

I thought it was my deadly foe,

Ye had trysted into me.'

The apology may go for what it is worth. Awake or waking, Young

Johnstone's first instinct is as duly to stab as a bull-dog's is to

bite.

#C# 5, 9, 13 are taken from 'The Lass of Roch Royal:' cf. No 76,

#B# 17, #C# 2, #E# 9, #H# 3. #D# 6 recalls 'Fair Margaret and Sweet

William,' No 74, #A# 8, #B# 11; #A# 13, #B# 25, #C# 26, #D# 30, #E# 15,

'Lord Thomas and Fair Annet,' No 73, #B# 34, #D# 17; #D# 31, 32, 'The

Twa Brothers,' No 49, #B# 4, #C# 4, 5, #D# 5, 7, #E# 6, 7, #F# 5, 6,

#G# 4, 5.

* * * * *

#A#, with the last two stanzas of #B a#, is translated by Rosa Warrens,

Schottische Volkslieder, No 27; #E# by Gerhard, p. 157; Aytoun, II,

110 by Knortz, Schottische Balladen, No 30, p. 94, with abridgment;

Pinkerton's copy by Grundtvig, No 20, p. 136.

Herd's Ancient and Modern Scots Songs, 1769, p. 305.

The knight stands in the stable-door,

As he was for to ryde,

When out then came his fair lady,

Desiring him to byde.

'How can I byde? how dare I byde?

How can I byde with thee?

Have I not killd thy ae brother?

Thou hadst nae mair but he.'

'If you have killd my ae brother,

Alas, and woe is me!

But if I save your fair body,

The better you'll like me.'

She's tane him to her secret bower,

Pinnd with a siller pin,

And she's up to her highest tower,

To watch that none come in.

She had na well gane up the stair,

And entered in her tower,

When four and twenty armed knights

Came riding to the door.

'Now God you save, my fair lady,

I pray you tell to me,

Saw you not a wounded knight

Come riding by this way?'

'Yes, bloody, bloody was his sword,

And bloody were his hands;

But if the steed he rides be good,

He's past fair Scotland's strands.

'Light down, light down then, gentlemen,

And take some bread and wine;

The better you will him pursue

When you shall lightly dine.'

'We thank you for your bread, lady,

We thank you for your wine;

I would gie thrice three thousand pounds

Your fair body was mine.'

Then she's gane to her secret bower,

Her husband dear to meet;

But he drew out his bloody sword,

And wounded her sae deep.

'What aileth thee now, good my lord?

What aileth thee at me?

Have you not got my father's gold,

But and my mother's fee?'

'Now live, now live, my fair lady,

O live but half an hour,

There's neer a leech in fair Scotland

But shall be at thy bower.'

'How can I live? how shall I live?

How can I live for thee?

See you not where my red heart's blood

Runs trickling down my knee?'

* * * * * * *

#a.# Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 193, from the recitation

of Mrs Gentles, Paisley, #b.# Finlay's Scottish Ballads,

II, 71, from two recited copies.

Young Johnstone and the young Colnel

Sat drinking at the wine:

'O gin ye wad marry my sister,

It's I wad marry thine.'

'I wadna marry your sister

For a' your houses and land;

But I'll keep her for my leman,

When I come oer the strand.

'I wadna marry your sister

For a' your gowd so gay;

But I'll keep her for my leman,

When I come by the way.'

Young Johnstone had a little small sword,

Hung low down by his gair,

And he stabbed it through the young Colnel,

That word he neer spak mair.

But he's awa to his sister's bower,

He's tirled at the pin:

'Whare hae ye been, my dear brither,

Sae late a coming in?'

'I hae been at the school, sister,

Learning young clerks to sing.'

'I've dreamed a dreary dream this night,

I wish it may be for good;

They were seeking you with hawks and hounds,

And the young Colnel was dead.'

'Hawks and hounds they may seek me,

As I trow well they be;

For I have killed the young Colnel,

And thy own true-love was he.'

'If ye hae killed the young Colnel,

O dule and wae is me!

But I wish ye may be hanged on a hie gallows,

And hae nae power to flee.'

And he's awa to his true-love's bower,

He's tirled at the pin:

'Whar hae ye been, my dear Johnstone,

Sae late a coming in?'

'It's I hae been at the school,' he says,

'Learning young clerks to sing.'

'I have dreamed a dreary dream,' she says,

'I wish it may be for good;

They were seeking you with hawks and hounds,

And the young Colnel was dead.'

'Hawks and hounds they may seek me,

As I trow well they be;

For I hae killed the young Colnel,

And thy ae brother was he.'

'If ye hae killed the young Colnel,

O dule and wae is me!

But I care the less for the young Colnel,

If thy ain body be free.

'Come in, come in, my dear Johnstone,

Come in and take a sleep;

And I will go to my casement,

And carefully I will thee keep.'

He had not weel been in her bower-door,

No not for half an hour,

When four and twenty belted knights

Came riding to the bower.

'Well may you sit and see, lady,

Well may you sit and say;

Did you not see a bloody squire

Come riding by this way?'

'What colour were his hawks?' she says,

'What colour were his hounds?

What colour was the gallant steed,

That bore him from the bounds?'

'Bloody, bloody were his hawks,

And bloody were his hounds;

But milk-white was the gallant steed,

That bore him from the bounds.'

'Yes, bloody, bloody were his hawks,

And bloody were his hounds;

And milk-white was the gallant steed,

That bore him from the bounds.

'Light down, light down now, gentlemen,

And take some bread and wine;

And the steed be swift that he rides on,

He's past the brig o Lyne.'

'We thank you for your bread, fair lady,

We thank you for your wine;

But I wad gie thrice three thousand pound

That bloody knight was taen.'

'Lie still, lie still, my dear Johnstone,

Lie still and take a sleep;

For thy enemies are past and gone,

And carefully I will thee keep.'

But Young Johnstone had a little wee sword,

Hung low down by his gair,

And he stabbed it in fair Annet's breast,

A deep wound and a sair.

'What aileth thee now, dear Johnstone?

What aileth thee at me?

Hast thou not got my father's gold,

Bot and my mither's fee?'

'Now live, now live, my dear ladye,

Now live but half an hour,

And there's no a leech in a' Scotland

But shall be in thy bower.'

'How can I live? how shall I live?

Young Johnstone, do not you see

The red, red drops o my bonny heart's blood

Rin trinkling down my knee?

'But take thy harp into thy hand,

And harp out owre yon plain,

And neer think mair on thy true-love

Than if she had never been.'

He hadna weel been out o the stable,

And on his saddle set,

Till four and twenty broad arrows

Were thrilling in his heart.

Motherwell's MS., p. 310, from the recitation of Jeanie

Nicol, May 4, 1825.

Sweet William and the young Colnel

One day was drinking wine:

'It's I will marry your sister,

If ye will marry mine.'

'I will not marry your sister,

Altho her hair he brown;

But I'll keep her for my liberty-wife,

As I ride thro the town.'

William, having his two-edged sword,

He leaned quite low to the ground,

And he has given the young Colnel

A deep and a deadly wound.

He rade, he rade, and awa he rade,

Till he came to his mother's bower;

'O open, open, mother,' he says,

'And let your auld son in.

'For the rain rains owre my yellow hair,

And the dew draps on my chin,

And trembling stands the gallant steed

That carries me from the ground.'

'What aileth thee, Sweet William?' she says,

'What harm now hast thou done?'

'Oh I hae killed the young Colnel,

And his heart's blood sair does run.'

'If ye hae killed the young Colnel,

Nae shelter ye'll get frae me;

May the two-edged sword be upon your heart,

That never hath power to flee!'

He rade, he rade, and awa he rade,

Till he came to his sister's bower;

'Oh open, open, sister,' he says,

'And let your brother in.

'For the rain rains on my yellow hair,

And the dew draps on my chin,

And trembling stands the gallant steed

That carries me from the ground.'

'What aileth thee, Sweet William?' she says,

'What harm now hast thou done?'

'Oh I have killed the young Colnel,

And his heart's blood sair doth run.'

'If ye hae killed the young Colnel,

Nae shelter ye'll get frae me;

May the two-edged sword be upon your heart,

That never hath power to flee!'

He rade, he rade, and awa he rade,

Till he came to his true-love's bower;

'Oh open, oh open, my true-love,' he says,

'And let your sweetheart in.

'For the rain rains on my yellow hair,

And the dew draps on my chin,

And trembling stands the gallant steed

That carries me from the ground.'

'What aileth thee, Sweet William?' she says,

'What harm now hast thou done?'

'Oh I hae killed thy brother dear,

And his heart's blood sair doth run.'

'If ye hae killed my brother dear,

It's oh and alace for me!

But between the blankets and the sheets

It's there I will hide thee!'

She's taen him by the milk-white hand,

She's led him thro chambers three,

Until she came to her own chamber:

'It's there I will hide thee.

'Lye down, lye down, Sweet William,' she says,

'Lye down and take a sleep;

It's owre the chamber I will watch,

Thy fair bodie to keep.'

She had not watched at the chamber-door

An hour but only three,

Till four and twenty belted knichts

Did seek his fair bodie.

'O did you see the hunt?' she says,

'Or did you see the hounds?

Or did you see that gallant steed,

That last rade thro the town?'

'What colour was the fox?' they said,

'What colour was the hounds?

What colour was the gallant steed,

That's far yont London toun?'

'O dark grey was the fox,' she said,

'And light grey was the hounds,

But milk-white was the gallant steed

That's far yont London town.'

'Rise up, rise up, Sweet William,' she says,

'Rise up, and go away;

For four and twenty belted knights

Were seeking thy bodye.'

Sweet William, having his two-edged sword,

He leaned it quite low to the ground,

And he has given his own true-love

A deep and a deadly wound.

'What aileth thee, Sweet William?' she says,

'What harm now have I done?

I never harmed a hair of your head

Since ever this love began.'

'Oh live, oh live, my own true-love,

Oh live but half an hour,

And the best doctor in London town

Shall come within thy bower.'

'How can I live? how shall I live?

How can I live half an hour?

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

All sprinkled on the floor?'

William, having his two-edged sword,

He leaned it quite low to the ground,

And he has given his own bodie

A deep and a deadly wound.

Motherwell's MS., p. 639, from the recitation of an

Irishwoman, wife of John French, a porter at the quay of

Ayr.

Johnston Hey and Young Caldwell

Were drinking o the wine:

'O will ye marry my sister?

And I will marry thine.'

'I winna marry your sister,

Altho her locks are broun;

But I'll make her my concubine,

As I ride through the toun.'

Syne Johnston drew a gude braid sword,

That hang down by his knee,

And he has run the Young Caldwell

Out through the fair bodie.

Up he gat, and awa he rade,

By the clear light o the moon,

Until he came to his mother's door,

And there he lichtit doun.

'Whare hae ye been, son Willie,' she said,

'Sae late and far in the night?'

'O I hae been at yon new slate house,

Hearing the clergy speak.'

'I dreamd a dream, son Willie,' she said,

'I doubt it bodes nae gude;

That your ain room was fu o red swine,

And your bride's bed daubd wi blude.'

'To dream o blude, mither,' he said,

'It bodeth meikle ill;

And I hae slain a Young Caldwell,

And they're seeking me to kill.'

'Gin ye hae slain a Young Caldwell,

Alace and wae is me!

But gin your fair body's free frae skaith,

The easier I will be.'

Up he gat, and awa he rade,

By the clear licht o the mune,

Until he cam to his sister's bower,

And there he lichtit doun.

'Whare hae ye been, brither,' she said,

'Sae late and far in the night?'

'O I hae been in yon new slate house,

Hearing the clergy speak.'

'I dreamd a dream, brither,' she said,

'I doubt it bodes nae gude;

I dreamd the ravens eat your flesh,

And the lions drank your blude.'

'To dream o blude, sister,' he said,

'It bodeth meikle ill;

And I hae slain a Young Caldwell,

And they're seeking me to kill.'

'Gin ye hae slain a Young Caldwell,

Alace and wae is me!

To be torn at the tail o wild horses

Is the death I weet ye'll die.'

Up he gat, and awa he rade,

By the clear light o the mune,

Untill he cam to his true-love's bower,

And there he lichtit doun.

'Whare hae ye been, Love Willie,' she said,

'Sae late and far in the night?'

'O I hae been in yon new sklate house,

Hearing the clergy speak.'

'I dreamd a dream, Willie,' she said,

'I doubt it bodes nae gude;

I dreamd the ravens ate your flesh,

And the lions drank your blude.'

'To dream o ravens, love,' he said,

'Is the loss o a near friend;

And I hae killd your brither dear,

And for it I'll be slain.'

'Gin ye hae slain my ae brither,

Alace and wae is me!

But gin your fair body's free frae skaith,

The easier I will be.

'Lye doun, lye doun, Love Willie,' she said,

'Lye doun and tak a sleep;

And I will walk the castel wa,

Your fair bodie to keep.'

He laid him doun within her bowr,

She happit him wi her plaid,

And she's awa to the castle-wa,

To see what would betide.

She hadna gane the castle round

A time but only three,

Till four and twenty beltit knichts

Cam riding ower the lea.

And whan they came unto the gate,

They stude and thus did say:

'O did ye see yon bludie knicht,

As he rade out this way?'

'What colour was his hawk?' she said,

'What colour was his hound?

What colour was the gudely steed

The bludie knicht rade on?'

'Nut-brown was his hawk,' they said,

'And yellow-fit was his hound,

And milk-white was the goodly steed

The bluidie knicht rade on.'

'Gin nut-brown was his hawk,' she said,

'And yellow-fit was his hound,

And milk-white was the gudely steed,

He's up to London gone.'

They spurrd their steeds out ower the lea,

They being void o fear;

Syne up she gat, and awa she gade,

Wi tidings to her dear.

'Lye still, lye still, Love Willie,' she said,

'Lye still and tak your sleep;'

Syne he took up his good braid sword,

And wounded her fu deep.

'O wae be to you, Love Willie,' she said,

'And an ill death may ye die!

For first ye slew my ae brither,

And now ye hae killd me.'

'Oh live, oh live, true-love,' he said,

'Oh live but ae half hour,

And there's not a docter in a' London

But sall be in your bower.'

'How can I live, Love Willie,' she said,

'For the space of half an hour?

Dinnae ye see my clear heart's blood

A rinnin down the floor?

'Tak aff, tak aff my holland sark,

And rive't frae gare to gair,

And stap it in my bleeding wounds;

They'll may be bleed nae mair.'

Syne he took aff her holland sark,

And rave't frae gare to gair,

And stappit it in her bleeding wounds,

But aye they bled the mair.

'Gae dress yoursell in black,' she said,

'And gae whistling out the way,

And mourn nae mair for your true-love

When she's laid in the clay.'

He leaned his halbert on the ground,

The point o't to his breast,

Saying, Here three sauls ['s] gaun to heaven;

I hope they'll a' get rest.

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, II, 20.

Lord John stands in his stable door,

Says he, I will gae ride,

His lady, in her bigly bower?

Desired him to bide.

'How can I bide? how can I bide?

How shall I bide wi thee?

When I hae killd your ae brother;

You hae nae mair but he.'

'If ye hae killd my ae brother,

Alas, and wae is me!

If ye be well yoursell, my love,

The less matter will be.

'Ye'll do you to yon bigly bower,

And take a silent sleep,

And I'll watch in my highest tower,

Your fair body to keep.'

She has shut her bigly bower,

All wi a silver pin,

And done her to the highest tower,

To watch that nane come in.

But as she looked round about,

To see what she could see,

There she saw nine armed knights

Come riding oer the lea.

'God make you safe and free, lady,

God make you safe and free!

Did you see a bludy knight

Come riding oer the lea?'

'O what like was his hawk, his hawk?

And what like was his hound?

If his steed has ridden well,

He's passd fair Scotland's strand.

'Come in, come in, gude gentlemen,

And take white bread and wine;

And aye the better ye'll pursue,

The lighter that ye dine.'

'We thank you for your bread, lady,

We thank you for the wine,

And I woud gie my lands sae broad

Your fair body were mine.'

She has gane to her bigly bower,

Her ain gude lord to meet;

A trusty brand he quickly drew,

Gae her a wound sae deep.

'What harm, my lord, provokes thine ire

To wreak itself on me,

When thus I strove to save thy life,

Yet served for sic a fee?'

'Ohon, alas, my lady gay,

To come sae hastilie!

I thought it was my deadly foe,

Ye had trysted into me.

'O live, O live, my gay lady,

The space o ae half hour,

And nae a leech in a' the land

But I'se bring to your bower.'

'How can I live? how shall I live?

How can I live for thee?

Ye see my blude rin on the ground,

My heart's blude by your knee.

'O take to flight, and flee, my love,

O take to flight, and flee!

I woudna wish your fair body

For to get harm for me.'

'Ae foot I winna flee, lady,

Ae foot I winna flee;

I've dune the crime worthy o death,

It's right that I shoud die.

'O deal ye well at my love's lyke

The beer but an the wine;

For ere the morn, at this same time,

Ye'll deal the same at mine.'

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

As Willie and the young Colnel

Were drinking at the wine,

'O will ye marry my sister?' says Will,

'And I will marry thine.'

* * * * *

#A.#

10^4. very deep, _in the edition of 1776._

#B. a.#

4^1. _Motherwell informs us, ~p. 200~, that the original

reading was ~little small sword~; also ~he stabbed~ in

4^3._

#b.#

_Finlay's version is compounded from two, and

Motherwell's, since it adopts readings from Finlay's, is

compounded from three; but Motherwell's has nevertheless

been preferred, on account of its retaining stanzas

which Finlay omitted. Besides, Motherwell gives us to

understand that his changes are few._

3^2. gowd and fee.

3^4. come oer the sea.

4^1. nut-brown sword.

4^3. he ritted.

5^2. And he's.

5^3. dear Johnstone.

5^{5, 6}. _wanting._

6^1, 10^1. dreamed a dream this night, she says.

6^2, 10^2. be good.

7^1, 11^1. They are seeking me with hawks and hounds.

8^2, 12^2. A dule.

9^1. his lover's.

9^{5, 6}. _wanting._

12^3. But I gie na sae much for.

12^4. is free.

13^4. I'll thee.

14^{1, 2}.

She hadna weel gane up the stair,

And entered in her tower.

14^3. Till.

14^4. the door.

15^{1, 2}.

O did you see a bloody squire,

A bloody squire was he.

15^3. O did you see.

15^4. riding oer the lea.

16^1. she cried.

17^3. And.

19^1. But light ye down now.

19^3. be good he rides upon.

19^4. of Tyne.

20^1. bread, ladie.

20^3. But _wanting_: pounds.

20^4. Your fair bodie was mine.

21^{3, 4}.

For there's four and twenty belted knights

Just gone out at the gate.

22^1. had a wee penknife.

22{3, 4}.

And he ritted it through his dear ladie,

And wounded her sae sair.

25.

How can I live, my dear Johnstone?

How can I live for thee?

O do ye na see my red heart's blood

Run trickling down my knee?

26.

But go thy way, my dear Johnstone,

And ride along the plain,

And think no more of thy true love

Than she had never been.

27. _wanting._

#C.#

19^1. Oh.

25^1. O: _the first_.

#D.#

1^3, 5^3, 15^3. Oh.

15^1. he been.

18^1. ae _corrected from_ ain.

19^3. wa _corrected from_ round.

24^1. she said.

29^1. O: _the first_.

Caldwell _is an obvious corruption of_ Colonel.

#E.#

_The alterations according to the singing of Christie's

old woman are, as usual with him in such cases, utterly

insignificant._

2^1. How can I bide, how shall.

2^2. How can.

3^4. will it.

6^3. she did see.

10^2. for your.

15^3. rins.

FAUSE FOODRAGE

#A.# 'Fa'se Footrage,' Alexander Fraser Tytler's Brown

MS., No 3.

#B.# 'The Eastmure King and the Westmure King,

Motherwell's MS., p. 341.

#C.# 'Eastmuir King,' Harris MS., No 18, fol. 22.

#A# was printed in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, II, 73,

1802, "chiefly" from Mrs Brown's MS.; in fact, with not quite forty

petty alterations. Scott remarks that the ballad has been popular in

many parts of Scotland. Christie, I, 172, had heard it sung by an old

Banffshire woman, who died in 1866, at the age of nearly eighty, with

very little difference from Scott's copy.[144]

The resemblance of the verse in #A# 31, 'The boy stared wild like

a gray gose-hawke,' to one in 'Hardyknute,' 'Norse een like gray

goss-hawk stared wild,' struck Sir Walter Scott as suspicious, and led

him "to make the strictest inquiry into the authenticity of the song.

But every doubt was removed by the evidence of a lady of high rank

[Lady Douglas of Douglas, sister to Henry, Duke of Buccleuch, as we are

informed in the edition of 1833], who not only recollected the ballad

as having amused her infancy, but could repeat many of the verses."

It is quite possible that Mrs Brown may unconsciously have adopted

this verse from the tiresome and affected Hardyknute, so much esteemed

in her day. One would be only too glad were this the only corruption

which the ballad had undergone. On the contrary, while not calling in

question the substantial genuineness of the ballad, we must admit that

the form in which we have received it is an enfeebled one, without much

flavor or color; and some such feeling no doubt affected Sir Walter's

mind, more than the reminiscence of 'Hardyknute,' which, of itself, is

of slight account.

A tale 'How the king of Estmure Land married the king's daughter of

Westmure Land' is mentioned in "The Complaint of Scotland," and there

has been considerable speculation as to what this tale might be,

and also as to what localities Estmure Land and Westmure Land might

signify. Seeing no clue to a settlement of these questions, I pass them

by, with the simple comment that no king of Estmure Land marries the

king of Westmure Land's daughter in this ballad or any other.

Three kings (King Easter and King Wester, #A#, the Eastmure king

and the Westmure king, #B#, #C#, and King Honor, #A#, the king of

Onorie, #B#, King Luve, #C#), court a lady, and the third, who woos

for womanhood and beauty, #B#, wins her. The Eastmure king, #B#, the

Westmure, #C#, kills his successful rival on his wedding-day. According

to the prosaic, not at all ballad-like, and evidently corrupted account

in #A#, there is a rebellion of nobles four months after the marriage,

and a certain False Foodrage takes it upon himself to kill the king.

The murderer spares the queen, and if she gives birth to a girl will

spare her child also, but if she bears a boy the boy is to die.

In #A# the queen escapes from custody before her time comes, and gives

birth to a boy in the swines' sty. Lots are cast to see who shall go

find the queen (the narrative is very vague here), and the lot falls

on Wise William, who sends his wife in his stead. The queen induces

this woman to exchange children with her, Wise William's wife having

a girl. After some years Wise William reveals to the boy that he is

rightful lord of the castle (and we may suppose royal dignity) which

False Foodrage has usurped. The boy kills False Foodrage and marries

Wise William's daughter. Some of these incidents are wanting in #B#.

For Wise William's wife we have simply a poor woman in the town.

'Fause Foodrage' is closely related to a Scandinavian ballad,

especially popular in Denmark, where it is found in not less than

twenty-three manuscripts:

#Danish.# #A#, 'Ung Villum,' Danske Viser, No 126, III, 135, 66

stanzas; #B#, 'Vold og Mord,' Levninger, II, 64, No 12, 64 stanzas;

#C#, 'Lille Villum,' Kristensen, I, 305, No 111, 15 stanzas; also,

Tragica, No 18, not seen. #Icelandic.# 'Kvæði af Loga í Vallarhlíð,'

Íslenzk fornkvæði, I, 235, No 28, 55 stanzas. #Swedish.# 'Helleman

Unge,' Arwidsson, I, 132, No 15, 13 stanzas (imperfect). #Färöe#, in

unprinted copies. There are more incidents in the Danish ballad, and

too many, but something, without doubt, has been lost from the English,

which, however, preserves these essential points: A man that has wedded

a woman who had another lover is killed by his competitor shortly after

his marriage; a boy is born, who is passed off as a girl; this boy,

before he has attained manhood, slays his father's murderer.

In the Danish 'Young William,' #A#, Svend of Voldesløv, rich in gold,

woos Lisbet, who prefers William for his good qualities. Svend shuts

himself up in his room, sick with grief. His mother and sister come and

go. The mother will get him a fairer maid, and gives him the good rede

not to distress himself about a girl that is plighted to another man.

The sister gives a bad rede, to kill William, and so get the bride.

The mother remarks that a son is coming into being who would revenge

his father's death. The business can be done, says Svend, before that

son is born, and immediately after takes occasion to meet William as

he is passing through a wood, and kills him. Forty weeks gone, Lisbet

gives birth to a son, but Svend is told that she has borne a daughter.

Young William attains to the age of eighteen, and is a stalwart youth,

given to games of strength. One day when he is putting the stone with

a peasant, the two fall out, and the peasant, being roughly treated,

calls out, You had better avenge your father's death. Young William

hastens to his mother, and asks whether his father's death had been by

violence, and, if so, who killed him. The mother thinks him too young

to wield a sword: he must summon Svend to a court. This is done. Svend

informs his uncle that he is summoned to court by William, and asks

what he is to do. The uncle had always been told that Lisbet's child

was a girl. I shall never live to see the day, says Svend, when I shall

beat a woman at tricks. Svend goes to the court, attended by many of

his uncle's men. William charges him with the murder of his father, for

which no compensation has been offered. Svend says not a penny will be

paid, and William draws his sword and cuts him down. For killing Svend

William is summoned to court by Svend's brother, Nilus. Nilus demands

amends. William says they are quit, with brother against father, and

he will marry Nilus's sister (whom he has already carried off). Never,

says Nilus, for which William finds it necessary to kill _him_. He

then rides to his mother, who asks what amends have been offered for

his father's death, and, on hearing that William has killed both the

murderer and his brother, clasps him to her heart, for all her grief is

now over.

No other Scandinavian copy besides Danish #A# has the killing of Nilus,

which may be regarded as an aftergrowth. In the Icelandic version, the

sister, so far from putting her brother up to the murder, bursts into

tears when her brother tells what he has done, because she knows that

revenge will follow. The murderer offers himself to his former love in

place of her husband, at the very moment when she is bowed in anguish

over the dead body. She replies significantly, He is not far from me

that shall revenge him. All the Scandinavian copies have the three

chief points of the story except the Swedish, which lacks the first

half.

Another Scandinavian ballad has many of the features of 'Young

William:' #Danish#, 'Liden Engel,' #A#, Danske Viser, No 127, III,

147; #B#, Levninger, II, 82, No 13; #C#, Kristensen, I, 254, No 97, a

fragment. #Norwegian#, 'Unge Ingelbrett,' Bugge, p. 110, No 23, derived

from the Danish. According to Danish #A#, and for the most part #B#,

Liden Engel (who, by the way, is of Westerris) carries off a bride by

force. Her brother burns him and all his people in a church in which

they have taken refuge, the lady being saved by lifting her on shields

up to a window, whence she is taken by her natural friends. It is the

mother that suggests the setting of the church on fire, and the first

act of the daughter, after getting out of the church with singed hair,

is to fall on her bare knees and pray that she may have a son who will

take vengeance on her brother. A son is born, and called after his

father, but his existence is as far as possible kept secret. As he

grows up his mother is always saying to him, Thine uncle was the death

of thy father. The boy wishes to serve the king; the mother says, Go,

but remember thy father's death. The king observes that the youth has

always a weight on his mind, and on his asking the cause Little Engel

answers that his uncle had slain his father and paid no boot. The king

says, If you wish to revenge his death, as it is quite proper you

should, I will lend you three hundred men. When the uncle is informed

that Little Engel is coming against him he declares that he had never

heard of such a person before: so the secret has been well kept. Little

Engel burns his uncle and all his people in a stone chamber in which

they had shut themselves up.

In the Norwegian-Danish ballad Engel, or Ingelbrett, the second simply

kills his uncle with a sword. The offence given in this case is not the

carrying off a bride by force, but the omitting to ask the brother's

consent to the marriage, though that of all the rest of the family

had been obtained: another instance of the danger of such neglect

in addition to those already mentioned in the preface to 'The Cruel

Brother,' I, 142.

'Fause Foodrage' has some affinity with 'Jellon Grame.'

* * * * *

Scott's copy is translated by Schubart, p. 102; Wolff, Halle der

Völker, I, 33, and Hausschatz, p. 211; Doenniges, p. 51; Knortz,

Schottische Balladen, No 28.

'Ung Villum' is translated by Prior, III, 422, No 170; 'Liden Engel' by

the same, III, 379, No 164.

Alexander Fraser Tytler's Brown MS., No 3.

King Easter has courted her for her gowd,

King Wester for her fee,

King Honor for her lands sae braid,

And for her fair body.

They had not been four months married,

As I have heard them tell,

Until the nobles of the land

Against them did rebel.

And they cast kaivles them amang,

And kaivles them between,

And they cast kaivles them amang

Wha shoud gae kill the king.

O some said yea, and some said nay,

Their words did not agree;

Till up it gat him Fa'se Footrage,

And sware it shoud be he.

When bells were rung, and mass was sung.

And a' man boon to bed,

King Honor and his gay ladie

In a hie chamer were laid.

Then up it raise him Fa'se Footrage,

While a' were fast asleep,

And slew the porter in his lodge,

That watch and ward did keep.

O four and twenty silver keys

Hang hie upon a pin,

And ay as a door he did unlock,

He has fastend it him behind.

Then up it raise him King Honor,

Says, What means a' this din!

Now what's the matter, Fa'se Footrage?

O wha was't loot you in?

'O ye my errand well shall learn

Before that I depart;'

Then drew a knife baith lang and sharp

And pierced him thro the heart.

Then up it got the Queen hersell,

And fell low down on her knee:

'O spare my life now, Fa'se Footrage!

For I never injured thee.

'O spare my life now, Fa'se Footrage!

Until I lighter be,

And see gin it be lad or lass

King Honor has left me wi.'

'O gin it be a lass,' he says,

'Well nursed she shall be;

But gin it be a lad-bairn,

He shall be hanged hie.

'I winna spare his tender age,

Nor yet his hie, hie kin;

But as soon as eer he born is,

He shall mount the gallows-pin.'

O four and twenty valiant knights

Were set the Queen to guard,

And four stood ay at her bower-door,

To keep baith watch and ward.

But when the time drew till an end

That she should lighter be,

She cast about to find a wile

To set her body free.

O she has birled these merry young men

Wi strong beer and wi wine,

Until she made them a' as drunk

As any wallwood swine.

'O narrow, narrow is this window,

And big, big am I grown!'

Yet thro the might of Our Ladie

Out at it she has won.

She wanderd up, she wanderd down,

She wanderd out and in,

And at last, into the very swines' stye,

The Queen brought forth a son.

Then they cast kaivles them amang

Wha should gae seek the Queen,

And the kaivle fell upon Wise William,

And he's sent his wife for him.

O when she saw Wise William's wife,

The Queen fell on her knee;

'Win up, win up, madame,' she says,

'What means this courtesie?'

'O out of this I winna rise

Till a boon ye grant to me,

To change your lass for this lad-bairn

King Honor left me wi.

'And ye maun learn my gay gose-hawke

Well how to breast a steed,

And I shall learn your turtle-dow

As well to write and read.

'And ye maun learn my gay gose-hawke

To wield baith bow and brand,

And I shall learn your turtle-dow

To lay gowd wi her hand.

'At kirk or market where we meet,

We dare nae mair avow

But, Dame how does my gay gose-hawk?

Madame, how does my dow?'

When days were gane, and years came on,

Wise William he thought long;

Out has he taen King Honor's son,

A hunting for to gang.

It sae fell out at their hunting,

Upon a summer's day,

That they cam by a fair castle,

Stood on a sunny brae.

'O dinna ye see that bonny castle,

Wi wa's and towers sae fair?

Gin ilka man had back his ain,

Of it you shoud be heir.'

'How I shoud be heir of that castle

In sooth I canna see,

When it belongs to Fa'se Footrage,

And he's nae kin to me.'

'O gin ye shoud kill him Fa'se Footrage,

You woud do what is right;

For I wot he killd your father dear,

Ere ever you saw the light.

'Gin ye should kill him Fa'se Footrage,

There is nae man durst you blame;

For he keeps your mother a prisoner,

And she dares no take you hame.'

The boy stared wild like a gray gose-hawke,

Says, What may a' this mean!

'My boy, you are King Honor's son,

And your mother's our lawful queen.'

'O gin I be King Honor's son,

By Our Ladie I swear,

This day I will that traytour slay,

And relieve my mother dear.'

He has set his bent bow till his breast,

And lap the castle-wa,

And soon he's siesed on Fa'se Footrage,

Wha loud for help gan ca.

'O hold your tongue now, Fa'se Footrage,

Frae me you shanno flee;'

Syne pierced him through the foul fa'se heart,

And set his mother free.

And he has rewarded Wise William

Wi the best half of his land,

And sae has he the turtle-dow

Wi the truth of his right hand.

Motherwell's MS., p. 341.

The Eastmure king, and the Westmure king,

And the king of Onorie,

They have all courted a pretty maid,

And guess wha she micht be.

The Eastmure king courted her for gold,

And the Westmure king for fee,

The king of Onore for womanheid,

And for her fair beautie.

The Eastmure king swore a solemn oath,

He would keep it till May,

That he would murder the king of Onore,

Upon his wedding day.

When bells was rung, and psalms was sung.

And all men boune for sleep,

Up and started the Eastmure king

At the king of Onore's head.

He has drawn the curtains by--

Their sheets was made of dorn--

And he has murdered the king of Onore,

As innocent as he was born.

This maid she awak'd in the middle of the night,

Was in a drowsy dream;

She found her bride's-bed swim with blood,

Bot and her good lord slain.

'What will the court and council say?

What will they say to me?

What will the court and council say

But this night I've murderd thee?'

Out and speaks the Eastmure king:

'Hold your tongue, my pretty may,

And come along with me, my dear,

And that court ye'll never see.'

He mounted her on a milk-white steed,

Himself upon a gray;

She turnd her back against the court,

And weeping rode away.

'Now if you be with child,' he says,

'As I trew well you be,

If it be of a lassie-bairn,

I'll give her nurses three.

'If it be a lassie-bairn,

If you please she'll get five;

But if it be a bonnie boy,

I will not let him live.'

Word is to the city gone,

And word is to the town,

And word is to the city gone,

She's delivered of a son.

But a poor woman in the town

In the same case does lye,

Wha gived to her her woman-child,

Took awa her bonnie boy.

At kirk or market, whereer they met,

They never durst avow,

But 'Thou be kind to my boy,' she says,

'I'll be kind to your bonnie dow.'

This boy was sixteen years of age,

But he was nae seventeen,

When he is to the garden gone,

To slay that Eastmure king.

'Be aware, be aware, thou Eastmure king,

Be aware this day of me;

For I do swear and do declare

Thy botcher I will be.'

'What aileth thee, my bonnie boy?

What aileth thee at me?

I'm sure I never did thee wrang;

Thy face I neer did see.'

'Thou murdered my father dear,

When scarse conceived was I;

Thou murdered my father dear,

When scarse conceived was me:'

So then he slew that Eastmure king,

Beneath that garden tree.

Harris MS., No 18, fol. 22: derived from Jannie Scott, an

old Perthshire nurse, about 1790.

Eastmuir king, and Wastmuir king,

And king o Luve, a' three,

It's they coost kevils them amang,

Aboot a gay ladie.

Eastmuir king he wan the gowd,

An Wastmuir king the fee,

But king o Luve, wi his lands sae broad,

He's won the fair ladie.

Thae twa kings, they made an aith,

That, be it as it may,

They wad slay him king o Luve,

Upon his waddin day.

Eastmuir king he brak his aith,

An sair penance did he;

But Wastmuir king he made it oot,

An an ill deid mat he dee!

* * * * *

#B.#

4^4. Onore's feet _originally_.

5^3. Onores.

[144] "As far as he can remember, the old woman gave the story in

fewer verses." Christie gives the ballad from Scott (omitting stanzas

10-18), "with slight alterations from the way she sung it." These

alterations are: 1^1, has _omitted_. 4^1, Then some _for_ O some. 26^3,

fair castle _for_ bonny castle (bonny in Scott, 1833; fair in Scott,

1802). 29^2, is right _for_ was right. 29^4. Ere ever you _for_ Or ever

ye. Dean Christie's memory, it seems, retains the most inconsiderable

variations, while it is not so good for larger things. See the note at

Christie, I, 128, 'Willie and Earl Richard's Daughter,' in this volume,

and other ballads.

JELLON GRAME.

#A. a.# 'Jellon Grame and Lillie Flower,' A. Fraser

Tytler's Brown MS., No 4. #b.# 'Jellon Grame,' Scott's

Minstrelsy, II, 20, 1802.

#B.# 'Hind Henry,' Motherwell's MS., p. 443.

#C.# 'May-a-Row,' Buchan's Ballads of the North of

Scotland, II, 231.

#D.# 'Lady Margerie,' Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and

Galloway Song, p. 222.

'Jellon Grame' was first given to the world in Scott's Minstrelsy, in

1802. The editor says of this copy, #A b#, "This ballad is published

from tradition, with some conjectural emendations. It is corrected

by a copy in Mrs Brown's MS. [#A a#], from which it differs in the

concluding stanzas. Some verses are apparently modernized." The only

very important difference between Scott's version and Mrs Brown's is

its having four stanzas of its own, the four before the last two, which

are evidently not simply modernized, but modern.

There is a material difference between the story furnished by #A# and

what we learn from the three other copies. Jellon Grame sends for his

love Lillie Flower to come to the wood. She is very eager to go, though

warned by the messenger that she may never come back. Jellon Grame, who

has already dug her grave, kills her because her father will hang him

when it is discovered that she has had a child by him. He brings up the

child as his sister's son. One day, when the boy asks why his mother

does not take him home, Jellon Grame (very unnaturally) answers, I slew

her, and there she lies: upon which the boy sends an arrow through him.

In #B#, #C#, #D#, the man is Henry, Hind Henry, #B#, #C#; the maid is

May Margerie, #B#, May-a-Roe, #C#, Margerie, #D#. Margerie, in #B#,

receives a message to come to the wood to make her love a shirt, which

surprises her, for no month had passed in the year that she had not

made him three. Nevertheless, she goes, though warned by her mother

that there is a plot against her life. She is stopped in the wood

by Hind Henry, who kills her because she loves Brown Robin. Word is

carried that Margerie has been slain; her sister hastens to the wood,

takes under her care the child which Margerie was going with, and calls

him Brown Robin, after his father. The lad goes to the wood one day

after school to pull a hollin wand, and meets Hind Henry at the place

where the mother had been killed. No grass is growing just there, and

the boy asks Hind Henry why this is so. Hind Henry, not less frank than

Jellon Grame, says, That is the very spot where I killed your mother.

The boy catches at Henry's sword and runs him through.

#C# has nearly the same incidents as #B#, diluted and vulgarized in

almost twice as many verses. Brown Robin is made to be Hind Henry's

brother. The sister does not appear in the action, and the child is

brought up by the murderer, as in #A#, but is named Robin Hood, after

that bold robber. On hearing from Hind Henry how his mother had come to

her death, young Robin sends an arrow to his heart.

A story is supplied from the "traditions of Galloway" for the

fragmentary, and perhaps heterogeneous, verses called #D#; I suppose

by Allan Cunningham. Margerie was beloved by two brothers, and

preferred the elder. Henry, the younger, forged a billet to her by

which he obtained a meeting in a wood, when he reproached her for not

returning his feelings: sts 1, 2. "She expostulated with him on the

impropriety of bringing her into an unfrequented place for the purpose

of winning affections which, she observed, were not hers to bestow;"

but expostulations as to improprieties producing but slight effect in

"those rude times," told him plainly that she was with child by his

brother. Henry drew his sword and killed Margerie. The elder brother,

who was hunting, was apprised of mischief by the omens in stanza 4.

"Astonished at this singular phenomenon, he immediately flew to the

bower of his mistress, where a page informed him she was gone to the

'silver wood,' agreeably to his desire. Thither he spurred his horse,

and, meeting Henry with his bloody sword still in his hand, inquired

what he had been killing." The other replied as in stanza 5. "A mutual

explanation took place, and Henry fell by the sword of his unhappy

brother."

The resemblance of this ballad at the beginning to 'Child Maurice' will

not escape notice. Silver Wood, or the silver wood, is found in 'Child

Maurice,' #A# 1, #G# 1. #A# 14, #B# 10, #C# 15, is a commonplace: see

No 66, #A# 28, 29, #B# 20, 21, #D# 9, #E# 40; No 70, #B# 25; No 81, #K#

13. #B# 13 is found in 'Willie and Earl Richard's Daughter,' #B# 24:

cf. #A# 15. The phenomenon in #D# 4 we have had in No 65, #D# 17.

'Jellon Grame,' and particularly versions #B#, #C#, #D#, may be

regarded as a counterpart to 'Fause Foodrage,' and especially to

versions #B#, #C#, of that ballad. In 'Fause Foodrage,' #B#, #C#, and

'Jellon Grame,' #B#, #C#, #D#, a woman has two lovers. The one who is

preferred is killed by the other in 'Fause Foodrage;' in 'Jellon Grame'

the woman herself is killed by the lover she has rejected. This kind

of interchange is familiar in ballads. In both 'Fause Foodrage' and

'Jellon Grame' the son of the woman, before he comes to manhood, takes

vengeance on the murderer.

'Jellon Grame,' as well as 'Fause Foodrage,' has certainly suffered

very much in transmission. It is interesting to find an ancient and

original trait preserved even in so extremely corrupted a version as

#C# of the present ballad, a circumstance very far from unexampled. In

stanza 18 we read that the child who is to avenge his mother "grew as

big in ae year auld as some boys woud in three," and we have a faint

trace of the same extraordinary thriving in #B# 15: "Of all the youths

was at that school none could with him compare." So in one of the

Scandinavian ballads akin to 'Fause Foodrage,' and more remotely to

'Jellon Grame,' the corresponding child grows more in two months than

other boys in eight years:

Mei voks unge Ingelbrett

í dei maanar tvaa

hell híne smaabonni

vokse paa aatte aar.

Bugge, Norske Folkeviser, No 23, st. 17, p. 113.

This is a commonplace: so again Bugge, No 5, sts 7, 8, p. 23. Compare

Robert le Diable, and Sir Gowther.

In #B# 14 we are told that the boy was called by his father's name (#C#

17 is corrupted). This is a point in the corresponding Scandinavian

ballads: Danske Viser, No 126, st. 21, No 127, st. 34; Levninger, No

12, st. 26, No 13, st. 18; Íslenzk fornkvæði, No 28, st. 33b; Bugge, No

23, st. 16; Kristensen, I, No 97, sts 7, 11, No 111, st. 9.

* * * * *

#A b# is translated by Schubart, p. 69; by Arndt, Blütenlese, p. 234.

#a.# A. Fraser Tytler's Brown MS., No 4. #b.# Scott's

Minstrelsy, II, 20, 1802.

O Jellon Grame sat in Silver Wood,

He whistled and he sang,

And he has calld his little foot-page,

His errand for to gang.

'Win up, my bonny boy,' he says,

'As quick as eer you may;

For ye maun gang for Lillie Flower,

Before the break of day.'

The boy he's buckled his belt about,

And thro the green-wood ran,

And he came to the ladie's bower-door,

Before the day did dawn.

'O sleep ye, or wake ye, Lillie Flower?

The red run's i the rain:'

'I sleep not aft, I wake right aft;

Wha's that that kens my name?'

'Ye are bidden come to Silver Wood,

But I fear you'll never win hame;

Ye are bidden come to Silver Wood,

And speak wi Jellon Grame.'

'O I will gang to Silver Wood,

Though I shoud never win hame;

For the thing I most desire on earth

Is to speak wi Jellon Grame.'

She had no ridden a mile, a mile,

A mile but barely three,

Ere she came to a new made grave,

Beneath a green oak tree.

O then up started Jellon Grame,

Out of a bush hard bye:

'Light down, light down now, Lillie Flower,

For it's here that ye maun ly.'

She lighted aff her milk-white steed,

And knelt upon her knee:

'O mercy, mercy, Jellon Grame!

For I'm nae prepar'd to die.

'Your bairn, that stirs between my sides,

Maun shortly see the light;

But to see it weltring in my blude

Woud be a piteous sight.'

'O shoud I spare your life,' he says,

'Until that bairn be born,

I ken fu well your stern father

Woud hang me on the morn.'

'O spare my life now, Jellon Grame!

My father ye neer need dread;

I'll keep my bairn i the good green wood,

Or wi it I'll beg my bread.'

He took nae pity on that ladie,

Tho she for life did pray;

But pierced her thro the fair body,

As at his feet she lay.

He felt nae pity for that ladie,

Tho she was lying dead;

But he felt some for the bonny boy,

Lay weltring in her blude.

Up has he taen that bonny boy,

Gien him to nurices nine,

Three to wake, and three to sleep,

And three to go between.

And he's brought up that bonny boy,

Calld him his sister's son;

He thought nae man would eer find out

The deed that he had done.

But it sae fell out upon a time,

As a hunting they did gay,

That they rested them in Silver Wood,

Upon a summer-day.

Then out it spake that bonny boy,

While the tear stood in his eye,

'O tell me this now, Jellon Grame,

And I pray you dinna lie.

'The reason that my mother dear

Does never take me hame?

To keep me still in banishment

Is baith a sin and shame.'

'You wonder that your mother dear

Does never send for thee;

Lo, there's the place I slew thy mother,

Beneath that green oak tree.'

Wi that the boy has bent his bow,

It was baith stout and lang,

And through and thro him Jellon Grame

He's gard an arrow gang.

Says, Lye you thare now, Jellon Grame,

My mellison you wi;

The place my mother lies buried in

Is far too good for thee.

Motherwell's MS., p. 443.

Word has come to May Margerie,

In her bower where she sat:

'You are bid come to good green-wood,

To make your love a shirt.'

'I wonder much,' said May Margerie,

'At this message to me;

There is not a month gone of this year

But I have made him three.'

Then out did speak her mother dear,

A wise woman was she;

Said, Stay at home, my daughter May,

They seek to murder thee.

'O I'll cast off my gloves, mother,

And hang them up, I say;

If I come never back again,

They will mind you on May.

'Go saddle my horseback,' she said,

'It's quick as ever you may,

And we will ride to good green-wood;

It is a pleasant day.'

And when she came to good green-wood,

It's through it they did ride;

Then up did start him Hind Henry,

Just at the lady's side.

Says, Stop, O stop, you May Margerie,

Just stop I say to thee;

The boy that leads your bridle reins

Shall see you red and blue.

It's out he drew a long, long brand,

And stroked it ower a strae,

And through and through that lady's sides

He made the cauld weapon gae.

Says, Take you that now, May Margerie,

Just take you that from me,

Because you love Brown Robin,

And never would love me.

There was less pity for that lady,

When she was lying dead,

As was for her bony infant boy,

Lay swathed amang her bleed.

The boy fled home with all his might,

The tear into his ee:

'They have slain my lady in the wood,

With fear I'm like to die.'

Her sister's ran into the wood,

With greater grief and care,

Sighing and sobbing all the way,

Tearing her cloaths and hair.

Says, I'll take up that fair infant,

And lull him on my sleeve;

Altho his father should wish me woe,

His mother to me was leeve.

Now she has taken the infant up,

And she has brought him hame,

And she has called him Brown Robin,

That was his father's name.

And when he did grow up a bit,

She put him to the lair,

And of all the youths was at that school

None could with him compare.

And it fell once upon a day

A playtime it was come,

And when the rest went from the school,

Each one to their own home,

He hied him unto good green-wood,

And leapt from tree to tree;

It was to pull a hollin wand,

To play his ownself wi.

And when he thus had passed his time,

To go home he was fain,

He chanced to meet him Hind Henry,

Where his mother was slain.

'O how is this,' the youth cried out,

'If it to you is known,

How all this wood is growing grass,

And on that small spot grows none?'

'Since you do wonder, bonnie boy,

I shall tell you anon;

That is indeed the very spot

I killed your mother in.'

He catched hold of Henry's brand,

And stroked it ower a strae,

And thro and thro Hind Henry's sides

He made the cauld metal gae.

Says, Take you that, O Hind Henry,

O take you that from me,

For killing of my mother dear,

And her not hurting thee.

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, II, 231.

When spring appeard in all its bloom,

And flowers grew fresh and green,

As May-a-Roe she set her down,

To lay gowd on her seam.

But word has come to that lady,

At evening when 't was dark,

To meet her love in gude greenwood,

And bring to him a sark.

'That's strange to me' said May-a-Roe,

'For how can a' this be?

A month or twa is scarcely past

Sin I sent my lovie three.'

Then May-a-Roe lap on her steed,

And quickly rade away;

She hadna ridden but hauf a mile,

Till she heard a voice to say:

'Turn back, turn back, ye ventrous maid,

Nae farther must ye go;

For the boy that leads your bridle rein

Leads you to your overthrow.'

But a' these words she neer did mind,

But fast awa did ride;

And up it starts him Hynde Henry,

Just fair by her right side.

'Ye'll tarry here, perfidious maid,

For by my hand ye 'se dee;

Ye married my brother, Brown Robin,

Whan ye shoud hae married me.'

'O mercy, mercy, Hynde Henry,

O mercy have on me!

For I am eight months gane wi child,

Therefore ye'll lat me be.'

'Nae mercy is for thee, fair maid,

Nae mercy is for thee;

You married my brother, Brown Robin,

Whan ye shoud hae married me.'

'Ye will bring here the bread, Henry,

And I will bring the wine,

And ye will drink to your ain love,

And I will drink to mine.'

'I winna bring here the bread, fair maid,

Nor yet shall ye the wine,

Nor will I drink to my ain love,

Nor yet shall ye to thine.'

'O mercy, mercy, Hynde Henry,

Until I lighter be!

Hae mercy on your brother's bairn,

Tho ye hae nane for me.'

'Nae mercy is for thee, fair maid,

Nae mercy is for thee;

Such mercy unto you I'll gie

As what ye gae to me.'

Then he's taen out a trusty brand,

And stroakd it ower a strae,

And thro and thro her fair body

He's gart cauld iron gae.

Nae meen was made for that lady,

For she was lying dead;

But a' was for her bonny bairn,

Lay spartling by her side.

Then he's taen up the bonny bairn,

Handled him tenderlie,

And said, Ye are o my ain kin,

Tho your mother ill used me.

He's washen him at the crystal stream,

And rowd him in a weed,

And namd him after a bold robber

Who was calld Robin Hood.

Then brought to the next borough's town,

And gae him nurses three;

He grew as big in ae year auld

As some boys woud in three.

Then he was sent to guid squeel-house,

To learn how to thrive;

He learnd as muckle in ae year's time

As some boys would in five.

But I wonder, I wonder,' said little Robin,

'Gin eer a woman bare me;

For mony a lady spiers for the rest,

But nae ane spiers for me.

'I wonder, I wonder,' said little Robin,

'Were I of woman born;

Whan ladies my comrades do caress,

They look at me wi scorn.'

It fell upon an evening-tide,

Was ae night by it lane,

Whan a' the boys frae guid squeel-house

Were merrily coming hame,

Robin parted frae the rest,

He wishd to be alane;

And when his comrades he dismist,

To guid greenwood he's gane.

When he came to guid greenwood,

He clamb frae tree to tree,

To pou some o the finest leaves,

For to divert him wi.

He hadna pu'd a leaf, a leaf,

Nor brake a branch but ane,

Till by it came him Hynde Henry,

And bade him lat alane.

'You are too bauld a boy,' he said,

'Sae impudent you be,

As pu the leaves that's nae your ain,

Or yet to touch the tree.'

'O mercy, mercy, gentleman,

O mercy hae on me!

For if that I offence hae done,

It was unknown to me.'

'Nae boy comes here to guid greenwood

But pays a fine to me;

Your velvet coat, or shooting-bow,

Which o them will ye gie?'

'My shooting-bow arches sae well,

Wi it I canno part;

Lest wer't to send a sharp arrow

To pierce you to the heart.'

He turnd him right and round about,

His countenance did change:

'Ye seem to be a boy right bauld;

Why can ye talk sae strange?

'I'm sure ye are the bauldest boy

That ever I talkd wi;

As for your mother, May-a-Roe,

She was neer sae bauld to me.'

'O, if ye knew my mother,' he said,

'That's very strange to me;

And if that ye my mother knew,

It's mair than I coud dee.'

'Sae well as I your mother knew,

Ance my sweet-heart was she;

Because to me she broke her vow,

This maid was slain by me.'

'O, if ye slew my mother dear,

As I trust ye make nae lie,

I wyte ye never did the deed

That better paid shall be.'

'O mercy, mercy, little Robin,

O mercy hae on me!'

'Sic mercy as ye pae my mother,

Sic mercy I'll gie thee.

'Prepare yourself, perfidious man,

For by my hand ye 'se dee;

Now come's that bluidy butcher's end

Took my mother frae me.'

Then he hae chosen a sharp arrow,

That was baith keen and smart,

And let it fly at Hynde Henry,

And piercd him to the heart.

These news hae gaen thro Stirling town,

Likewise thro Hunting-ha;

At last it reachd the king's own court,

Amang the nobles a'.

When the king got word o that,

A light laugh then gae he,

And he's sent for him little Robin,

To come right speedilie.

He's putten on little Robin's head

A ribbon and gowden crown,

And made him ane o's finest knights,

For the valour he had done.

Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, p. 222.

* * * * * * *

'D'ye mind, d'ye mind, Lady Margerie,

When we handed round the beer?

Seven times I fainted for your sake,

And you never dropt a tear.

'D'ye mind, d'ye mind, Lady Margerie,

When we handed round the wine?

Seven times I fainted for your sake,

And you never fainted once for mine.'

* * * * * * *

And he's taen the baby out of her womb

And thrown it upon a thorn:

'Let the wind blow east, let the wind blow west,

The cradle will rock its lone.'

* * * * * * *

But when brother Henry's cruel brand

Had done the bloody deed,

The silver-buttons flew off his coat,

And his nose began to bleed.

* * * * * * *

'O I have been killing in the silver wood

What will breed mickle woe;

I have been killing in the silver wood

A dawdy and a doe.'

* * * * * * *

* * * * *

#A. a.#

10^4. piteouus.

#b.#

1^2. he sharpd his broad-sword lang.

1^4. An errand.

2^2. quickly as ye.

3^1. boy has.

3^3. ladye's bower.

4^1. or _omitted._

4^2. red sun's on.

4^{3, 4}. _wanting._

5^{1, 2}. _as_ 4^{3, 4}: I doubt ye'll.

5^{3, 4}. _wanting._

6. _wanting._

7^1. had na.

8^2. there bye.

9^4. no.

11^2. were born.

11^3. Full weel I ken your auld.

12^2. ye need na.

12^3. babe in gude.

13^1. on Lillie Flower.

14^1. for Lillie Flower.

14^2. Where she.

14^3. bonny bairn.

14^4. That lay.

15^3. Three to sleep and three to wake.

16^1. he bred.

16^3. And he thought no eye could ever see.

17^1. O so it fell upon a day.

17^2. When hunting they might be.

17^3. That _omitted._

17^4. Beneath that green aik tree.

18-20.

And mony were the green wood flowers

Upon the grave that grew,

And marvelld much that bonny boy

To see their lovely hue.

'What's paler than the prymrose wan?

What's redder than the rose?

What's fairer than the lilye flower

On this wee know that grows?'

O out and answered Jellon Grame,

And he spake hastilie;

'Your mother was a fairer flower,

And lies beneath this tree.

'More pale she was, when she sought my grace,

Than prymrose pale and wan,

And redder than rose her ruddy heart's blood,

That down my broad-sword ran.'

22^1. Lie ye.

22^2. gang you wi.

#B.#

12^1. sisters ran: into _altered to_ unto.

FAIR MARY OF WALLINGTON

#A.# 'Fair Mary of Wellington,' Lovely Jenny's Garland,

three copies, as early as 1775.

#B.# 'Lady Mazery,' Herd's MSS: #a#, I, 186; #b#, II, 89.

#C.# 'The Bonny Earl of Livingston,' Alexander Fraser

Tytler's Brown MS., No 5.

#D.# 'The Laird o Livingstone,' Dr John Hill Burton's

MS., No 2.

#E.# 'Mild Mary,' Motherwell's MS., p. 123.

#F.# 'Lord Darlington.' #a.# Buchan's Ballads of the

North of Scotland, I, 183. #b.# The Borderer's Table

Book, VII, 178.

'Fair Mary of Wallington' was communicated to Bishop Percy, with other

"old Scots Songs," in 1775, by Roger Halt, and presumably in a copy of

the garland from which it is here printed. #A# was given by Ritson,

from an inferior edition, with corrections, and the title changed to

'Fair Mabel of Wallington,' in The Northumberland Garland, 1793, p. 38

of the reprint of Northern Garlands, 1809. Ritson's copy is repeated

in Bell's Rhymes of Northern Bards, 1812, p. 147, and in Richardson's

Borderer's Table Book, VI, 141.

The story is very well preserved and very well told in #A#. All the

seven sisters of a family are destined to die of their first child.

Five having so died already, one of the remaining two expresses a

resolution never to marry, since she is sure that she will go the way

of the others. She is told that a knight has been there, asking for her

hand. Then in three quarters of a year they may come to her burial.

When her husband's mother welcomes her to her castle and bowers, the

bride responds, under the operation of her melancholy conviction,

I think they 'll soon be yours. At the end of three quarters of a

year she sends messages to her family: to her mother to come to her

sickening or her wake;[145] to her sister to remain in maidenhood, and

escape the doom of the family. When the mother arrives the young wife

is in extremities.[146] She gives rings to her mother, who is all to

blame, gives rings to her husband, and with a razor opens her side,

and takes out an heir for the house. In #D# we are told that five boys

had been cut from their mothers, Mary's sisters, before. In #B# the

remaining sister declares that no man shall ever lie by her side; but

her mother says she shall marry though she live but three quarters of a

year: so, nearly, in #C#.

A Breton ballad, 'Pontplancoat,' #A#, Luzel, I, 382, #B#, p. 386,

exhibits such correspondences with the English and Scottish that we

cannot hesitate to assume that it has the same source.

In the first version Pontplancoat marries Marguerite for his third

wife. He is obliged by affairs to leave her, and has a dream which

disturbs him so much that he returns home the same night. This dream

is that his wife has been three days in travail, and it proves true. A

spoon is put in the lady's mouth, an incision made in her right side,

and a son taken out. This is Pontplancoat's third son, and each of them

has been extracted from his mother's side. He has had three wives of

the name of Marguerite, and they have all died in this way.

Marguerite, in the other version, is told by her mother that she

is to marry Pontplancoat. Marguerite signifies her obedience, but

Pontplancoat has already had four wives of her name, all of whom "had

been opened," and she shall be the fifth. As before, Pontplancoat is

obliged to go away, and during his absence he receives letters which

inform him that his wife is in labor and that the chances are against a

normal delivery. He returns instantly. The lady has been three days in

labor. A silver ball is put into her mouth, her right side opened with

a knife, and a son extracted. Pontplancoat has four sons besides, all

of whom have been brought into the world in this way.

English #A# is localized in Northumberland, and Mary made the wife of a

Sir William Fenwick of Wellington. According to notes of Percy, he had

not been able to find a Sir William Fenwick, lord of Wallington, with

a wife of the name of Mary. Were a Sir William and Lady Mary Fenwick

authenticable, a nice historical question would arise between them

and some baron and baroness of the family Pontplancoat in Finistère,

Brittany.

An extensively disseminated Scandinavian ballad has been assumed to be

of kin with 'Mary of Wallington,' and in one version or another has

resemblances which may possibly come from unity of origin, but the

general likeness is certainly not striking. The published texts are:

#Norwegian#, 'Maalfrí,' Bugge, Gamle norske Folkeviser, p. 122, No 25,

#A#, #B#. #Icelandic#, 'Málfríðar kvæði,' Íslenzk fornkvæði, I, 208, No

24, #A#-#D#. #Swedish#, 'Herr Peder och Malfred,' Afzelius, I, 70, No

14. #Danish#, #A#, 'Esben og Malfred,' "Tragica, No 26," Danske Viser,

III, 208, No 133; #B#, #C#, Kristensen, I, 232, No 87, #A#, #B#; #D#,

#E#, 'Malfreds Død,' Kristensen, II, 232, No 69, #A#, #B#; #F#, 'Liden

Malfreds Vise,' Feilberg, Fra Heden, p. 119; #G#, 'Herr Peder og Liden

Malfred,' Berggreen's Danske Folkesange, 3d ed., p. 172, No 88. The

Danish ballad is preserved in ten manuscripts, and Grundtvig possessed

not less than twenty-two traditionary Danish versions and two Swedish,

which he did not live to print.

The Norwegian ballad is most like, or least unlike, the English.

Maalfrí, a king's only daughter, is married to Karl, king of England.

It was spaed to her when she was yet a maid that she should die of

her twelfth lying in; she has already born eleven children. The king

purposing to leave her for a time, she reminds him of the prophecy. He

defies spaewives and goes, but after three days dreams that Maalfrí's

cloak is cut in two, that her hair is cut to bits, etc.; and this sends

him home, when he learns that two sons have been cut from her side. He

throws himself on his sword. Maalfrí, Malfred, is, in the other Norse

ballads, also an only daughter, and dies in her twelfth child-birth,

in all but Icelandic #B#, #C#, #D#, where the first is fatal to her.

There are no other important diversities, and the resemblances in the

details of the Norse and the English ballads are these two: the wife

being fated to die of her first child in Icelandic #B#, #C#, #D#, and

the Cæsarean operation in the Norwegian versions.

It is barely worth mentioning that there is also a German ballad, in

which a maid (only eleven years old in most of the versions) begs her

mother not to give her to a husband, because she will not live more

than a year if married, and dies accordingly in child-birth: 'Hans

Markgraf,' "Bothe, Frühlings-Almanach, 1806, p. 132," reprinted in

Büsching und von der Hagen's Volkslieder, p. 30, Erlach, II, 136,

Mittler, No 133; "Alle bei Gott die sich lieben," Wunderhorn, 1808,

II, 250, Erlach, IV, 127, Mittler, No 128; Hoffmann und Richter,

Schlesische Volkslieder, p. 12, No 5, Mittler, No 132. To these may

be added 'Der Graf und die Bauerntochter,' Ditfurth, II, 8, No 9;

'Der Mutter Fluch,' Meinert, p. 246. In these last it is the mother

who objects to the marriage, on account of her daughter's extreme

youth.[147]

Lovely Jenny's Garland, three copies, as early as 1775,

but without place or date.

When we were silly sisters seven,

sisters were so fair,

Five of us were brave knights' wives,

and died in childbed lair.

Up then spake Fair Mary,

marry woud she nane;

If ever she came in man's bed,

the same gate wad she gang.

'Make no vows, Fair Mary,

for fear they broken be;

Here's been the Knight of Wallington,

asking good will of thee.'

'If here's been the knight, mother,

asking good will of me,

Within three quarters of a year

you may come bury me.'

When she came to Wallington,

and into Wallington hall,

There she spy'd her mother dear,

walking about the wall.

'You're welcome, daughter dear,

to thy castle and thy bowers;'

'I thank you kindly, mother,

I hope they'll soon be yours.'

She had not been in Wallington

three quarters and a day,

Till upon the ground she could not walk,

she was a weary prey.

She had not been in Wallington

three quarters and a night,

Till on the ground she coud not walk,

she was a weary wight.

'Is there neer a boy in this town,

who'll win hose and shun,

That will run to fair Pudlington,

and bid my mother come?'

Up then spake a little boy,

near unto a-kin;

'Full oft I have your errands gone,

but now I will it run.'

Then she calld her waiting-maid

to bring up bread and wine:

'Eat and drink, my bonny boy,

thou'll neer eat more of mine.

'Give my respects to my mother,

[as] she sits in her chair of stone,

And ask her how she likes the news,

of seven to have but one.

['Give my respects to my mother,

as she sits in her chair of oak,

And bid her come to my sickening,

or my merry lake-wake.]

'Give my love to my brother

William, Ralph, and John,

And to my sister Betty fair,

and to her white as bone.

'And bid her keep her maidenhead,

be sure make much on 't,

For if eer she come in man's bed,

the same gate will she gang.'

Away this little boy is gone,

as fast as he could run;

When he came where brigs were broke,

he lay down and swum.

When he saw the lady, he said,

Lord may your keeper be!

'What news, my pretty boy,

hast thou to tell to me?'

'Your daughter Mary orders me,

as you sit in a chair of stone,

To ask you how you like the news,

of seven to have but one.

'Your daughter gives commands,

as you sit in a chair of oak,

And bids you come to her sickening,

or her merry lake-wake.

'She gives command to her brother

William, Ralph, and John,

[And] to her sister Betty fair,

and to her white as bone.

'She bids her keep her maidenhead,

be sure make much on 't,

For if eer she came in man's bed,

the same gate woud she gang.'

She kickt the table with her foot,

she kickt it with her knee,

The silver plate into the fire,

so far she made it flee.

Then she calld her waiting-maid

to bring her riding-hood,

So did she on her stable-groom

to bring her riding-steed.

'Go saddle to me the black [the black,]

go saddle to me the brown,

Go saddle to me the swiftest steed

that eer rid [to] Wallington.'

When they came to Wallington,

and into Wallington hall,

There she spy'd her son Fenwick,

walking about the wall.

'God save you, dear son,

Lord may your keeper be!

Where is my daughter fair,

that used to walk with thee?'

He turnd his head round about,

the tears did fill his ee:

''T is a month,' he said, 'since she

took her chambers from me.'

She went on ...

and there were in the hall

Four and twenty ladies,

letting the tears down fall.

Her daughter had a scope

into her cheek and into her chin,

All to keep her life

till her dear mother came.

'Come take the rings off my fingers,

the skin it is so white,

And give them to my mother dear,

for she was all the wite.

'Come take the rings off my fingers,

the veins they are so red,

Give them to Sir William Fenwick,

I'm sure his heart will bleed.'

She took out a razor

that was both sharp and fine,

And out of her left side has taken

the heir of Wallington.

There is a race in Wallington,

and that I rue full sare;

Tho the cradle it be full spread up,

the bride-bed is left bare.

Herd's MSS: #a#, I, 186; #b#, II, 89.

'When we were sisters seven,

An five of us deyd wi child,

And there is nane but you and I, Mazery,

And we'll go madens mild.'

But there came knights, and there came squiers,

An knights of high degree;

She pleasd hersel in Levieston,

Thay wear a comly twa.

He has bought her rings for her fingers,

And garlands for her hair,

The broochis till her bosome braid;

What wad my love ha mair?

And he has brought her on to Livingston,

And made her lady thear.

She had na been in Liveingston

A twelvemonth and a day,

Till she was as big wi bairn

As ony lady could gae.

The knight he knocked his white fingers,

The goude rings flew in twa:

'Halls and bowers they shall go wast

Ere my bonny love gie awa!'

The knight he knocked his white fingers,

The goude rings flew in foure:

'Halls and bowers they shall go waste

Eren my bonny lady gie it ore!'

The knight he knocked his white fingers,

The lady[s] sewed and sung;

It was to comfort Lady Mazery,

But her life-days wear na long.

'O whare will I get a bonny boy,

That will win both hoos and shoon,

That will win his way to Little Snoddown,

To my mother, the Queen?'

Up and stands a bonny boy,

Goude yellow was his hair;

I wish his mother mickle grace at him,

And his trew-love mickle mare.

'Here am I a bonny boy,

That will win baith hoos an shoon,

That will win my way to Little Snoddown,

To thy mother, the Queen.'

'Here is the rings frae my fingers,

The garlonds frae my hair,

The broches fray my bosom braid;

Fray me she'll nere get mare.

'Here it is my weeding-goun,

It is a' goude but the hem;

Gi it to my sister Allen,

For she is left now bird her lane.

'When you come whare brigs is broken,

Ye'l bent your bow and swim;

An when ye come whare green grass grows,

Ye'l slack your shoon and run.

'But when you come to yon castle,

Bide neither to chap nor ca,

But you'l set your bent bow to your breast,

And lightly loup the wa,

And gin the porter be half-gate,

Ye'll be ben throw the ha.'

O when he came whare brigs was broken,

He bent his bow and swam;

An when he came where green grass grows,

He slackd his shoon an ran.

And when he came to yon castel,

He stayed neither to chap no ca'l,

But bent his bow unto his breast,

And lightly lap the wa'l;

And gin the porter was hafe-gate,

He was ben throw the ha'l.

'O peace be to you, ladys a'l!

As ye sit at your dine

Ye ha little word of Lady Mazerë,

For she drees mickel pine.

'Here is the rings frae her fingers,

The garlands frae her hair,

The broches frae her bosome brade;

Fray her ye'l nere get mare.

'Here it is her weeding-goun,

It is a' goude but the hem;

Ye'll ge it to her sister Allen,

For she is left bird her lane.'

She ca'd the table wi her foot,

And coped it wi her tae,

Till siller cups an siller cans

Unto the floor did gae.

'Ye wash, ye wash, ye bonny boy,

Ye wash, and come to dine;

It does not fit a bonny boy

His errant for to tine.

'Ge saddle to me the black, the black,

Ge saddle to me the brown,

Ge saddle to me the swiftest steed

That ever rid frae a town.'

The first steed they saddled to her,

He was the bonny black;

He was a good steed, an a very good steed,

But he tiyrd eer he wan the slack.

The next steed they saddled to her,

He was the bonny brown;

He was a good steed, an a very good steed,

But he tiyird ere he wan the town.

The next steed they saddled to her,

He was the bonny white;

Fair fa the mair that fo'd the fole

That carried her to Mazeree['s] lear!

As she gaed in at Leivingston,

Thair was na mickel pride;

The scobs was in her lovely mouth,

And the razer in her side.

'O them that marrys your daughter, lady,

I think them but a foole;

A married man at Martimass,

An a widdow the next Yule!'

'O hold your toung now, Livingston,

Let all your folly abee;

I bear the burden in my breast,

Mun suffer them to dee.'

Out an speaks her Bird Allen,

For she spake ay through pride;

'That man shall near be born,' she says,

'That shall ly down by my side.'

'O hold your toung now, Bird Allen,

Let all your folly abee;

For you shall marry a man,' she says,

'Tho ye shoud live but rathes three.'

Alexander Fraser Tytler's Brown MS., No 5.

'O we were sisters seven, Maisry,

And five are dead wi child;

There is nane but you and I, Maisry,

And we'll go maidens mild.'

She hardly had the word spoken,

And turnd her round about,

When the bonny Earl of Livingston

Was calling Maisry out.

Upon a bonny milk-white steed,

That drank out of the Tyne,

And a' was for her Ladie Maisry,

To take her hyne and hyne.

Upon a bonny milk-white steed,

That drank out o the Tay,

And a' was for her Lady Maisry,

To carry her away.

She had not been at Livingston

A twelve month and a day,

Until she was as big wi bairn

As any ladie coud gae.

She calld upon her little foot-page,

Says, Ye maun run wi speed,

And bid my mother come to me,

For of her I'll soon have need.

'See, there is the brootch frae my hause-bane,

It is of gowd sae ried;

Gin she winna come when I'm alive,

Bid her come when I am dead.'

But ere she wan to Livingston,

As fast as she coud ride,

The gaggs they were in Maisry's mouth,

And the sharp sheers in her side.

Her good lord wrang his milk-white hands,

Till the gowd rings flaw in three:

'Let ha's and bowers and a' gae waste,

My bonny love's taen frae me!'

'O hold your tongue, Lord Livingston,

Let a' your mourning be;

For I bare the bird between my sides,

Yet I maun thole her to die.'

Then out it spake her sister dear,

As she sat at her head:

'That man is not in Christendoom

Shall gar me die sicken dead.'

'O hold your tongue, my ae daughter,

Let a' your folly be,

For ye shall be married ere this day week

Tho the same death you should die.'

Dr John Hill Burton's MS., No 2.

'Here it is was sisters seven,

And five is died with child;

Was non but you and I, Hellen,

And we'se be maidens mild.'

They hadna been maidens o bonny Snawdon

A twalvemonth and a day,

When lairds and lords a courting came,

Seeking Mary away.

The bonny laird of Livingstone,

He liket Mary best;

He gae her a ring, a royal ring,

And he wedded her at last.

She hed na been lady o Livingstone

A twalvemonth and a day,

When she did go as big wi bairn

As iver a woman could be.

* * * * * * *

The knights were wringin their white fingers,

And the ladys wer tearin their hair;

It was a' for the lady o Livingstone,

For a word she never spake mare.

Out and spake her sister Hellen,

Where she sat by her side;

'The man shall never be born,' she said,

'Shall ever make me his bride.

'The man,' she said, 'that would merry me,

I'de count him but a feel,

To merry me at Whitsunday,

And bury me at Yele.'

Out and spak her mother dear,

Whare she sat by the fire:

'I bare this babe now from my side,

Maun suffer her to die.

'And I have six boys now to my oyes,

And none of them were born,

But a hole cut in their mother's side,

And they from it were shorne.'

. . . . . . .

Motherwell's MS., p. 123, from the recitation of Mrs

Macqueen, Lochwinnoch.

'Arise, arise, dochter,' she said,

'My bidding to obey;

The bravest lord in all Scotland

This night asked you of me.'

'O haud your tongue, mother,' she said,

'These words they do me wrang;

For gin I lye in a man's bed,

My days will no be lang.

'There were seven sisters o us a',

We were a' clad in white;

And five of them were married,

And in child-bed they died.'

'Ye shall not be drest in black,

Nor sall ye be in broun;

But ye'se be drest in shining gowd,

To gae glittering thro the town.

'Your father sall ride before you,' she said,

'And your brother sall ride ahin;

Your horses fore-feet siller shod,

And his hind anes wi gowd shall shine.

'Wi four and twenty buirdlie men

Atween ye and the wun,

And four and twenty bonnie mays

Atween ye and the sun.

'Four and twenty milk-white geese,

Stretching their wings sae wide,

Blawing the dust aff the high-way,

That Mild Mary may ride.'

They took to them their milk-white steeds,

Set her upon a grey,

And wi a napkin in her hand

Weeping she rade away.

O they rade on that lee-lang nicht,

And part o the neist day also,

And syne she saw her auld good mother

Stand in the gates below.

'You'r welcome, welcome, dochter,' she said,

'To your biggins and your bowers;'

'I thank ye kindly, mither,' she said,

'But I doubt they'll sune be yours.'

* * * * * * *

#a.# Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 183.

#b.# The Borderer's Table Book, VII, 178, communicated by

J. H. Dixon; "transcribed from a MS. copy in possession

of an antiquarian friend," collated with #a#.

'O we were seven brave sisters,

Five of us died wi child,

And nane but you and I, Maisry,

So we'll gae maidens mild.'

'O had your tongue, now Lady Margaret,

Let a' your folly be;

I'll gar you keep your true promise

To the lad ayont the sea.'

'O there is neither lord nor knight

My love shall ever won,

Except it be Lord Darlington,

And here he winna come.'

But when the hour o twall was past,

And near the hour o one,

Lord Darlington came to the yetts,

Wi thirty knights and ten.

Then he has wedded Lady Margaret,

And brought her oer the sea,

And there was nane that lived on earth

Sae happy as was she.

But when nine months were come and gane

Strong travailling took she,

And nae physician in the land

Could ease her maladie.

'Where will I get a little wee boy,

Will won baith meat and fee,

That will gae on to Seaton's yetts,

Bring my mother to me?'

'O here am I, a little wee boy,

That will won meat and fee,

That will gae on to Seaton's yetts,

And bring your mother to thee.'

Then he is on to Seaton's yetts,

As fast as gang could he;

Says, Ye must come to Darlington,

Your daughter for to see.

But when she came to Darlington,

Where there was little pride,

The scobbs were in the lady's mouth,

The sharp sheer in her side.

Darlington stood on the stair,

And gart the gowd rings flee:

'My ha's and bowers and a' shall gae waste,

If my bonny love die for me.'

'O had your tongue, Lord Darlington,

Let a' your folly be;

I boor the bird within my sides,

I'll suffer her to die.

'But he that marries my daughter,

I think he is a fool;

If he marries her at Candlemas,

She'll be frae him ere Yule.

'I had seven ance in companie,

This night I go my lane;

And when I come to Clyde's water,

I wish that I may drown.'

* * * * *

#A.#

_The copy of the garland here used is much more correct

than the other two, but still not carefully printed.

The garland gives the ballad in eight stanzas of eight

verses._

1^1. so were sisters.

6^2. bower: _perhaps we should read_ towers.

8^2. weight, _which makes sense, but, taking rhyme into

account, the change seems requisite: cf. 30^2_.

15^2. came: come _in the other copies_.

16^2. swim.

19^1. of aik?

19^2. weary lake-wake? _if so, also 13^2_.

27^1. his eyes.

28^2. downfal.

30^1. finger.

30^2. weight.

31^1. of: veine.

#B. a.#

_Stanzas 5-7 should come after 26, but the changes which

have been traditionally made in 7, to adapt the passage

to its actual position, render the restoration of the

right order impracticable. 7^1 is not comforting._

2^2. An lords?

3^3. brooch is.

12^4. now to bird: _cf. 19^4_.

13^2. bent: _so the other copy_.

13^4. Ye.

14^2. clap nor cae': _cf. 16^2_.

15^1. come.

16^2. war (?).

17^1. a^l.

19^3. to my.

20^2. coped: caped?

21. _After this these lines are struck out_:

Nor yet do (to?) a well-ford made

Her errant for to set (let?).

22^1. Ga.

23^4. stack (?).

29^2. throught.

30^4. luve, _in my copy_.

_The spelling is in several places doubtful._

#b# _appears to be a transcript of #a#: the spelling is somewhat

regulated._

3^3. broatch is.

6^2. in twa.

8^2. wun.

8^3. will rin.

8^3, 10^3. Little Snod Down.

9^3. of him.

12^4. bird her lane.

16^3. into.

18^3. broch is.

20^2. caped it.

21^{1, 2}. Gae wash.

22^{1, 2, 3}. Go, Go, Gae.

23^4. slack.

25^4. lear _wanting_.

26^3. scobs _wanting_.

30^4. live: rather.

#C.#

10^4. here: e _added in different ink_.

#D.#

1^4. maiden.

7^1. ringin.

9^1. that w^d.

10^3. I hear.

#E.#

6^2. the win' _originally: ~i~ seems to have been changed

to_ u.

#F. a.#

13^1. But her.

#b.#

2^4. the lord.

3^2. my true love eer shall be.

3^4. And he winna come here to me.

5^1. It's he.

6^3. And neer a leech in a'.

7^2. That will win meat.

7^4. And bring your.

O out then spake the little foot-page,

And knelt on bended knee:

O here, _etc._

8^2. will win both.

11^1. Lord Darlington.

12^3. side.

13^1. He that marries a daughter o mine.

13^2. I wot.

13^3. Candemas tide.

13^4. at Yule.

14^3. When I come to the salt water.

[145] The stanza which should convey this part of the message is

wanting, but may be confidently supplied from the errand-boy's

repetition.

[146] The three steeds in #B# 23-25, the tiring out of the black and of

the brown, and the endurance of the white, are found in 'Lady Maisry,'

No 65, #B#, #C#, #E#, #F#, and this passage perhaps belongs to that

ballad. It may, however, have been a commonplace. There is something

similar in Bugge, p. 130, No 26 #B#, 6-8, and Landstad, p. 512, No 57,

24-27. For the milk-white geese, #E# 7, see No 66, #C# 22, No 73, #A#,

note.

[147] Uhland, Schriften zur Geschichte der Dichtung und Sage, IV, 107,

cites the chair of stone in English #A# 12, 18, as bringing to mind

Bothe, st. 14, Wunderhorn, st. 12, where the mother sits down auf einen

breiten Stein, an ein harten Stein, and breaks her heart. The chair of

stone in the English ballad, like the chair of oak, is a customary seat

of the mother's, and she is very far from breaking her heart. Nothing

can be built on such accidents.

BONNY BEE HOM

#A.# 'Bonny Bee Ho'm,' Alexander Fraser Tytler's Brown

MS., No 6; Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 185.

#B.# 'The Enchanted Ring,' Buchan's Ballads of the North

of Scotland, I, 169.

#A# was given from the manuscript by Jamieson "verbatim," that is,

with a few slight variations; the first stanza earlier, in the Scots

Magazine, October, 1803, p. 700.

For the ring (chain, #A# 7) that makes a man invulnerable, and that

which indicates by the discoloration of the stone that his love is dead

or untrue, see 'Hind Horn,' I, 200 f; for the vows in #A# 3, 4, #B#

3, 'Clerk Saunders,' at p. 156 f of this volume.[148] The like vows

are adopted into a song called 'The Lowlands of Holland,' found in

Herd's MSS, I, 97, and inserted in his Scottish Songs, 1776, II, 2; a

fragment, but all that concerns us.[149]

'My love has built a bony ship, and set her on the sea,

With seven score good mariners to bear her company;

There's three score is sunk, and three score dead at sea,

And the Lowlands of Holland has twin'd my love and me.

'My love he built another ship, and set her on the main,

And nane but twenty mariners for to bring her hame;

But the weary wind began to rise, and the sea began to rout,

My love then and his bonny ship turnd withershins about.

'There shall neither coif come on my head nor comb come in my hair;

There shall neither coal nor candle-light shine in my bower mair;

Nor will I love another one until the day I die,

For I never lovd a love but one, and he's drowned in the sea.'

'O had your tongue, my daughter dear, be still and be content;

There are mair lads in Galloway, ye neen nae sair lament:'

'O there is none in Gallow, there's none at a' for me,

For I never lovd a love but one, and he's drowned in the sea.'

* * * * *

Alexander Fraser Tytler's Brown MS., No 6.

By Arthur's Dale as late I went

I heard a heavy moan;

I heard a ladie lammenting sair,

And ay she cried Ohone!

'Ohon, alas! what shall I do,

Tormented night and day!

I never loved a love but ane,

And now he's gone away.

'But I will do for my true-love

What ladies woud think sair;

For seven year shall come and go

Ere a kaim gang in my hair.

'There shall neither a shoe gang on my foot,

Nor a kaim gang in my hair,

Nor eer a coal nor candle-light

Shine in my bower nae mair.'

She thought her love had been on the sea,

Fast sailling to Bee Hom;

But he was in a quiet chamer,

Hearing his ladie's moan.

'Be husht, be husht, my ladie dear,

I pray thee mourn not so;

For I am deep sworn on a book

To Bee Hom for to go.'

She has gien him a chain of the beaten gowd,

And a ring with a ruby stone:

'As lang as this chain your body binds,

Your blude can never be drawn.

'But gin this ring shoud fade or fail,

Or the stone shoud change its hue,

Be sure your love is dead and gone,

Or she has proved untrue.'

He had no been at Bonny Bee Hom

A twelve month and a day,

Till, looking on his gay gowd ring,

The stone grew dark and gray.

'O ye take my riches to Bee Hom,

And deal them presentlie,

To the young that canna, the auld that maunna,

And the blind that does not see.'

Now death has come into his bower,

And split his heart in twain;

So their twa souls flew up to heaven,

And there shall ever remain.

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 169.

In Lauderdale I chanc'd to walk,

And heard a lady's moan,

Lamenting for her dearest dear,

And aye she cried, Ohon!

'Sure never a maid that eer drew breath

Had harder fate than me;

I'd never a lad but one on earth,

They forc'd him to the sea.

'The ale shall neer be brewin o malt,

Neither by sea nor land,

That ever mair shall cross my hause,

Till my love comes to hand.

'A handsome lad, wi shoulders broad,

Gold yellow was his hair;

None of our Scottish youths on earth

That with him could compare.'

She thought her love was gone to sea,

And landed in Bahome;

But he was in a quiet chamber,

Hearing his lady's moan.

'Why make ye all this moan, lady?

Why make ye all this moan?

For I'm deep sworn on a book,

I must go to Bahome.

'Traitors false for to subdue

Oer seas I'll make me boun,

That have trepand our kind Scotchmen,

Like dogs to ding them down.'

'Weell, take this ring, this royal thing,

Whose virtue is unknown;

As lang's this ring's your body on,

Your blood shall neer be drawn.

'But if this ring shall fade or stain,

Or change to other hue,

Come never mair to fair Scotland,

If ye're a lover true.'

Then this couple they did part,

With a sad heavy moan;

The wind was fair, the ship was rare,

They landed in Bahome.

But in that place they had not been

A month but barely one,

Till he lookd on his gay gold ring,

And riven was the stone.

Time after this was not expir'd

A month but scarcely three,

Till black and ugly was the ring,

And the stone was burst in three.

'Fight on, fight on, you merry men all,

With you I'll fight no more;

I will gang to some holy place,

Pray to the King of Glore.'

Then to the chapel he is gone,

And knelt most piteouslie,

For seven days and seven nights,

Till blood ran frae his knee.

'Ye'll take my jewels that's in Bahome,

And deal them liberallie,

To young that cannot, and old that mannot,

The blind that does not see.

'Give maist to women in child-bed laid,

Can neither fecht nor flee;

I hope she's in the heavens high,

That died for love of me.'

The knights they wrang their white fingers,

The ladies tore their hair;

The women that neer had children born,

In swoon they down fell there.

But in what way the knight expir'd,

No tongue will eer declare;

So this doth end my mournful song,

From me ye'll get nae mair.

* * * * *

#A.#

10^3.

To the young that canna

The auld that that maunna.

#B.#

11^3. Till they.

12^4. And stone.

[148] Also 'Bonny Molly Stewart,' Maidment's Scotish Ballads and Songs,

1859, p. 128, and the Reply to 'Cromlet's Lilt,' Maidment's Scotish

Ballads and Songs, Historical and Traditionary, 1868, II, 59.

[149] There are six double stanzas in Johnson's Museum, p. 118,

to which Stenhouse, IV, 115, adds a concluding one, the fourth of

Herd's. "This ballad," Stenhouse was informed, "was composed about

the beginning of the last century by a young widow in Galloway,

whose husband was drowned on a voyage to Holland." His authority was

probably traditional, and all the information except the date, and, to

be accurate, the widowhood, is found in the song itself. Motherwell,

Minstrelsy, Introduction, p. lxxii, note 37, observes that neither

Herd's nor Johnson's copy is so full "as one which may occasionally

be met with in stall editions published about sixty years ago:" 1827.

Logan, who prints two vulgar versions, or rather perversions, in which

a bridegroom is pressed into the king's sea-service on the night of his

marriage, Pedlar's Pack, p. 22, says: "A more lengthened version of

the same ballad in the Scotch dialect will be found in Book First of

A Selection of Scots Songs, Harmonised.... By Peter Urbani, Professor

of Music, Edinburgh, circa 1794." Christie, I, 236, says that 'The

Lowlands of Holland' was sung in his father's family, in Aberdeenshire,

as far back as the middle of the last century. Herd's copy is

translated by Talvj, Charakeristik, p. 594.

LAMKIN

#A.# 'Lamkin,' Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 176.

#B.# 'Lambert Linkin,' Motherwell's MS., p. 15;

Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 290.

#C.# 'Lamerlinkin,' Motherwell's MS., p. 9.

#D.# 'Bold Rankin,' Maidment's New Book of Old Ballads,

p. 73; Whitelaw's Book of Scottish Ballads, p. 246, V.

#E.# 'Lambkin,' Kinloch MSS, V, 246; retouched by

Kinloch, II, 27.

#F.# 'Long Lankyn.' #a.# Notes and Queries, Second

Series, II, 324. #b.# Notes and Queries, Fourth Series,

II, 281.

#G.# 'Long Lonkin,' Richardson's Borderer's Table Book,

1846, VIII, 410; Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835,

p. 11.

#H.# 'Bauld Rankin,' Kinloch MSS, I, 306.

#I.# Skene MSS, p. 75.

#J.# 'Lammikin,' Kinloch MSS, V, 371.

#K.# 'Long Longkin,' Percy Papers, communicated by Rev.

P. Parsons, 1775.

#L.# 'Lamkin,' Motherwell's MS., p. 14.

#M.# 'Cruel Lammikin.' #a.# Dr Joseph Robertson's

Note-Book, Adversaria, p. 60. #b.# Kinloch MSS, VI, 31.

#N.# 'Lamkin,' Dr Joseph Robertson's Note-Book, Journal

of Excursions, No 2.

#O.# 'Lammikin,' Kinloch MSS, V, 375.

#P.# 'Lammikin,' Herd's MSS, I, 25; Herd's Scottish

Songs, 1776, I, 145.

#Q.# 'Lammikin,' Finlay's Scottish Ballads, II, 45.

#R.# 'Lammikin,' Finlay's Scottish Ballads, II, 55.

#S.# 'Lambkin,' Motherwell's Note-Book, fol. 13.

#T.# Recited by Ellen Healy, as sung by a woman living

near Killarney.

#U.# 'Lamkin.' #a.# Allingham's Ballad Book, p. xxxiii.

#b.# The same, p. 297, No 56.

#V.# Harris MS., No 28, fol. 27b.

'Lammikin: an Old Scotch Ballad,' Aberdeen, Lewis and James Smith,

1862, said to be edited by the Rev. Dr John Burnett Pratt, Episcopal

minister at Cruden, Aberdeenshire, is made up of #A#, #B#, #P#, #Q#,

#R#, with such alterations as seemed good to the editor, and a few

interpolated stanzas.