O Willie rade, and Willie gaed
Atween the shore and sea,
And still it was his dead Lady
That kept him company.
O Willie rade, and Willie gaed
Atween the [loch and heather],
And still it was his dead Lady
That [held his stirrup leather].
“O Willie, tak’ me up by ye,
Sae far it is I gang;
O tak’ me on your saddle bow,
Or [your day shall not be lang].”
“Gae back, gae back, ye fause ill wife,
To the grave wherein ye lie,
It never was seen that a dead leman
Kept lover’s company!
“Gae back, gae back frae me,” he said,
“For this day maun I wed,
And how can I kiss a living lass,
When ye come frae the dead?
“If ye maun haunt a living man,
Your brither haunt,” says he,
“For it was never my knife, but his
That [twined thy life and thee!]”
* * * * *
We are to understand, I make no doubt, that Willie had been too fortunate
a lover, and that in his absence—the frailty of his lady becoming
conspicuous—her brother had avenged the family honour according to that
old law of Scotland which the courteous Ariosto styles “l’ aspra legge di
Scozia, empia e severa.”
Pray let me know, at your leisure, what you think of this _trouvaille_.
It is, of course, entirely at your service, if you think it worthy of a
place in a new edition of the “Minstrelsy.” I have no room to inflict
more ballads or legends on you; and remain, most faithfully yours,