She's taken the wand was in her hand,

And struck it on the foam,

And before he got the middle stream,

The lady was on dry land.

"By help of God and our Lady, 95

My help lyes not in your hand.

"I learned it from my mother dear,--

Few is there that has learned better--

When I came to a deep water,

I can swim thro' like ony otter. 100

"I learned it from my mother dear,--

I find I learned it for my weel;

When I came to a deep water,

I can swim thro' like ony eel."

"Turn back, turn back, you lady fair, 105

You know not what I see;

There is a lady in that castle,

That will burn you and me."

"Betide me weal, betide me wae,

That lady will I see." 110

She took a ring from her finger,

And gave't the porter for his fee:

Says, "Tak you that, my good porter,

And bid the Queen speak to me."

And when she came before the Queen, 115

There she fell low down on her knee:

Says, "There is a knight into your court,

This day has robbed me."

"O has he robbed you of your gold,

Or has he robbed you of your fee?" 120

"He has not robbed me of my gold,

He has not robbed me of my fee;

He has robbed me of my maidenhead,

The fairest flower of my bodie."

"There is no knight in all my court, 125

That thus has robbed thee,

But you'll have the truth of his right hand,

Or else for your sake he'll die,

Tho' it were Earl Richard, my own brother;

And oh forbid that it be!" 130

Then, sighing, said the lady fair,

"I wot the samen man is he."

The Queen called on her merry men,

Even fifty men and three;

Earl Richard used to be the first man, 135

But now the hindmost was he.

He's taken out one hundred pounds,

And told it in his glove:

Says, "Tak you that, my lady fair,

And seek another love." 140

"Oh no, oh no," the lady cried,

"That's what shall never be;

I'll have the truth of your right hand,

The Queen it gave to me."

"I wish I had drunk of your water, sister, 145

When I did drink your wine;

That for a carle's fair daughter,

It does gar me dree all this pine."

"May be I am a carle's daughter,

And may be never nane; 150

When ye met me in the green wood,

Why did you not let me alane?"

"Will you wear the short clothes,

Or will you wear the side;

Or will you walk to your wedding, 155

Or will you till it ride?"

"I will not wear the short clothes,

But I will wear the side;

I will not walk to my wedding,

But I to it will ride." 160

When he was set upon the horse,

The lady him behind,

Then cauld and eerie were the words

The twa had them between.

She said, "Good e'en, ye nettles tall, 165

Just there where ye grow at the dike;

If the auld carline my mother was here,

Sae weel's she would your pates pike.

"How she would stap you in her poke,

I wot at that she wadna fail; 170

And boil ye in her auld brass pan,

And of ye mak right gude kail.

"And she would meal you with millering

That she gathers at the mill,

And mak you thick as any daigh; 175

And when the pan was brimful,

"Would mess you up in scuttle dishes,

Syne bid us sup till we were fou;

Lay down her head upon a poke,

Then sleep and snore like any sow." 180

"Away! away! you bad woman,

For all your vile words grieveth me;

When ye heed so little for yourself,

I'm sure ye'll heed far less for me.

"I wish I had drunk your water, sister, 185

When that I did drink of your wine;

Since for a carle's fair daughter,

It aye gars me dree all this pine."

"May be I am a carle's daughter,

And may be never nane; 190

When ye met me in the good green wood,

Why did you not let me alane?

"Gude e'en, gude e'en, ye heather berries,

As ye're growing on yon hill;

If the auld carle and his bags were here, 195

I wot he would get meat his fill.

"Late, late at night I knit our pokes,

With even four-and-twenty knots;

And in the morn at breakfast time,

I'll carry the keys of an earl's locks. 200

"Late, late at night I knit our pokes,

With even four-and-twenty strings;

And if you look to my white fingers,

They have as many gay gold rings."

"Away! away! ye ill woman, 205

And sore your vile words grieveth me;

When you heed so little for yourself,

I'm sure ye'll heed far less for me.

"But if you are a carle's daughter,

As I take you to be, 210

How did you get the gay clothing,

In green wood ye had on thee?"

"My mother she's a poor woman,

She nursed earl's children three;

And I got them from a foster sister, 215

For to beguile such sparks as thee."

"But if you be a carle's daughter,

As I believe you be,

How did ye learn the good Latin,

In green wood ye spoke to me?" 220

"My mother she's a mean woman,

She nursed earl's children three;

I learned it from their chapelain,

To beguile such sparks as ye."

When mass was sung, and bells were rung, 225

And all men boune for bed,

Then Earl Richard and this ladye

In ane bed they were laid.

He turned his face to the stock,

And she hers to the stane; 230

And cauld and dreary was the luve

That was thir twa between.

Great was the mirth in the kitchen,

Likewise intill the ha';

But in his bed lay Earl Richard, 235

Wiping the tears awa'.

He wept till he fell fast asleep,

Then slept till licht was come;

Then he did hear the gentlemen

That talked in the room: 240

Said,--"Saw ye ever a fitter match,

Betwixt the ane and ither;

The King o' Scotland's fair dochter,

And the Queen of England's brither?"

"And is she the King o' Scotland's fair dochter? 245

This day, oh, weel is me!

For seven times has my steed been saddled,

To come to court with thee;

And with this witty lady fair,

How happy must I be!" 250

75 et seq. This passage has something in common with _Child Waters_ and

_Burd Ellen_.

THE GAY GOSS-HAWK.

From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 151.

"This Ballad is published, partly from one under this title, in Mrs.

Brown's collection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity, _penes_

Edit. The stanzas appearing to possess most merit have been selected

from each copy."--SCOTT.

Annexed is another version from Motherwell's collection. A third, longer

than either, is furnished by Buchan, _Ballads of the North of Scotland_,

ii. 245, _The Scottish Squire_.

"O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk,

Gin your feathering be sheen!"

"And waly, waly, my master dear,

Gin ye look pale and lean!

"O have ye tint, at tournament, 5

Your sword, or yet your spear?

Or mourn ye for the southern lass,

Whom ye may not win near?"

"I have not tint, at tournament,

My sword nor yet my spear; 10

But sair I mourn for my true love,

Wi' mony a bitter tear.

"But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,

Ye can baith speak and flee;

Ye sall carry a letter to my love, 15

Bring an answer back to me."

"But how sall I your true love find,

Or how suld I her know?

I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,

An eye that ne'er her saw." 20

"O weel sall ye my true love ken,

Sae sune as ye her see;

For, of a' the flowers of fair England,

The fairest flower is she.

"The red, that's on my true love's cheek, 25

Is like blood-drops on the snaw;

The white, that is on her breast bare,

Like the down o' the white sea-maw

"And even at my love's bouer-door

There grows a flowering birk; 30

And ye maun sit and sing thereon

As she gangs to the kirk.

"And four-and-twenty fair ladyes

Will to the mass repair;

But weel may ye my ladye ken, 35

The fairest ladye there."

Lord William has written a love-letter,

Put it under his pinion gray;

And he is awa to southern land

As fast as wings can gae. 40

And even at the ladye's bour

There grew a flowering birk;

And he sat down and sung thereon

As she gaed to the kirk.

And weel he kent that ladye fair 45

Amang her maidens free;

For the flower that springs in May morning

Was not sae sweet as she.

He lighted at the ladye's yate,

And sat him on a pin; 50

And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,

Till a' was cosh within.

And first he sang a low, low note,

And syne he sang a clear;

And aye the o'erword o' the sang 55

Was--"Your love can no win here."--

"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',

The wine flows you amang,

While I gang to my shot-window,

And hear yon bonny bird's sang. 60

"Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,

The sang ye sung yestreen;

For weel I ken, by your sweet singing,

Ye are frae my true love sen."

O first he sang a merry sang, 65

And syne he sang a grave;

And syne he pick'd his feathers gray,

To her the letter gave.

"Have there a letter from Lord William;

He says he's sent ye three; 70

He canna wait your love langer,

But for your sake he'll die."--

"Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,

And brew his bridal ale;

And I shall meet him at Mary's kirk, 75

Lang, lang ere it be stale."

The lady's gane to her chamber,

And a moanfu' woman was she;

As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash,

And were about to die. 80

"A boon, a boon, my father deir,

A boon I beg of thee!"--

"Ask not that paughty Scottish lord,

For him you ne'er shall see:

"But, for your honest asking else, 85

Weel granted it shall be."--

"Then, gin I die in Southern land,

In Scotland gar bury me.

"And the first kirk that ye come to,

Ye's gar the mass be sung; 90

And the next kirk that ye come to,

Ye's gar the bells be rung.

"And when you come to St. Mary's kirk,

Ye's tarry there till night."

And so her father pledg'd his word, 95

And so his promise plight.

She has ta'en her to her bigly bour

As fast as she could fare;

And she has drank a sleepy draught,

That she had mix'd wi' care. 100

And pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek,

That was sae bright of blee,

And she seem'd to be as surely dead

As any one could be.

Then spake her cruel step-minnie, 105

"Tak ye the burning lead,

And drap a drap on her bosome,

To try if she be dead."

They took a drap o' boiling lead,

They drapp'd it on her breast; 110

"Alas! alas!" her father cried,

"She's dead without the priest."

She neither chatter'd with her teeth,

Nor shiver'd with her chin;

"Alas! alas!" her father cried, 115

"There is nae breath within."

Then up arose her seven brethren,

And hew'd to her a bier;

They hew'd it frae the solid aik,

Laid it o'er wi' silver clear. 120

Then up and gat her seven sisters,

And sewed to her a kell;

And every steek that they put in

Sewed to a siller bell.

The first Scots kirk that they cam to, 125

They garr'd the bells be rung;

The next Scots kirk that they cam to,

They garr'd the mass be sung.

But when they cam to St. Mary's kirk,

There stude spearmen all on a raw; 130

And up and started Lord William,

The chieftane amang them a.'

"Set down, set down the bier," he said,

"Let me look her upon:"

But as soon as Lord William touch'd her hand,

Her colour began to come. 136

She brightened like the lily flower,

Till her pale colour was gone;

With rosy cheek, and ruby lip,

She smiled her love upon. 140

"A morsel of your bread, my lord,

And one glass of your wine;

For I hae fasted these three lang days,

All for your sake and mine.--

"Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers,

Gae hame and blaw your horn! 146

I trow ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,

But I've gi'en you the scorn.

"Commend me to my grey father,

That wished my saul gude rest; 150

But wae be to my cruel step-dame,

Garr'd burn me on the breast."--

"Ah! woe to you, you light woman!

An ill death may ye die!

For we left father and sisters at hame 155

Breaking their hearts for thee."

v. 26. This simile resembles a passage in a MS. translation of an Irish

Fairy tale, called _The Adventures of Faravla, Princess of Scotland, and

Carral O'Daly, Son of Donogho More O'Daly, Chief Bard of Ireland_.

"Faravla, as she entered her bower, cast her looks upon the earth, which

was tinged with the blood of a bird which a raven had newly killed:

'Like that snow,' said Faravla, 'was the complexion of my beloved, his

cheeks like the sanguine traces thereon; whilst the raven recalls to my

memory the colour of his beautiful locks.'" There is also some

resemblance in the conduct of the story, betwixt the ballad and the tale

just quoted. The Princess Faravla, being desperately in love with Carral

O'Daly, despatches in search of him a faithful confidante, who, by her

magical art, transforms herself into a hawk, and, perching upon the

windows of the bard, conveys to him information of the distress of the

Princess of Scotland. SCOTT.

THE JOLLY GOSHAWK.

Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 353.

"O well is me, my jolly goshawk,

That ye can speak and flee;

For ye can carry a love-letter

To my true love from me."

"O how can I carry a letter to her, 5

When her I do not know?

I bear the lips to her never spak,

And the eyes that her never saw."

"The thing of my love's face that's white

Is that of dove or maw; 10

The thing of my love's face that's red

Is like blood shed on snaw.

"And when you come to the castel,

Light on the bush of ash;

And sit you there and sing our loves, 15

As she comes from the mass.

"And when she gaes into the house,

Sit ye upon the whin;

And sit you there and sing our loves,

As she goes out and in." 20

And when he flew to that castel,

He lighted on the ash;

And there he sat and sung their loves,

As she came from the mass.

And when she went into the house, 25

He flew unto the whin;

And there he sat and sung their loves,

As she went out and in.

"Come hitherward, my maidens all,

And sip red wine anon, 30

Till I go to my west window,

And hear a birdie's moan."

She's gane unto her west window,

And fainly aye it drew;

And soon into her white silk lap 35

The bird the letter threw.

"Ye're bidden send your love a send,

For he has sent you twa;

And tell him where he can see you,

Or he cannot live ava." 40

"I send him the rings from my white fingers,

The garlands off my hair;

I send him the heart that's in my breast:

What would my love have mair?

And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland, 45

Ye'll bid him meet me there."

She hied her to her father dear,

As fast as gang could she:

"An asking, an asking, my father dear,

An asking ye grant me,-- 50

That, if I die in fair England,

In Scotland gar bury me.

"At the first kirk of fair Scotland,

You cause the bells be rung;

At the second kirk of fair Scotland, 55

You cause the mass be sung;

"At the third kirk of fair Scotland,

You deal gold for my sake;

And at the fourth kirk of fair Scotland,

Oh there you'll bury me at! 60

"And now, my tender father dear,

This asking grant you me:"

"Your asking is but small," he said,

"Weel granted it shall be."

[_The lady asks the same boon and receives a similar answer, first

from her mother, then from her sister, and lastly from her seven

brothers._]

Then down as dead that lady drapp'd, 65

Beside her mother's knee;

Then out it spak an auld witch wife,

By the fire-side sat she:

Says,--"Drap the het lead on her cheek,

And drap it on her chin, 70

And drap it on her rose red lips,

And she will speak again:

For much a lady young will do,

To her true love to win."

They drapp'd the het lead on her cheek, 75

So did they on her chin;

They drapp'd it on her red rose lips,

But they breathed none again.

Her brothers they went to a room,

To make to her a bier; 80

The boards of it were cedar wood,

And the plates on it gold so clear.

Her sisters they went to a room,

To make to her a sark;

The cloth of it was satin fine, 85

And the steeking silken wark.

"But well is me, my jolly goshawk,

That ye can speak and flee;

Come shew to me any love tokens

That you have brought to me." 90

"She sends you the rings from her fingers,

The garlands from her hair;

She sends you the heart within her breast:

And what would you have mair?

And at the fourth kirk of fair Scotland, 95

She bids you meet her there."

"Come hither, all my merry young men,

And drink the good red wine;

For we must on to fair England,

To free my love from pine." 100

At the first kirk of fair Scotland,

They gart the bells be rung;

At the second kirk of fair Scotland,

They gart the mass be sung.

At the third kirk of fair Scotland, 105

They dealt gold for her sake;

And the fourth kirk of fair Scotland

Her true love met them at.

"Set down, set down the corpse," he said,

"Till I look on the dead; 110

The last time that I saw her face,

She ruddy was and red;

But now, alas, and woe is me!

She's wallowed like a weed."

He rent the sheet upon her face, 115

A little aboon her chin;

With lily white cheek, and lemin' eyne,

She lookt and laugh'd to him.

"Give me a chive of your bread, my love,

A bottle of your wine; 120

For I have fasted for your love,

These weary lang days nine;

There's not a steed in your stable,

But would have been dead ere syne.

"Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers, 125

Gae hame and blaw the horn;

For you can say in the South of England,

Your sister gave you a scorn.

"I came not here to fair Scotland,

To lye amang the meal; 130

But I came here to fair Scotland,

To wear the silks so weel.

"I came not here to fair Scotland,

To lye amang the dead;

But I came here to fair Scotland, 135

To wear the gold so red."

APPENDIX.

YOUNG HUNTING. See p. 3.

From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 118.

Lady Maisry forth from her bower came,

And stood on her tower head;

She thought she heard a bridle ring,

The sound did her heart guid.

She thought it was her first true love, 5

Whom she loved ance in time;

But it was her new love, Hunting,

Come frae the hunting o' the hyn'.

"Gude morrow, gude morrow, Lady Maisry,

God make you safe and free! 10

I'm come to take my last farewell,

And pay my last visit to thee."

"O stay, O stay then, young Hunting,

O stay with me this night;

Ye shall ha'e cheer, an' charcoal clear, 15

And candles burning bright."

"Have no more cheer, you lady fair,

An hour langer for me;

I have a lady in Garmouth town

I love better than thee." 20

"O if your love be changed, my love,

Since better canno' be,

Nevertheless, for auld lang syne,

Ye'll stay this night wi' me.

"Silver, silver shall be your wage, 25

And gowd shall be your fee;

And nine times nine into the year,

Your weed shall changed be.

"Will ye gae to the cards or dice,

Or to a tavern fine? 30

Or will ye gae to a table forebye,

And birl baith beer and wine?"

"I winna gang to the cards nor dice,

Nor to a tavern fine;

But I will gang to a table forebye, 35

And birl baith beer and wine."

Then she has drawn for young Hunting

The beer but and the wine,

Till she got him as deadly drunk

As ony unhallowed swine. 40

Then she's ta'en out a trusty brand,

That hang below her gare;

Then she's wounded him, young Hunting,

A deep wound and a sair.

Then out it speaks her comrade, 45

Being in the companie:

"Alas! this deed that ye ha'e done,

Will ruin baith you and me."

"Heal well, heal well, you Lady Katharine,

Heal well this deed on me; 50

The robes that were shapen for my bodie,

They shall be sewed for thee."

"Tho' I wou'd heal it never sae well,

And never sae well," said she,

"There is a God above us baith, 55

That can baith hear and see."

They booted him and spurred him,

As he'd been gaun to ride;

A hunting-horn about his neck,

A sharp sword by his side. 60

And they rode on, and farther on,

All the lang summer's tide,

Until they came to wan water,

Where a' man ca's it Clyde.

The deepest pot in Clyde's water,[L65] 65

There they flang him in,[L66]

And put a turf on his breast bane,

To had young Hunting down.

O out it speaks a little wee bird,

As she sat on the brier: 70

"Gae hame, gae hame, ye Lady Maisry,

And pay your maiden's hire."

"O I will pay my maiden's hire,

And hire I'll gi'e to thee;

If ye'll conceal this fatal deed, 75

Ye's ha'e gowd for your fee."

Then out it speaks a bonny bird,

That flew aboon their head;

"Keep well, keep well your green claithing

Frae ae drap o' his bluid." 80

"O I'll keep well my green claithing

Frae ae drap o' his bluid,

Better than I'll do your flattering tongue,

That flutters in your head.

"Come down, come down, my bonny bird, 85

Light down upon my hand;

For ae gowd feather that's in your wing,

I wou'd gi'e a' my land."

"How shall I come down, how can I come down,

How shall I come down to thee? 90

The things ye said to young Hunting,

The same ye're saying to me."

But it fell out on that same day,

The king was going to ride,

And he call'd for him, young Hunting, 95

For to ride by his side.

Then out it speaks the little young son,

Sat on the nurse's knee,

"It fears me sair," said that young babe,

"He's in bower wi' yon ladie." 100

Then they ha'e call'd her, Lady Katharine,

And she sware by the thorn,

That she saw not him, young Hunting,

Sin' yesterday at morn.

Then they ha'e call'd her, Lady Maisry, 105

And she sware by the moon,

That she saw not him, young Hunting,

Sin' yesterday at noon.

"He was playing him at the Clyde's water,

Perhaps he has fa'en in:" 110

The king he call'd his divers all,

To dive for his young son.

They div'd in thro' the wan burn-bank,

Sae did they out thro' the other:

"We'll dive nae mair," said these young men, 115

"Suppose he were our brother."

Then out it spake a little bird,

That flew aboon their head:

"Dive on, dive on, ye divers all,

For there he lies indeed. 120

"But ye'll leave aff your day diving,

And ye'll dive in the night;

The pot where young Hunting lies in,

The candles they'll burn bright.

"There are twa ladies in yon bower, 125

And even in yon ha',

And they ha'e kill'd him, young Hunting,

And casten him awa'.

"They booted him and spurred him,

As he'd been gaun to ride; 130

A hunting horn tied round his neck,

A sharp sword by his side.

"The deepest pot o' Clyde's water,

There they flang him in,

Laid a turf on his breast bane, 135

To had young Hunting down."

Now they left aff their day diving,

And they dived on the night;

The pot that young Hunting lay in,

The candles were burning bright. 140

The king he call'd his hewers all,

To hew down wood and thorn,

For to put up a strong bale-fire,

These ladies for to burn.

And they ha'e ta'en her, Lady Katharine, 145

And they ha'e pitten her in;

But it wadna light upon her cheek,

Nor wou'd it on her chin,

But sang the points o' her yellow hair,

For healing the deadly sin. 150

Then they ha'e ta'en her, Lady Maisry,

And they ha'e put her in:

First it lighted on her cheek,

And syne upon her chin,

And sang the points o' her yellow hair, 155

And she burnt like keckle-pin.

65, And the.

66, And there. See 133, 134.

YOUNG WATERS.--See p. 88.

From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. p. 15.

It fell about the gude Yule time,

When caps and stoups gaed roun',

Down it came him young Waters,

To welcome James, our king.

The great, the great, rade a' together, 5

The sma' came a' behin';

But wi' young Waters, that brave knight,

There came a gay gatherin'.

The horse young Waters rade upon,

It cost him hunders nine; 10

For he was siller shod before,

And gowd graith had behin'.

At ilka tippit o' his horse mane

There hang a siller bell;

The wind was loud, the steed was proud, 15

And they gae a sindry knell.

The king he lay ower's castle wa',

Beheld baith dale and down;

And he beheld him, young Waters,

Come riding to the town. 20

He turn'd him right and round about,

And to the queen said he,--

"Who is the bravest man, my dame,

That ever your een did see?"

"I've seen lairds, and I've seen lords, 25

And knights o' high degree;

But a braver man than young Waters

My e'en did never see."

He turn'd him right and roun' about,

And ane angry man was he; 30

"O wae to you, my dame, the queen;

Ye might ha'e excepted me!"

"Ye are nae laird, ye are nae lord,

Ye are the king that wears the crown;

There's nae a lord in fair Scotland, 35

But unto you maun a' bow down."

"O lady, for your love choicing,

Ye shall win to your will;

The morn, or I eat or drink,

Young Waters I'll gar kill." 40

And nevertheless, the king cou'd say,

"Ye might ha'e excepted me;

Yea for yea," the king cou'd say,

"Young Waters he shall die.

"Likewise for your ill-wyled words 45

Ye sall ha'e cause to mourn;

Gin ye hadna been sae big wi' child,

Ye on a hill su'd burn."

Young Waters came before the King,

Fell low down on his knee; 50

"Win up, win up, young Waters,

What's this I hear o' thee?"

"What ails the king at me," he said,

"What ails the king at me?"

"It is tauld me the day, sir knight, 55

Ye've done me treasonie."

"Liars will lie on sell gude men,

Sae will they do on me;

I wudna wish to be the man

That liars on wudna lie." 60

Nevertheless, the king cou'd say,

"In prison strang gang ye;

O yea for yea," the king cou'd say,

"Young Waters, ye shall die."

Syne they ha'e ta'en him, young Waters, 65

Laid him in prison strang,

And left him there wi' fetters boun',

Making a heavy mane.

"Aft ha'e I ridden thro' Striveling town

Thro' heavy wind and weet; 70

But ne'er rade I thro' Striveling town

Wi' fetters on my feet.

"Aft ha'e I ridden thro' Striveling town,

Thro' heavy wind and rain;

But ne'er rade I thro' Striveling town 75

But thought to ridden't again."

They brought him to the heading-hill,

His horse, bot and his saddle;

And they brought to the heading-hill

His young son in his cradle. 80

And they brought to the heading-hill,

His hounds intill a leish;

And they brought till the heading-hill,

His gos-hawk in a jess.

King James he then rade up the hill, 85

And mony a man him wi',

And called on his trusty page,

To come right speedilie.

"Ye'll do' ye to the Earl o' Mar,

For he sits on yon hill; 90

Bid him loose the brand frae his bodie,

Young Waters for to kill."

"O gude forbid," the Earl he said,

"The like su'd e'er fa' me,

My bodie e'er su'd wear the brand 95

That gars young Waters die."

Then he has loos'd his trusty brand,

And casten't in the sea;

Says, "Never lat them get a brand,

Till it come back to me." 100

The scaffold it prepared was,

And he did mount it hie;

And a' spectators that were there,

The saut tears blint their e'e.

"O had your tongues, my brethren dear, 105

And mourn nae mair for me;

Ye're seeking grace frae a graceless face,

For there is nane to gie.

"Ye'll tak' a bit o' canvas claith,

And pit it ower my ee; 110

And Jack, my man, ye'll be at hand,

The hour that I su'd die.

"Syne aff ye'll tak' my bluidy sark,

Gie it fair Margaret Grahame;

For she may curse the dowie dell 115

That brought King James him hame.

"Ye'll bid her mak' her bed narrow,

And mak' it naeways wide;

For a brawer man than young Waters

Will ne'er streek by her side. 120

"Bid her do weel to my young son,

And gie him nurses three;

For gin he live to be a man,

King James will gar him die."

He call'd upon the headsman then, 125

A purse o' gowd him gae;

Says, "Do your office, headsman, boy,

And mak' nae mair delay."

"O head me soon, O head me clean,

And pit me out o' pine; 130

For it is by the king's command;

Gang head me till his min'.

"Tho' by him I'm condemn'd to die,

I'm lieve to his ain kin;

And for the truth, I'll plainly tell, 135

I am his sister's son."

"Gin ye're my sister's son," he said,

"It is unkent to me."

"O mindna ye on your sister Bess,

That lives in the French countrie?" 140

"Gin Bess then be your mither dear,

As I trust well she be,

Gae hame, gae hame, young Waters,

Ye'se ne'er be slain by me."

But he lay by his napkin fine, 145

Was saft as ony silk,

And on the block he laid his neck,

Was whiter than the milk.

Says, "Strike the blow, ye headsman, boy,

And that right speedilie; 150

It's never be said here gaes a knight,

Was ance condemn'd to die."

The head was ta'en frae young Waters,

And mony tears for him shed;

But mair did mourn for fair Margaret, 155

As raving she lyes mad.

LAMMIKIN. See p. 94.

Finlay's _Scottish Ballads_, ii. 47.

Lammikin was as gude a mason

As ever hewed a stane;

He biggit Lord Weire's castle,

But payment gat he nane.

"Sen ye winna gie me my guerdon, lord, 5

Sen ye winna gie me my hire,

This gude castle, sae stately built,

I sall gar rock wi' fire.

"Sen ye winna gie me my wages, lord,

Ye sall hae cause to rue:" 10

And syne he brewed a black revenge,

And syne he vowed a vow.

The Lammikin sair wroth, sair wroth,

Returned again to Downe;

But or he gaed, he vow'd and vow'd, 15

The castle should sweep the ground.

"O byde at hame, my gude Lord Weire,

I weird ye byde at hame;

Gang na to this day's hunting,

To leave me a' alane. 20

"Yae night, yae night, I dreamt this bower

O red, red blude was fu';

Gin ye gang to this black hunting,

I sall hae cause to rue."

"Wha looks to dreams, my winsome dame? 25

Nae cause hae ye to fear:"

And syne he kindly kissed her cheek,

And syne the starting tear.

Now to the gude green-wood he's gane,

She to her painted bower; 30

But first she closed the windows and doors

Of the castle, ha', and tower.

They steeked doors, they steeked yetts,

Close to the cheek and chin;

They steeked them a' but a wee wicket, 35

And Lammikin crap in.

"Where are the lads o' this castle?"

Says the Lammikin;

"They are a' wi Lord Weire, hunting,"

The false nourice did sing. 40

"Where are the lasses o' this castle?"

Says the Lammikin;

"They are a' out at the washing,"

The false nourice did sing.

"But where's the lady o' this castle?" 45

Says the Lammikin;

"She is in her bower sewing,"

The false nourice did sing.

"Is this the bairn o' this house?"

Says the Lammikin; 50

"The only bairn Lord Weire aughts,"

The false nourice did sing.

Lammikin nipped the bonnie babe,

While loud false nourice sings;

Lammikin nipped the bonnie babe, 55

Till high the red blude springs.

"Still my bairn, nourice,

O still him if ye can:"

"He will not still, madam,

For a' his father's lan'." 60

"O gentle nourice, still my bairn,

O still him wi' the keys:"

"He will not still, fair lady,

Let me do what I please."

"O still my bairn, kind nourice, 65

O still him wi' the ring:"

"He will not still, my lady,

Let me do any thing."

"O still my bairn, gude nourice,

O still him wi' the knife:" 70

"He will not still, dear mistress mine,

Gin I'd lay down my life."

"Sweet nourice, loud, loud cries my bairn,

O still him wi' the bell:"

"He will not still, dear lady, 75

Till ye cum down yoursell."

The first step she stepped,

She stepped on a stane,

The next step she stepped,

She met the Lammikin. 80

And when she saw the red, red blude,

A loud skriech skrieched she:

"O monster, monster, spare my child,

Who never skaithed thee!

"O spare, if in your bluidy breast 85

Abides not heart of stane!

O spare, an' ye sall hae o' gold

That ye can carry hame!"

"I carena for your gold," he said,

"I carena for your fee: 90

I hae been wranged by your lord,

Black vengeance ye sall drie.

"Here are nae serfs to guard your haa's,

Nae trusty spearmen here;

In yon green wood they sound the horn, 95

And chace the doe and deer.

"Tho merry sounds the gude green wood

Wi' huntsmen, hounds, and horn,

Your lord sall rue ere sets yon sun

He has done me skaith and scorn." 100

"O nourice, wanted ye your meat,

Or wanted ye your fee,

Or wanted ye for any thing,

A fair lady could gie?"

"I wanted for nae meat, ladie, 105

I wanted for nae fee;

But I wanted for a hantle

A fair lady could gie."

Then Lammikin drew his red, red sword,

And sharped it on a stane, 110

And through and through this fair ladie,

The cauld, cauld steel is gane.

Nor lang was't after this foul deed,

Till Lord Weire cumin' hame,

Thocht he saw his sweet bairn's bluid 115

Sprinkled on a stane.

"I wish a' may be weel," he says,

"Wi' my ladie at hame;

For the rings upon my fingers

Are bursting in twain." 120

But mair he look'd, and dule saw he,

On the door at the trance,

Spots o' his dear ladys bluid

Shining like a lance.

"There's bluid in my nursery, 125

There's bluid in my ha',

There's bluid in my fair lady's bower,

An' that's warst of a'."

O sweet, sweet sang the birdie,

Upon the bough sae hie, 130

But little cared false nourice for that,

For it was her gallows tree.

Then out he set, and his braw men

Rode a' the country roun';

Ere lang they faud the Lammikin 135

Had sheltered near to Downe.

They carried him a' airts o' wind,

And mickle pain had he,

At last before Lord Weire's gate

They hanged him on the tree. 140

LONG LONKIN. See p. 94.

From Richardson's _Borderer's Table-Book_, viii. 410.

The lord said to his ladie,

As he mounted his horse,

"Beware of Long Lonkin

That lies in the moss."

The lord said to his ladie, 5

As he rode away,

"Beware of Long Lonkin

That lies in the clay."

"What care I for Lonkin,

Or any of his gang? 10

My doors are all shut

And my windows penned in."

There are six little windows,

And they were all shut,

But one little window, 15

And that was forgot.

* * * * * *

* * * * * *

And at that little window

Long Lonkin crept in.

"Where's the lord of the hall?"

Says the Lonkin; 20

"He's gone up to London,"

Says Orange to him.

"Where's the men of the hall?"

Says the Lonkin;

"They're at the field ploughing," 25

Says Orange to him.

"Where's the maids of the hall?"

Says the Lonkin;

"They're at the well washing,"

Says Orange to him. 30

"Where's the ladies of the hall?"

Says the Lonkin;

"They're up in their chambers,"

Says Orange to him.

"How shall we get them down?" 35

Says the Lonkin;

"Prick the babe in the cradle,"

Says Orange to him.

"Rock well my cradle,

And bee-ba my son; 40

Ye shall have a new gown

When the lord he comes home."

Still she did prick it,

And bee-ba she cried;

"Come down, dearest mistress, 45

And still your own child."

"O still my child, Orange,

Still him with a bell;"

"I can't still him, ladie,

Till you come down yoursell." 50

* * * * * *

"Hold the gold basin,

For your heart's blood to run in,"

* * * * * *

* * * * * *

"To hold the gold basin,

It grieves me full sore;

Oh kill me, dear Lonkin, 55

And let my mother go."

* * * * * *

THE LAIRD OF WARISTOUN. See p. 107.

"John Kincaid, Laird of Waristoun, (an estate situated between the city

of Edinburgh and the sea, towards Leith,) was murdered, on the 2d of

July, 1600, by a man named Robert Weir, who was employed to do so by his

wife, Jean Livingstone, daughter of the Laird of Dunipace. The

unfortunate woman, who thus became implicated in a crime so revolting to

humanity, was only twenty-one years of age at the time. It is probable

from some circumstances, that her husband was considerably older than

herself, and also that their marriage was any thing but one of love. It

is only alleged, however, that she was instigated to seek his death by

resentment for some bad treatment on his part, and, in particular, for a

bite which he had inflicted on her arm. There was something

extraordinary in the deliberation with which this wretched woman

approached the awful gulf of crime. Having resolved on the means to be

employed in the murder, she sent for a quondam servant of her father,

Robert Weir, who lived in the neighbouring city. He came to the place of

Waristoun, to see her; but, for some unexplained reason was not

admitted. She again sent for him, and he again went. Again he was not

admitted. At length, on his being called a third time, he was

introduced to her presence. Before this time she had found an accomplice

in the nurse of her child. It was then arranged, that Weir should be

concealed in a cellar till the dead of night, when he should come forth

and proceed to destroy the laird as he lay in his chamber. The bloody

tragedy was acted precisely in accordance with this plan. Weir was

brought up, at midnight, from the cellar to the hall by the lady

herself, and afterwards went forward alone to the laird's bedroom. As he

proceeded to his bloody work, she retired to her bed, to wait the

intelligence of her husband's murder. When Weir entered the chamber,

Waristoun awoke with the noise, and leant inquiringly over the side of

the bed. The murderer then leapt upon him; the unhappy man uttered a

great cry; Weir gave him several dreadful blows on vital parts,

particularly one on the flank vein. But as the laird was still able to

cry out, he at length saw fit to take more effective measures: he seized

him by the throat with both hands, and compressing that part with all

his force, succeeded, after a few minutes, in depriving him of life.

When the lady heard her husband's first death-shout, she leapt out of

bed, in an agony of mingled horror and repentance, and descended to the

hall: but she made no effort to countermand her mission of destruction.

She waited patiently till Weir came down to inform her that all was

over.

"Weir made an immediate escape from justice; but Lady Waristoun and the

nurse were apprehended before the deed was half a day old. Being caught,

as the Scottish law terms it, _red-hand_,--that is, while still bearing

unequivocal marks of guilt, they were immediately tried by the

magistrates of Edinburgh, and sentenced to be strangled and burnt at a

stake. The lady's father, the Laird of Dunipace, was a favourite of King

James VI., and he made all the interest he could with his majesty to

procure a pardon; but all that could be obtained from the king, was an

order that the unhappy lady should be executed by decapitation, and that

at such an early hour in the morning as to make the affair as little of

a spectacle as possible.

"The space intervening between her sentence and her execution was only

thirty-seven hours; yet, in that little time, Lady Waristoun contrived

to become converted from a blood-stained and unrelenting murderess into

a perfect saint on earth. One of the then ministers of Edinburgh has

left an account of her conversion, which was lately published, and would

be extremely amusing, were it not for the disgust which seizes the mind

on beholding such an instance of perverted religion. She went to the

scaffold with a demeanour which would have graced a martyr. Her lips

were incessant in the utterance of pious exclamations. She professed

herself confident of everlasting happiness. She even grudged every

moment which she spent in this world, as so much taken from that sum of

eternal felicity which she was to enjoy in the next. The people who came

to witness the last scene, instead of having their minds inspired with

salutary horror for her crime, were engrossed in admiration of her

saintly behaviour, and greedily gathered up every devout word which fell

from her tongue. It would almost appear from the narrative of the

clergyman, that her fate was rather a matter of envy than of any other

feeling. Her execution took place at four in the morning of the 5th of

July, at the Watergate, near Holyroodhouse; and at the same hour her

nurse was burnt on the castle-hill. It is some gratification to know,

that the actual murderer, Weir, was eventually seized and executed,

though not till four years after."

CHAMBERS'S _Scottish Ballads_, p. 129.

From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 56.

My mother was an ill woman,

In fifteen years she married me;

I hadna wit to guide a man,

Alas! ill counsel guided me.

O Warriston, O Warriston, 5

I wish that ye may sink for sin;

I was but bare fifteen years auld,

Whan first I enter'd your yates within.

I hadna been a month married,

Till my gude lord went to the sea; 10

I bare a bairn ere he came hame,

And set it on the nourice knee.

But it fell ance upon a day,

That my gude lord return'd from sea;

Then I did dress in the best array, 15

As blythe as ony bird on tree.

I took my young son in my arms,

Likewise my nourice me forebye,

And I went down to yon shore side,

My gude lord's vessel I might spy. 20

My lord he stood upon the deck,

I wyte he hail'd me courteouslie;

"Ye are thrice welcome, my lady gay,

Whase aught that bairn on your knee?"

She turn'd her right and round about, 25

Says, "Why take ye sic dreads o' me?

Alas! I was too young married,

To love another man but thee."

"Now hold your tongue, my lady gay,

Nae mair falsehoods ye'll tell to me; 30

This bonny bairn is not mine,

You've loved another while I was on sea."

In discontent then hame she went,

And aye the tear did blin' her e'e;

Says, "Of this wretch I'll be revenged, 35

For these harsh words he's said to me."

She's counsell'd wi' her father's steward,

What way she cou'd revenged be;

Bad was the counsel then he gave,--

It was to gar her gude lord dee. 40

The nourice took the deed in hand,

I wat she was well paid her fee;

She kiest the knot, and the loop she ran,

Which soon did gar this young lord dee.

His brother lay in a room hard by, 45

Alas! that night he slept too soun';

But then he waken'd wi a cry,

"I fear my brother's putten down.

"O get me coal and candle light,

And get me some gude companie;" 50

But before the light was brought,

Warriston he was gart dee.

They've ta'en the lady and fause nourice,

In prison strong they ha'e them boun';

The nourice she was hard o' heart, 55

But the bonny lady fell in swoon.

In it came her brother dear,

And aye a sorry man was he;

"I wou'd gie a' the lands I heir,

O bonny Jean, to borrow thee." 60

"O borrow me brother, borrow me,--

O borrow'd shall I never be;

For I gart kill my ain gude lord,

And life is nae pleasure to me."

In it came her mother dear, 65

I wyte a sorry woman was she;

"I wou'd gie my white monie and gowd,

O bonny Jean, to borrow thee."

"Borrow me mother, borrow me,--

O borrow'd shall I never be; 70

For I gart kill my ain gude lord,

And life's now nae pleasure to me."

Then in it came her father dear,

I wyte a sorry man was he;

Says, "Ohon, alas! my bonny Jean, 75

If I had you at hame wi' me.

"Seven daughters I ha'e left at hame,

As fair women as fair can be;

But I wou'd gi'e them ane by ane,

O bonny Jean, to borrow thee." 80

"O borrow me father, borrow me,--

O borrow'd shall I never be;

I that is worthy o' the death,

It is but right that I shou'd dee."

Then out it speaks the king himsell, 85

And aye as he steps in the fleer;

Says, "I grant you your life, lady,

Because you are of tender year."

"A boon, a boon, my liege the king,

The boon I ask, ye'll grant to me:" 90

"Ask on, ask on, my bonny Jean,

Whate'er ye ask it's granted be."

"Cause take me out at night, at night,

Lat not the sun upon me shine;

And take me to yon heading hill, 95

Strike aff this dowie head o' mine.

"Ye'll take me out at night, at night,

When there are nane to gaze and see;

And ha'e me to yon heading hill,

And ye'll gar head me speedilie." 100

They've ta'en her out at nine at night,

Loot not the sun upon her shine;

And had her to yon heading hill,

And headed her baith neat and fine.

Then out it speaks the king himsell, 105

I wyte a sorry man was he;

"I've travell'd east, I've travell'd west,

And sailed far beyond the sea,

But I never saw a woman's face

I was sae sorry to see dee. 110

"But Warriston was sair to blame,

For slighting o' his lady so;

He had the wyte o' his ain death,

And bonny lady's overthrow."

MARY HAMILTON. See p. 113.

A "North Country" version from Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p.

252. The Editor furnishes the two following stanzas of another copy:--

My father is the Duke of Argyle,

My mother's a lady gay,

And I mysel am a daintie dame,

And the king desired me.

He shaw'd me up, he shaw'd me doun,

He shaw'd me to the ha',

He shaw'd me to the low cellars,

And that was warst of a'.

In one of Motherwell's copies, and in Buchan's, the heroine calls

herself daughter of the Duke of York.

"Whan I was a babe, and a very little babe,

And stood at my mither's knee,

Nae witch nor warlock did unfauld

The death I was to dree.

"But my mither was a proud woman, 5

A proud woman and a bauld;

And she hired me to Queen Mary's bouer

When scarce eleven years auld.

"O happy, happy, is the maid,

That's born of beauty free! 10

It was my dimpling rosy cheeks

That's been the dule o' me;

And wae be to that weirdless wicht,

And a' his witcherie."

Word's gane up and word's gane doun, 15

And word's gane to the ha',

That Mary Hamilton was wi' bairn,

And na body ken'd to wha.

But in and cam the Queen hersel,

Wi' gowd plait on her hair;-- 20

Says, "Mary Hamilton, whare is the babe

That I heard greet sae sair?"

"There is na babe within my bouer,

And I hope there ne'er will be;

But it's me wi' a sair and sick colic, 25

And I'm just like to dee."

But they looked up, they looked down,

Atween the bowsters and the wa',

It's there they got a bonnie lad-bairn,

But it's life it was awa'. 30

"Rise up, rise up, Mary Hamilton,

Rise up, and dress ye fine,

For you maun gang to Edinbruch,

And stand afore the nine.[L34]

"Ye'll no put on the dowie black, 35

Nor yet the dowie brown;

But ye'll put on the robes o' red,

To sheen thro' Edinbruch town."

"I'll no put on the dowie black,

Nor yet the dowie brown; 40

But I'll put on the robes o' red,

To sheen thro' Edinbruch town."

As they gaed thro' Edinbruch town,

And down by the Nether-bow,

There war monie a lady fair 45

Siching and crying, "Och how!"

"O weep na mair for me, ladies,

Weep na mair for me;

Yestreen I killed my ain bairn,

The day I deserve to dee. 50

"What need ye hech! and how! ladies,

What need ye how! for me;

Ye never saw grace at a graceless face,--

Queen Mary has nane to gie."

"Gae forward, gae forward," the Queen she said,

"Gae forward, that ye may see; 55

For the very same words that ye hae said,

Sall hang ye on the gallows tree."

As she gaed up the Tolbooth stairs,

She gied loud lauchters three; 60

But or ever she cam down again,

She was condemn'd to dee.

"O tak example frae me, Maries,

O tak example frae me,

Nor gie your luve to courtly lords, 65

Nor heed their witchin' ee.

"But wae be to the Queen hersel,

She micht hae pardon'd me;

But sair she's striven for me to hang

Upon the gallows tree. 70

"Yestreen the Queen had four Maries,

The nicht she'll hae but three;

There was Mary Beatoun, Mary Seaton,

And Mary Carmichael, and me.

"Aft hae I set pearls in her hair, 75

Aft hae I lac'd her gown,

And this is the reward I now get,

To be hang'd in Edinbruch town!

"O a' ye mariners, far and near,

That sail ayont the faem, 80

O dinna let my father and mither ken,

But what I am coming hame.

"O a' ye mariners, far and near,

That sail ayont the sea,

Let na my father and mither ken, 85

The death I am to dee.

"Sae, weep na mair for me, ladies,

Weep na mair for me,

The mither that kills her ain bairn,

Deserves weel for to dee." 90

* * * * * * * *

34. Anciently the supreme criminal court of Scotland was composed of

nine members, viz. the Justiciar, or Justice General, and his eight

Deputes. KINLOCH.

MARY HAMILTON. See p 113.

Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 19.

Then down cam Queen Marie

Wi' gold links in her hair,

Saying, "Marie mild, where is the child,

That I heard greet sair sair?"

"There was nae child wi' me, madam, 5

There was nae child wi' me;

It was but me in a sair cholic,

When I was like to die."

"I'm not deceived," Queen Marie said,

"No, no, indeed, not I! 10

So Marie mild, where is the child?

For sure I heard it cry."

She turned down the blankets fine,

Likewise the Holland sheet,

And underneath, there strangled lay 15

A lovely baby sweet.

"O cruel mother," said the Queen,

"Some fiend possessed thee;

But I will hang thee for this deed,

My Marie tho' thou be!" 20

* * * * * *

When she cam to the Nether-Bow Port,

She laugh't loud laughters three;

But when she cam to the gallows foot,

The saut tear blinded her ee.

"Yestreen the Queen had four Maries, 25

The night she'll hae but three;

There was Marie Seton, and Marie Beaton,

And Marie Carmichael and me.

"Ye mariners, ye mariners,

That sail upon the sea, 30

Let not my father or mother wit

The death that I maun die.

"I was my parents' only hope,

They ne'er had ane but me;

They little thought when I left hame, 35

They should nae mair me see!"

SIR HUGH, OR THE JEW'S DAUGHTER.

See p. 136.

From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 51; taken down from recitation.

Yesterday was brave Hallowday,

And, above all days of the year,

The schoolboys all got leave to play,

And little Sir Hugh was there.

He kicked the ball with his foot, 5

And kepped it with his knee,

And even in at the Jew's window

He gart the bonnie ba' flee.

Out then came the Jew's daughter,--

"Will ye come in and dine?" 10

"I winna come in and I canna come in

Till I get that ball of mine.

"Throw down that ball to me, maiden,

Throw down the ball to me."

"I winna throw down your ball, Sir Hugh, 15

Till ye come up to me."

She pu'd the apple frae the tree,

It was baith red and green,

She gave it unto little Sir Hugh,

With that his heart did win. 20

She wiled him into ae chamber,

She wiled him into twa,

She wiled him into the third chamber,

And that was warst o't a'.

She took out a little penknife, 25

Hung low down by her spare,

She twined this young thing o' his life,

And a word he ne'er spak mair.

And first came out the thick, thick blood,

And syne came out the thin, 30

And syne came out the bonnie heart's blood,--

There was nae mair within.

She laid him on a dressing table,

She dress'd him like a swine,

Says, "Lie ye there, my bonnie Sir Hugh, 35

Wi' ye're apples red and green!"

She put him in a case of lead,

Says, "Lie ye there and sleep!"

She threw him into the deep draw-well

Was fifty fathom deep. 40

A schoolboy walking in the garden

Did grievously hear him moan,

He ran away to the deep draw-well

And fell down on his knee.

Says, "Bonnie Sir Hugh, and pretty Sir Hugh, 45

I pray you speak to me;

If you speak to any body in this world,

I pray you speak to me."

When bells were rung and mass was sung,

And every body went hame, 50

Then every lady had her son,

But Lady Helen had nane.

She rolled her mantle her about,

And sore, sore did she weep;

She ran away to the Jew's castle, 55

When all were fast asleep.

She cries, "Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh,

I pray you speak to me;

If you speak to any body in this world,

I pray you speak to me." 60

"Lady Helen, if ye want your son,

I'll tell ye where to seek;

Lady Helen, if ye want your son,

He's in the well sae deep."

She ran away to the deep draw-well, 65

And she fell down on her knee;

Saying, "Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh,

I pray ye speak to me;

If ye speak to any body in the world,

I pray ye speak to me." 70

"Oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, mother,

The well it is wondrous deep;

The little penknife sticks in my throat,

And I downa to ye speak.

But lift me out o' this deep draw-well, 75

And bury me in yon churchyard;

"Put a Bible at my head," he says,

"And a testament at my feet,

And pen and ink at every side,

And I'll lie still and sleep. 80

"And go to the back of Maitland town,

Bring me my winding sheet;

For it's at the back of Maitland town

That you and I shall meet."

O the broom, the bonny, bonny broom, 85

The broom that makes full sore,

A woman's mercy is very little,

But a man's mercy is more.

SIR HUGH. See p. 136.

From Hume's _Sir Hugh of Lincoln_, p. 35; obtained from recitation, in

Ireland.

'Twas on a summer's morning,

Some scholars were playing at ball;

When out came the Jew's daughter

And lean'd her back against the wall.

She said unto the fairest boy, 5

"Come here to me, Sir Hugh."

"No! I will not," said he,

"Without my playfellows too."

She took an apple out of her pocket,

And trundled it along the plain; 10

And who was readiest to lift it,

Was little Sir Hugh, again.

She took him by the milk-white han',

An' led him through many a hall,

Until they came to one stone chamber, 15

Where no man might hear his call.

She sat him in a goolden chair,

And jagg'd him with a pin;

And called for a goolden cup

To houl' his heart's blood in. 20

She tuk him by the yellow hair,

An' also by the feet;

An' she threw him in the deep draw well,

It was fifty fadom deep.

Day bein' over, the night came on, 25

And the scholars all went home;

Then every mother had her son,

But little Sir Hugh's had none.

She put her mantle about her head,

Tuk a little rod in her han', 30

An' she says, "Sir Hugh, if I fin' you here,

I will bate you for stayin' so long."

First she went to the Jew's door,

But they were fast asleep;

An' then she went to the deep draw-well, 35

That was fifty fadom deep.

She says, "Sir Hugh, if you be here,

As I suppose you be,

If ever the dead or quick arose,

Arise and spake to me." 40

Yes, mother dear, I am here,

I know I have staid very long;

But a little penknife was stuck in my heart,

Till the stream ran down full strong.

And mother dear, when you go home, 45

Tell my playfellows all,

That I lost my life by leaving them

When playing that game of ball.

And ere another day is gone,

My winding-sheet prepare, 50

And bury me in the green churchyard

Where the flowers are bloomin' fair.

Lay my Bible at my head,

My testament at my feet;

The earth and worms shall be my bed, 55

Till Christ and I shall meet.

SIR PATRICK SPENS. See p. 147.

From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 1.

The King sits in Dunfermline town,

A-drinking at the wine;

Says, "Where will I get a good skipper

Will sail the saut seas fine?"

Out it speaks an eldren knight 5

Amang the companie,--

"Young Patrick Spens is the best skipper

That ever sail'd the sea."

The king he wrote a braid letter,

And seal'd it wi' his ring; 10

Says, "Ye'll gi'e that to Patrick Spens:

See if ye can him find."

He sent this, not wi' an auld man,

Nor yet a simple boy,

But the best o' nobles in his train 15

This letter did convoy.

When Patrick look'd the letter upon

A light laugh then ga'e he;

But ere he read it till an end,

The tear blinded his e'e. 20

"Ye'll eat and drink, my merry men a',

An' see ye be weell thorn;

For blaw it weet, or blaw it wind,

My guid ship sails the morn."

Then out it speaks a guid auld man, 25

A guid death mat he dee,--

"Whatever ye do, my guid master,

Tak' God your guide to bee.

"For late yestreen I saw the new moon,

The auld moon in her arm." 30

"Ohon, alas!" says Patrick Spens,

"That bodes a deadly storm.

"But I maun sail the seas the morn,

And likewise sae maun you;

To Noroway, wi' our king's daughter,-- 35

A chosen queen she's now.

"But I wonder who has been sae base,

As tauld the king o' mee:

Even tho' hee ware my ae brither,

An ill death mat he dee." 40

Now Patrick he rigg'd out his ship,

And sailed ower the faem;

But mony a dreary thought had hee,

While hee was on the main.

They hadna sail'd upon the sea 45

A day but barely three,

Till they came in sight o' Noroway,

It's there where they must bee.

They hadna stayed into that place

A month but and a day, 50

Till he caus'd the flip in mugs gae roun',

And wine in cans sae gay.

The pipe and harp sae sweetly play'd,

The trumpets loudly soun';

In every hall where in they stay'd, 55

Wi' their mirth did reboun'.

Then out it speaks an auld skipper,

An inbearing dog was hee,--

"Ye've stay'd ower lang in Noroway,

Spending your king's monie." 60

Then out it speaks Sir Patrick Spens,--

"O how can a' this bee?

I ha'e a bow o' guid red gowd

Into my ship wi' mee.

"But betide me well, betide me wae, 65

This day I'se leave the shore;

And never spend my king's monie

'Mong Noroway dogs no more."

Young Patrick hee is on the sea,

And even on the faem, 70

Wi' five-an-fifty Scots lords' sons,

That lang'd to bee at hame.

They hadna sail'd upon the sea

A day but barely three,

Till loud and boistrous grew the wind, 75

And stormy grew the sea.

"O where will I get a little wee boy

Will tak' my helm in hand,

Till I gae up to my tapmast,

And see for some dry land?" 80

He hadna gane to his tapmast

A step but barely three;

Ere thro' and thro' the bonny ship's side,

He saw the green haw sea.

"There are five-an-fifty feather beds 85

Well packed in ae room;

And ye'll get as muckle guid canvas

As wrap the ship a' roun';

"Ye'll pict her well, and spare her not,

And mak' her hale and soun'." 90

But ere he had the word well spoke

The bonny ship was down.

O laith, laith were our guid lords' sons

To weet their milk-white hands;

But lang ere a' the play was ower 95

They wat their gowden bands.

O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sons

To weet their coal-black shoon;

But lang ere a' the play was ower

They wat their hats aboon. 100

It's even ower by Aberdour

It's fifty fathoms deep,

And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens,

And a's men at his feet.

It's even ower by Aberdour, 105

There's mony a craig and fin,

And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens,

Wi' mony a guid lord's son.

Lang, lang will the ladyes look

Into their morning weed, 110

Before they see young Patrick Spens

Come sailing ower the fleed.

Lang, lang will the ladyes look

Wi' their fans in their hand,

Before they see him, Patrick Spens, 115

Come sailing to dry land.

LORD LIVINGSTON.

From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 39.

It fell about the Lammas time,

When wightsmen won their hay;

A' the squires in merry Linkum,

Went a' forth till a play.

They play'd until the evening tide, 5

The sun was gaeing down;

A lady thro' plain fields was bound,

A lily leesome thing.

Two squires that for this lady pledged,

In hopes for a renown; 10

The one was call'd the proud Seaton,

The other Livingston.

"When will ye, Michaell o' Livingston,

Wad for this lady gay?"

"To-morrow, to-morrow," said Livingston, 15

"To-morrow, if you may."

Then they hae wadded their wagers,

And laid their pledges down;

To the high castle o' Edinbro'

They made them ready boun'. 20

The chamber that they did gang in,

There it was daily dight;

The kipples were like the gude red gowd,

As they stood up in hight;

And the roof-tree like the siller white, 25

And shin'd like candles bright.

The lady fair into that ha'

Was comely to be seen;

Her kirtle was made o' the pa',

Her gowns seem'd o' the green. 30

Her gowns seem'd like green, like green,

Her kirtle o' the pa';

A siller wand intill her hand,

She marshall'd ower them a'.

She gae every knight a lady bright, 35

And every squire a may;

Her own sell chose him, Livingston,

They were a comely tway.

Then Seaton started till his foot,

The fierce flame in his e'e: 40

"On the next day, wi' sword in hand,

On plain fields, meet ye me."

When bells were rung, and mass was sung,

And a' man bound for bed;

Lord Livingston and his fair dame 45

In bed were sweetly laid.

The bed, the bed, where they lay in,

Was cover'd wi' the pa';

A covering o' the gude red gowd,

Lay nightly ower the twa. 50

So they lay there, till on the morn

The sun shone on their feet;

Then up it raise him, Livingston,

To draw to him a weed.

The first an' weed that he drew on, 55

Was o' the linen clear;

The next an' weed that he drew on,

It was a weed o' weir.

The niest an' weed that he drew on,

Was gude iron and steel; 60

Twa gloves o' plate, a gowden helmet,

Became that hind chiel weel.

Then out it speaks that lady gay,

A little forbye stood she;

"I'll dress mysell in men's array, 65

Gae to the fields for thee."

"O God forbid," said Livingston,

"That e'er I dree the shame;

My lady slain in plain fields,

And I coward knight at hame!" 70

He scarcely travelled frae the town

A mile but barely twa,

Till he met wi' a witch woman,

I pray to send her wae.

"This is too gude a day, my lord, 75

To gang sae far frae town;

This is too gude a day, my lord,

On field to make you boun'.

"I dream'd a dream concerning thee,

O read ill dreams to guid! 80

Your bower was full o' milk-white swans,

Your bride's bed full o' bluid."

"O bluid is gude," said Livingston,

"To bide it whoso may;

If I be frae yon plain fields, 85

Nane knew the plight I lay."

Then he rade on to plain fields,

As swift's his horse cou'd hie;

And there he met the proud Seaton,

Come boldly ower the lee. 90

"Come on to me now, Livingston,

Or then take foot and flee;

This is the day that we must try

Who gains the victorie."

Then they fought with sword in hand, 95

Till they were bluidy men;

But on the point o' Seaton's sword

Brave Livingston was slain.

His lady lay ower castle wa',

Beholding dale and down, 100

When Blenchant brave, his gallant steed,

Came prancing to the town.

"O where is now my ain gude lord,

He stays sae far frae me?"

"O dinna ye see your ain gude lord, 105

Stand bleeding by your knee?"

"O live, O live, Lord Livingston,

The space o' ae half hour;

There's nae a leech in Edinbro' town

But I'll bring to your door." 110

"Awa' wi' your leeches, lady," he said,

"Of them I'll be the waur;

There's nae a leech in Edinbro' town,

That can strong death debar.

"Ye'll take the lands o' Livingston, 115

And deal them liberallie;

To the auld that may not, the young that cannot,

And blind that does na see;

And help young maidens' marriages,

That has nae gear to gie." 120

"My mother got it in a book,

The first night I was born,

I wou'd be wedded till a knight,

And him slain on the morn.

"But I will do for my love's sake 125

What ladies woudna thole;

Ere seven years shall hae an end,

Nae shoe's gang on my sole.

"There's never lint gang on my head,

Nor kame gang in my hair, 130

Nor ever coal nor candle light,

Shine in my bower mair."

When seven years were near an end,

The lady she thought lang;

And wi' a crack her heart did brake, 135

And sae this ends my sang.

CLERK TAMAS.

Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 43.

Clerk Tamas lov'd her, fair Annie,

As well as Mary lov'd her son;

But now he hates her, fair Annie,

And hates the lands that she lives in.

"Ohon, alas!" said fair Annie, 5

"Alas! this day I fear I'll die;

But I will on to sweet Tamas,

And see gin he will pity me."

As Tamas lay ower his shott-window,

Just as the sun was gaen down, 10

There he beheld her, fair Annie,

As she came walking to the town.

"O where are a' my well-wight men,

I wat that I pay meat and fee,

For to lat a' my hounds gang loose, 15

To hunt this vile whore to the sea!"

The hounds they knew the lady well,

And nane o' them they wou'd her bite;

Save ane that is ca'd Gaudy-where,

I wat he did the lady smite. 20

"O wae mat worth ye, Gaudy-where,

An ill reward this is to me;

For ae bit that I gae the lave,

I'm very sure I've gi'en you three.

"For me, alas! there's nae remeid, 25

Here comes the day that I maun die;

I ken ye lov'd your master well,

And sae, alas for me, did I!"

A captain lay ower his ship window,

Just as the sun was gaen down; 30

There he beheld her, fair Annie,

As she was hunted frae the town.

"Gin ye'll forsake father and mither,

And sae will ye your friends and kin,

Gin ye'll forsake your lands sae broad, 35

Then come and I will take you in."

"Yes, I'll forsake baith father and mither,

And sae will I my friends and kin,

Yes, I'll forsake my lands sae broad,

And come, gin ye will take me in." 40

Then a' thing gaed frae fause Tamas,

And there was naething byde him wi';

Then he thought lang for Arrandella,

It was fair Annie for to see.

"How do ye now, ye sweet Tamas? 45

And how gaes a' in your countrie?"

"I'll do better to you than ever I've done,

Fair Annie, gin ye'll come an' see."

"O Guid forbid," said fair Annie,

"That e'er the like fa' in my hand; 50

Wou'd I forsake my ain gude lord,

And follow you, a gae-through-land?

"Yet nevertheless now, sweet Tamas,

Ye'll drink a cup o' wine wi' me;

And nine times in the live lang day, 55

Your fair claithing shall changed be."

Fair Annie pat it till her cheek,

Sae did she till her milk-white chin,

Sae did she till her flattering lips,

But never a drap o' wine gaed in. 60

Tamas pat it till his cheek,

Sae did he till his dimpled chin;

He pat it till his rosy lips,

And then the well o' wine gaed in.

"These pains," said he, "are ill to bide; 65

Here is the day that I maun die;

O take this cup frae me, Annie,

For o' the same I am weary."

"And sae was I, o' you, Tamas,

When I was hunted to the sea; 70

But I'se gar bury you in state,

Which is mair than ye'd done to me."

JOHN THOMSON AND THE TURK.

From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, Appendix, p. ix. The same in Buchan's

collection, ii. 159.

John Thomson fought against the Turks

Three years, intill a far countrie;

And all that time, and something mair,

Was absent from his gay ladie.

But it fell ance upon a time, 5

As this young chieftain sat alane,

He spied his lady in rich array,

As she walk'd ower a rural plain.

"What brought ye here, my lady gay,

So far awa from your ain countrie? 10

I've thought lang, and very lang,

And all for your fair face to see."

For some days she did with him stay,

Till it fell ance upon a day,

"Fareweel, for a time," she said, 15

"For now I must boun hame away."

He's gi'en to her a jewel fine,

Was set with pearl and precious stane;

Says, "My love, beware of these savages bold

That's in your way as ye gang hame. 20

"Ye'll tak the road, my lady fair,

That leads you fair across the lea:

That keeps you from wild Hind Soldan,

And likewise from base Violentrie."

Wi' heavy heart thir twa did pairt, 25

She mintet as she wuld gae hame;

Hind Soldan by the Greeks was slain,

But to base Violentrie she's gane.

When a twelvemonth had expired,

John Thomson he thought wondrous lang, 30

And he has written a braid letter,

And sealed it weel wi' his ain hand.

He sent it with a small vessel

That there was quickly gaun to sea;

And sent it on to fair Scotland, 35

To see about his gay ladie.

But the answer he received again,--

The lines did grieve his heart right sair:

Nane of her friends there had her seen,

For a twelvemonth and something mair. 40

Then he put on a palmer's weed,

And took a pike-staff in his hand;

To Violentrie's castell he hied;

But slowly, slowly he did gang.

When within the hall he came, 45

He jooked and couch'd out ower his tree:

"If ye be lady of this hall,

Some of your good bountith gie me."

"What news, what news, palmer," she said,

"And from what countrie cam ye?" 50

"I'm lately come from Grecian plains,

Where lies some of the Scots armie."

"If ye be come from Grecian plains,

Some mair news I will ask of thee,--

Of one of the chieftains that lies there, 55

If he has lately seen his gay ladie."

"It is twa months, and something mair,

Since we did pairt on yonder plain;

And now this knight has began to fear

One of his foes he has her ta'en." 60

"He has not ta'en me by force nor slight;

It was a' by my ain free will;

He may tarry into the fight,

For here I mean to tarry still.

"And if John Thomson ye do see, 65

Tell him I wish him silent sleep;

His head was not so coziely,

Nor yet sae weel, as lies at my feet."

With that he threw aff his strange disguise,

Laid by the mask that he had on; 70

Said, "Hide me now, my lady fair,

For Violentrie will soon be hame."

"For the love I bore thee ance,

I'll strive to hide you, if I can:"

Then she put him down in a dark cellar 75

Where there lay many a new slain man.

But he hadna in the cellar been,

Not an hour but barely three,

Then hideous was the noise he heard,

When in at the gate cam Violentrie. 80

Says, "I wish you well, my lady fair,

It's time for us to sit to dine;

Come, serve me with the good white bread,

And likewise with the claret wine.

"That Scots chieftain, our mortal fae, 85

Sae aft frae the field has made us flee,

Ten thousand zechins this day I'll give

That I his face could only see."

"Of that same gift wuld ye give me,

If I wuld bring him unto thee? 90

I fairly hold you at your word;--

Come ben, John Thomson, to my lord."

Then from the vault John Thomson came,

Wringing his hands most piteouslie:

"What would ye do," the Turk he cried, 95

"If ye had me as I hae thee?"

"If I had you as ye have me,

I'll tell ye what I'd do to thee;

I'd hang you up in good greenwood,

And cause your ain hand wale the tree. 100

"I meant to stick you with my knife

For kissing my beloved ladie:"

"But that same weed ye've shaped for me,

It quickly shall be sewed for thee."

Then to the wood they baith are gane; 105

John Thomson clamb frae tree to tree;

And aye he sighed and said, "Och hone!

Here comes the day that I must die."

He tied a ribbon on every branch,

Put up a flag his men might see; 110

But little did his false faes ken

He meant them any injurie.

He set his horn unto his mouth,

And he has blawn baith loud and schill:

And then three thousand armed men 115

Cam tripping all out ower the hill.

"Deliver us our chief," they all did cry;

"It's by our hand that ye must die;"

"Here is your chief," the Turk replied,

With that fell on his bended knee. 120

"O mercy, mercy, good fellows all,

Mercy I pray you'll grant to me;"

"Such mercy as ye meant to give,

Such mercy we shall give to thee."

This Turk they in his castel burnt, 125

That stood upon yon hill so hie;

John Thomson's gay ladie they took

And hanged her on yon greenwood tree.

LORD THOMAS STUART.

From Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 1.

Thomas Stuart was a lord,

A lord of mickle land;

He used to wear a coat of gold,

But now his grave is green.

Now he has wooed the young countess, 5

The Countess of Balquhin,

An' given her for a morning gift,

Strathboggie and Aboyne.

But women's wit is aye willful,

Alas! that ever it was sae; 10

She longed to see the morning gift

That her gude lord to her gae.

When steeds were saddled an' weel bridled,

An' ready for to ride,

There came a pain on that gude lord, 15

His back, likewise his side.

He said, "Ride on, my lady fair,

May goodness be your guide;

For I'm sae sick an' weary that

No farther can I ride." 20

Now ben did come his father dear,

Wearing a golden band;

Says, "Is there nae leech in Edinburgh,

Can cure my son from wrang?"

"O leech is come, an' leech is gane, 25

Yet, father, I'm aye waur;

There's not a leech in Edinbro'

Can death from me debar.

"But be a friend to my wife, father,

Restore to her her own; 30

Restore to her my morning gift,

Strathboggie and Aboyne.

"It had been gude for my wife, father,

To me she'd born a son;

He would have got my land an' rents, 35

Where they lie out an' in.

"It had been gude for my wife, father,

To me she'd born an heir;

He would have got my land an' rents,

Where they lie fine an' fair." 40

The steeds they strave into their stables,

The boys could'nt get them bound;

The hounds lay howling on the leech,

'Cause their master was behind.

"I dreamed a dream since late yestreen, 45

I wish it may be good,

That our chamber was full of swine,

An' our bed full of blood.

"I saw a woman come from the West,

Full sore wringing her hands, 50

And aye she cried, 'Ohon alas!

My good lord's broken bands.'

"As she came by my good lord's bower,

Saw mony black steeds an' brown;

I'm feared it be mony unco lords 55

Havin' my love from town."

As she came by my gude lord's bower,

Saw mony black steeds an' grey;

"I'm feared its mony unco lords

Havin' my love to the clay." 60

THE SPANISH VIRGIN.

From Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 316.

The three following pieces are here inserted merely as specimens of a

class of tales, horrible in their incidents but feeble in their

execution, of which whole dreary volumes were printed and read about two

centuries ago. They were all of them, probably, founded on Italian

novels.

"The subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical

stories, entitled, _The Theatre of God's Judgments, by Dr. Beard and Dr.

Taylor_, 1642. Pt. 2, p. 89. The text is given (with corrections) from

two copies; one of them in black-letter in the Pepys Collection. In this

every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden:

Oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell:

Depart from hence, and therein dwell."

All tender hearts, that ake to hear

Of those that suffer wrong;

All you that never shed a tear,

Give heed unto my song.

Fair Isabella's tragedy 5

My tale doth far exceed:

Alas, that so much cruelty

In female hearts should breed!

In Spain a lady liv'd of late,

Who was of high degree; 10

Whose wayward temper did create

Much woe and misery.

Strange jealousies so filled her head

With many a vain surmize,

She thought her lord had wrong'd her bed, 15

And did her love despise.

A gentlewoman passing fair

Did on this lady wait;

With bravest dames she might compare;

Her beauty was compleat. 20

Her lady cast a jealous eye

Upon this gentle maid,

And taxt her with disloyaltye,

And did her oft upbraid.

In silence still this maiden meek 25

Her bitter taunts would bear,

While oft adown her lovely cheek

Would steal the falling tear.

In vain in humble sort she strove

Her fury to disarm; 30

As well the meekness of the dove

The bloody hawke might charm.

Her lord, of humour light and gay,

And innocent the while,

As oft as she came in his way, 35

Would on the damsell smile.

And oft before his lady's face,

As thinking her her friend,

He would the maiden's modest grace

And comeliness commend. 40

All which incens'd his lady so,

She burnt with wrath extreame;

At length the fire that long did glow,

Burst forth into a flame.

For on a day it so befell, 45

When he was gone from home,

The lady all with rage did swell,

And to the damsell come.

And charging her with great offence

And many a grievous fault, 50

She bade her servants drag her thence,

Into a dismal vault,

That lay beneath the common-shore,--

A dungeon dark and deep,

Where they were wont, in days of yore, 55

Offenders great to keep.

There never light of chearful day

Dispers'd the hideous gloom;

But dank and noisome vapours play

Around the wretched room: 60

And adders, snakes, and toads therein,

As afterwards was known,

Long in this loathsome vault had bin,

And were to monsters grown.

Into this foul and fearful place, 65

The fair one innocent

Was cast, before her lady's face;

Her malice to content.

This maid no sooner enter'd is,

But strait, alas! she hears 70

The toads to croak, and snakes to hiss:

Then grievously she fears.

Soon from their holes the vipers creep,

And fiercely her assail,

Which makes the damsel sorely weep, 75

And her sad fate bewail.

With her fair hands she strives in vain

Her body to defend;

With shrieks and cries she doth complain,

But all is to no end. 80

A servant listning near the door,

Struck with her doleful noise,

Strait ran his lady to implore;

But she'll not hear his voice.

With bleeding heart he goes agen 85

To mark the maiden's groans;

And plainly hears, within the den,

How she herself bemoans.

Again he to his lady hies,

With all the haste he may; 90

She into furious passion flies,

And orders him away.

Still back again does he return

To hear her tender cries;

The virgin now had ceas'd to mourn, 95

Which fill'd him with surprize.

In grief, and horror, and affright,

He listens at the walls

But finding all was silent quite,

He to his lady calls. 100

"Too sure, O lady," now quoth he,

"Your cruelty hath sped;

Make haste, for shame, and come and see;

I fear the virgin's dead."

She starts to hear her sudden fate, 105

And does with torches run;

But all her haste was now too late,

For death his worst had done.

The door being open'd, strait they found

The virgin stretch'd along; 110

Two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round,

Which her to death had stung.

One round her legs, her thighs, her waist,

Had twin'd his fatal wreath;

The other close her neck embrac'd, 115

And stopt her gentle breath.

The snakes being from her body thrust,

Their bellies were so fill'd,

That with excess of blood they burst,

Thus with their prey were kill'd. 120

The wicked lady, at this sight,

With horror strait ran mad;

So raving dy'd, as was most right,

'Cause she no pity had.

Let me advise you, ladies all, 125

Of jealousy beware:

It causeth many a one to fall,

And is the devil's snare.

THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.

"This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys

Collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263, folio.

It is there entitled, _The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's

Cruelty; being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed

on the body of the Lady Isabella, the only daughter of a noble Duke, &c.

To the tune of The Lady's Fall_. To some copies are annexed eight more

modern stanzas, entitled, _The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation_."

Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 199.

The copy in Durfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_, v. 53, is nearly

_verbatim_ the same.

There was a lord of worthy fame,

And a hunting he would ride,

Attended by a noble traine

Of gentrye by his side.

And while he did in chase remaine, 5

To see both sport and playe,

His ladye went, as she did feigne,

Unto the church to praye.

This lord he had a daughter deare,

Whose beauty shone so bright, 10

She was belov'd, both far and neare,

Of many a lord and knight.

Fair Isabella was she call'd,

A creature faire was shee;

She was her fathers only joye; 15

As you shall after see.

Therefore her cruel step-mother

Did envye her so much,

That daye by daye she sought her life,

Her malice it was such. 20

She bargain'd with the master-cook

To take her life awaye;

And taking of her daughter's book,

She thus to her did saye:--

"Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, 25

Go hasten presentlie,

And tell unto the master-cook

These wordes that I tell thee.

"And bid him dresse to dinner streight

That faire and milk-white doe 30

That in the parke doth shine so bright,

There's none so faire to showe."

This ladye fearing of no harme,

Obey'd her mothers will;

And presentlye she hasted home, 35

Her pleasure to fulfill.

She streight into the kitchen went,

Her message for to tell;

And there she spied the master-cook,

Who did with malice swell. 40

"Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,

Do that which I thee tell:

You needes must dresse the milk-white doe,

Which you do knowe full well."

Then streight his cruell bloodye hands, 45

He on the ladye layd;

Who quivering and shaking stands,

While thus to her he sayd:

"Thou art the doe that I must dresse;

See here, behold my knife; 50

For it is pointed presently

To ridd thee of thy life."

"O then," cried out the scullion-boye,

As loud as loud might bee,

"O save her life, good master-cook, 55

And make your pyes of mee!

"For pityes sake do not destroye

My ladye with your knife;

You know shee is her father's joye;

For Christes sake save her life!" 60

"I will not save her life," he sayd,

"Nor make my pyes of thee;

Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,

Thy butcher I will bee."

Now when this lord he did come home 65

For to sitt down and eat,

He called for his daughter deare,

To come and carve his meat.

"Now sit you downe," his ladye sayd,

"O sit you downe to meat; 70

Into some nunnery she is gone;

Your daughter deare forget."

Then solemnlye he made a vowe

Before the companie,

That he would neither eat nor drinke, 75

Until he did her see.

O then bespake the scullion-boye.

With a loud voice so hye;

"If now you will your daughter see,

My lord, cut up that pye: 80

"Wherein her fleshe is minced small,

And parched with the fire;

All caused by her step-mother,

Who did her death desire.

"And cursed bee the master-cook, 85

O cursed may he bee!

I proffered him my own heart's blood,

From death to set her free."

Then all in blacke this lord did mourne,

And for his daughters sake, 90

He judged her cruell step-mother

To be burnt at a stake.

Likewise he judg'd the master-cook

In boiling lead to stand.

And made the simple scullion-boye 95

The heire of all his land.

THE CRUEL BLACK.

_A Collection of Old Ballads_, (1723,) ii. 152: also Evans's _Old

Ballads_, iii. 232. Entered in the Stationers' _Registers, 1569-70_. A

writer in the _British Bibliographer_, (iv. 182,) has pointed out that

this is only one of Bandello's novels versified. The novel is the 21st

of the Third Part, (London, 1792.)

_A lamentable Ballad of the tragical End of a gallant Lord and virtuous

Lady; together with the untimely Death of their two Children: wickedly

performed by a Heathenish and Blood-thirsty Black-a-moor, their Servant;

the like of which Cruelty and Murder was never before heard of._

In Rome a nobleman did wed

A virgin of great fame;

A fairer creature never did

Dame Nature ever frame:

By whom he had two children fair, 5

Whose beauty did excel;

They were their parents only joy,

They lov'd them both so well.

The lord he lov'd to hunt the buck,

The tiger, and the boar; 10

And still for swiftness always took

With him a black-a-moor:

Which black-a-moor within the wood

His lord he did offend,

For which he did him then correct, 15

In hopes he would amend.

The day it grew unto an end;

Then homewards he did haste,

Where with his lady he did rest,

Until the night was past. 20

Then in the morning he did rise,

And did his servants call;

A hunting he provides to go:

Straight they were ready all

To cause the toyl the lady did 25

Intreat him not to go:

"Alas, good lady," then quoth he,

"Why art thou grieved so?

Content thyself, I will return

With speed to thee again." 30

"Good father," quoth the little babes,

"With us here still remain."

"Farewel, dear children, I will go

A fine thing for to buy;"

But they, therewith nothing content, 35

Aloud began to cry.

The mother takes them by the hand,

Saying, "Come, go with me

Unto the highest tower, where

Your father you shall see." 40

The black-a-moor, perceiving now,

Who then did stay behind,

His lord to be a hunting gone,

Began to call to mind:

"My master he did me correct, 45

My fault not being great;

Now of his wife I'll be reveng'd,

She shall not me intreat."

The place was moated round about;

The bridge he up did draw; 50

The gates he bolted very fast;

Of none he stood in awe.

He up into the tower went,

The lady being there;

Who, when she saw his countenance grim, 55

She straight began to fear.

But now my trembling heart it quakes

To think what I must write;

My senses all begin to fail,

My soul it doth affright. 60

Yet must I make an end of this

Which here I have begun,

Which will make sad the hardest heart,

Before that I have done.

This wretch unto the lady went, 65

And her with speed did will,

His lust forthwith to satisfy,

His mind for to fulfil.

The lady she amazed was,

To hear the villain speak; 70

"Alas," quoth she, "what shall I do?

With grief my heart will break."

With that he took her in his arms;

She straight for help did cry;

"Content yourself, lady," he said, 75

"Your husband is not nigh:

The bridge is drawn, the gates are shut,

Therefore come lie with me,

Or else I do protest and vow,

Thy butcher I will be." 80

The crystal tears ran down her face,

Her children cried amain,

And sought to help their mother dear,

But all it was in vain;

For that egregious filthy rogue 85

Her hands behind her bound,

And then perforce with all his might,

He threw her on the ground.

With that she shriek'd, her children cried,

And such a noise did make, 90

That town-folks, hearing her laments,

Did seek their parts to take:

But all in vain; no way was found

To help the lady's need,

Who cried to them most piteously, 95

"O help! O help with speed!"

Some run into the forest wide,

Her lord home for to call;

And they that stood still did lament

This gallant lady's fall. 100

With speed her lord came posting home;

He could not enter in;

His lady's cries did pierce his heart;

To call he did begin:

"O hold thy hand, thou savage moor, 105

To hurt her do forbear,

Or else be sure, if I do live,

Wild horses shall thee tear."

With that the rogue ran to the wall,

He having had his will, 110

And brought one child under his arm,

His dearest blood to spill.

The child, seeing his father there,

To him for help did call:

"O father! help my mother dear, 115

We shall be killed all."

Then fell the lord upon his knee,

And did the moor intreat,

To save the life of this poor child,

Whose fear was then so great. 120

But this vile wretch the little child

By both the heels did take

And dash'd his brains against the wall,

Whilst parent's hearts did ake:

That being done, straightway he ran 125

The other child to fetch,

And pluck'd it from the mother's breast,

Most like a cruel wretch.

Within one hand a knife he brought,

The child within the other; 130

And holding it over the wall,

Saying, "Thus shall die thy mother,"

With that he cut the throat of it;

Then to the father he did call,

To look how he the head did cut, 135

And down the head did fall.

This done, he threw it down the wall

Into the moat so deep;

Which made the father wring his hands,

And grievously to weep. 140

Then to the lady went this rogue,

Who was near dead with fear,

Yet this vile wretch most cruelly

Did drag her by the hair;

And drew her to the very wall, 145

Which when her lord did see,

Then presently he cried out,

And fell upon his knee:

Quoth he, "If thou wilt save her life,

Whom I do love so dear, 150

I will forgive thee all is past,

Though they concern me near.

"O save her life, I thee beseech;

O save her, I thee pray,

And I will grant thee what thou wilt 155

Demand of me this day."

"Well," quoth the moor, "I do regard

The moan that thou dost make:

If thou wilt grant me what I ask,

I'll save her for thy sake." 160

"O save her life, and then demand

Of me what thing thou wilt."

"Cut off thy nose, and not one drop

Of her blood shall be spilt."

With that the lord presently took 165

A knife within his hand,

And then his nose he quite cut off,

In place where he did stand.

"Now I have bought my lady's life,"

He to the moor did call; 170

"Then take her," quoth this wicked rogue,

And down he let her fall.

Which when her gallant lord did see,

His senses all did fail;

Yet many sought to save his life, 175

But nothing could prevail.

When as the moor did see him dead,

Then did he laugh amain

At them who for their gallant lord

And lady did complain: 180

Quoth he, "I know you'll torture me,

If that you can me get,

But all your threats I do not fear,

Nor yet regard one whit.

"Wild horses shall my body tear, 185

I know it to be true,

But I prevent you of that pain:"

And down himself he threw.

Too good a death for such a wretch,

A villain void of fear! 190

And thus doth end as sad a tale

As ever man did hear.