9_The English and Scottish popular ballads, volume 3 (of 5)

‘Gi up your house, ye fair lady,

Gi up your house to me,

Or I will burn yoursel therein,

Bot and your babies three.’

‘I winnae gie up, you fals Gordon,

To nae sik traitor as thee,

Tho you should burn mysel therein,

Bot and my babies three.’

‘Set fire to the house,’ quoth fals Gordon,

‘Sin better may nae bee;

And I will burn hersel therein,

Bot and her babies three.’

‘And ein wae worth ye, Jock my man!

I paid ye weil your fee;

Why pow ye out my ground-wa-stane,

Lets in the reek to me?

‘And ein wae worth ye, Jock my man!

For I paid you weil your hire;

Why pow ye out my ground-wa-stane,

To me lets in the fire?’

‘Ye paid me weil my hire, lady,

Ye paid me weil my fee,

But now I’m Edom of Gordon’s man,

Maun either do or die.’

O then bespake her youngest son,

Sat on the nurses knee,

‘Dear mother, gie owre your house,’ he says,

‘For the reek it worries me.’

‘I winnae gie up my house, my dear,

To nae sik traitor as he;

Cum weil, cum wae, my jewels fair,

Ye maun tak share wi me.’

O then bespake her dochter dear,

She was baith jimp and sma;

‘O row me in a pair o shiets,

And tow me owre the wa.’

They rowd her in a pair of shiets,

And towd her owre the wa,

But on the point of Edom’s speir

She gat a deadly fa.

O bonny, bonny was hir mouth,

And chirry were her cheiks,

And clear, clear was hir yellow hair,

Whereon the reid bluid dreips!

Then wi his speir he turnd hir owr;

O gin hir face was wan!

He said, You are the first that eer

I wist alive again.

He turned hir owr and owr again;

O gin hir skin was whyte!

He said, I might ha spard thy life

To been some mans delyte.

‘Busk and boon, my merry men all,

For ill dooms I do guess;

I cannae luik in that bonny face,

As it lyes on the grass.’

‘Them luiks to freits, my master deir,

Then freits will follow them;

Let it neir be said brave Edom o Gordon

Was daunted with a dame.’

O then he spied hir ain deir lord,

As he came owr the lee;

He saw his castle in a fire,

As far as he could see.

‘Put on, put on, my mighty men,

As fast as ye can drie!

For he that’s hindmost of my men

Sall neir get guid o me.’

And some they raid, and some they ran,

Fu fast out-owr the plain,

But lang, lang eer he coud get up

They were a’deid and slain.

But mony were the mudie men

Lay gasping on the grien;

For o fifty men that Edom brought out

There were but five ged heme.

And mony were the mudie men

Lay gasping on the grien,

And mony were the fair ladys

Lay lemanless at heme.

And round and round the waes he went,

Their ashes for to view;

At last into the flames he flew,

And bad the world adieu.

Kinloch MSS, V, 384, in the handwriting of John Hill Burton.

It fell about the Martinmas time,

When the wind blew shrill and cauld,

Said Captain Gordon to his men,

We’ll a’draw to som hauld.

‘And whatena hauld shall we draw to,

To be the nearest hame?’

‘We will draw to the ha o bonny Cargarff;

The laird is na at hame.’

The lady sat on her castle-wa,

Beheld both dale and down;

And she beheld the fause Gordon

Come halycon to the town.

‘Now, Lady Cargarff, gie ower yer house,

Gie ower yer house to me;

Now, Lady Cargarff, gie ower yer house,

Or in it you shall die.’

‘I’ll no gie ower my bonny house,

To lord nor yet to loun;

I’ll no gie ower my bonny house

To the traitors of Auchindown.’

* * * * *

Then up and spak her youngest son,

Sat at the nourice’s knee:

‘O mother dear, gie ower yer house,

For the reek o’t smothers me.’

‘I would gie a’my goud, my child,

Sae would I a’my fee,

For ae blast o the westlan win,

To blaw the reek frae thee.’

Then up and spak her eldest heir,

He spak wi muckle pride:

‘Now mother dear, keep weel yer house,

And I’ll fight by yer side.’

The New Statistical Account of Scotland, V, 846, Parish of Loudoun,

by Rev. Norman Macleod: “known among the peasantry from time

immemorial.”

It fell about the Martinmas time,

When the wind blew snell and cauld,

That Adam o Gordon said to his men,

Where will we get a hold?

See [ye] not where yonder fair castle

Stands on yon lily lee?

The laird and I hae a deadly feud,

The lady fain would I see.

As she was up on the househead,

Behold, on looking down,

She saw Adam o Gordon and his men,

Coming riding to the town.

The dinner was not well set down,

Nor the grace was scarcely said,

Till Adam o Gordon and his men

About the walls were laid.

‘It’s fause now fa thee, Jock my man!

Thou might a let me be;

Yon man has lifted the pavement-stone,

An let in the low unto me.’

‘Seven years I served thee, fair ladie,

You gave me meat and fee;

But now I am Adam o Gordon’s man,

An maun either do it or die.’

‘Come down, come down, my lady Loudoun,

Come down thou unto me!

I’ll wrap thee on a feather-bed,

Thy warrand I shall be.’

‘I’ll no come down, I’ll no come down,

For neither laird no[r] loun;

Nor yet for any bloody butcher

That lives in Altringham town.

‘I would give the black,’ she says,

‘And so would I the brown,

If that Thomas, my only son,

Could charge to me a gun.’

Out then spake the lady Margaret,

As she stood on the stair;

The fire was at her goud garters,

The lowe was at her hair.

‘I would give the black,’ she says,

‘And so would I the brown,

For a drink of yon water,

That runs by Galston Town.’

Out then spake fair Annie,

She was baith jimp and sma

‘O row me in a pair o sheets,

And tow me down the wa!’

‘O hold thy tongue, thou fair Annie,

And let thy talkin be;

For thou must stay in this fair castle,

And bear thy death with me.’

‘O mother,’ spoke the lord Thomas,

As he sat on the nurse’s knee,

‘O mother, give up this fair castle,

Or the reek will worrie me.’

‘I would rather be burnt to ashes sma,

And be cast on yon sea-foam,

Before I’d give up this fair castle,

And my lord so far from home.

‘My good lord has an army strong,

He’s now gone oer the sea;

He bad me keep this gay castle,

As long as it would keep me.

‘I’ve four-and-twenty brave milk kye,

Gangs on yon lily-lee;

I’d give them a’ for a blast of wind,

To blaw the reek from me.’

O pittie on yon fair castle,

That’s built with stone and lime!

But far mair pittie on Lady Loudoun,

And all her children nine!

Motherwell’s MS., p. 543, from the recitation of May Richmond, at

the Old Kirk of Loudon.

It was in and about the Martinmas time,

When the wind blew schill and cauld,

That Adam o Gordon said to his men,

Whare will we get a hauld?

‘Do ye not see yon bonnie castell,

That stands on Loudon lee?

The lord and I hae a deadlie feed,

And his lady fain wuld I see.’

Lady Campbell was standing in the close,

A preenin o her goun,

Whan Adam o Gordon and his men

Cam riding thro Galston toun.

The dinner was na weel set doun,

Nor yet the grace weel said,

Till Adam o Gordon and a’his men

Around the wa’s war laid.

‘Come doun, come down, Ladie Campbell,’ he said,

‘Come doun and speak to me;

I’ll kep thee in a feather bed,

And thy warraner I will be.’

‘I winna come doun and speak to thee,

Nor to ony lord nor loun;

Nor yet to thee, thou bloody butcher,

The laird o Auchruglen toun.’

‘Come doun, come doun, Ladye Campbell,’ he said,

‘Cum doun and speak to me;

I’ll kep thee on the point o my sword,

And thy warraner I will be.’

‘I winna come doun and speak to thee,

Nor to ony lord or loun,

Nor yet to thee, thou bludie butcher,

The laird o Auchruglen toun.’

‘Syne gin ye winna come doun,’ he said,

‘A’ for to speak to me,

I’ll tye the bands around my waist,

And fire thy death sall be.’

‘I’d leifer be burnt in ashes sma,

And cuist in yon sea-faem,

Or I’d gie up this bonnie castell,

And my gude lord frae hame.

‘For my gude lord’s in the army strong,

He’s new gane ower the sea;

He bade me keep this bonnie castell,

As lang’s it wuld keep me.’

‘Set fire to the house,’ said bauld Gordon,

‘Set fire to the house, my men;

We’ll gar Lady Campbell come for to rew

As she burns in the flame.’

‘O wae be to thee, Carmichael,’ she said,

‘And an ill death may ye die!

For ye hae lifted the pavement-stane,

And loot up the lowe to me.

‘Seven years ye war about my house,

And received both meat and fee:’

‘And now I’m Adam o Gordon’s man,

I maun either do or dee.’

‘Oh I wad gie the black,’ she said,

‘And I wuld gie the brown,

All for ae cup o the cauld water

That rins to Galstoun toun.’

Syne out and spak the auld dochter,

She was baith jimp and sma:

‘O row me in a pair o sheets,

And fling me ower the wa!’

They row’t her in a pair o sheets,

And flang her ower the wa,

And on the point o Gordon’s sword

She gat a deadlie fa.

He turned her ower, and ower again,

And oh but she looked wan!

‘I think I’ve killed as bonnie a face

As ere the sun shined on.’

He turned her ower, and ower again,

And oh but she lookt white!

‘I micht hae spared this bonnie face,

To hae been some man’s delight!’

Syne out and spak Lady Margaret,

As she stood on the stair:

‘The fire is at my gowd garters,

And the lowe is at my hair.’

Syne out and spak fair Ladie Ann,

Frae childbed whare she lay:

‘Gie up this bonnie castell, mother,

And let us win away.’

‘Lye still, lye still, my fair Annie,

And let your talking be;

For ye maun stay in this bonnie castell

And dree your death wi me.’

‘Whatever death I am to dree,

I winna die my lane:

I’ll tak a bairn in ilka arm

And the third is in my wame.’

Syne out and spak her youngest son,

A bonnie wee boy was he:

‘Gae doun, gae doun, mother,’ he said,

‘Or the lowe will worry me.’

‘I’d leifer be brent in ashes sma

And cuist in yon sea-faem,

Or I’d gie up this bonnie castell,

And my guid lord frae hame.

‘For my gude lord’s in the army strong,

He’s new gane ower the sea;

But gin he eer returns again,

Revenged my death sall be.’

Syne out and spak her waitin-maid:

Receive this babe frae me,

And save the saikless babie’s life,

And I’ll neer seek mair fee.

‘How can I tak the bairn?’ she said,

‘How can I tak’t?’ said she,

‘For my hair was ance five quarters lang,

And ’tis now brent to my bree.’

She rowit it in a feather-bed,

And flang it ower the wa,

But on the point o Gordon’s sword

It gat a deidlie fa.

‘I wuld gie Loudon’s bonnie castell,

And Loudon’s bonnie lee,

All gin my youngest son Johnnie

Could charge a gun to me.

‘Oh, I wuld gie the black,’ she said,

‘And sae wuld I the bay,

Gin young Sir George could take a steed

And quickly ride away.’

Syne out and spak her auldest son,

As he was gaun to die:

‘Send doun your chamber-maid, mother,

She gaes wi bairn to me.’

‘Gin ye were not my eldest son,

And heir o a’ my land,

I’d tye a sheet around thy neck,

And hang thee with my hand.

‘I would gie my twenty gude milk-kye,

That feed on Shallow lee,

A’for ae blast o the norland wind,

To blaw the lowe frae me.’

Oh was na it a pitie o yon bonnie castell,

That was biggit wi stane and lime!

But far mair pity o Lady Ann Campbell,

That was brunt wi her bairns nine.

Three o them war married wives,

And three o them were bairns,

And three o them were leal maidens,

That neer lay in men’s arms.

And now Lord Loudon he’s come hame,

And a sorry man was he:

‘He micht hae spared my lady’s life,

And wreakit himsell on me!

‘But sin we’ve got thee, bauld Gordon,

Wild horses shall thee tear,

For murdering o my ladie bricht,

Besides my children dear.’

* * * * *

#A.#

_Stanzas 1–15 have been revised, or altered, in another hand._

2^1. m_aste_r _in my copy_: m_ary_, Furnivall.

3^1. wher is _is inserted_.

3^2. ed _in_ builded _has been run through with a line_.

3^4. riden & gone _struck out, and_ ryd from hom _written over_.

4^1. she _struck out_.

5^1. Se yow _changed to_ Com yow hether: merimen _in MS._

5^2. _Changed to_ And look what I do see. And (&), _both in the

original text and in the revised, is rendered_ O _in my copy_.

5^3. _Changed to_ Yonder is ther.

5^4. musen, _as a correction: Furnivall_.

6^1. own wed, _as a correction: Furnivall_.

6^2. y^t had _for_ As he.

8^3. thou shall ly in _altered to_ thoust ly w^tin.

10^2. Not _is a correction: Furnivall. My copy has_ no.

11^3. this _substituted for_ yonder.

12^1. _Changed to_ She styfly stod on her castle wall.

12^3. but then _struck out_.

12^4. she _struck out_.

13^1. I will: _MS. torn._

15^3. arme, _Furnivall_: _my copy_, armes.

15^4. wyll _substituted for_ shall.

19^4. _Editors supply_ The smoke _at the beginning of the line_.

20^3. westeyn: _Furnivall_.

21^4. _MS. has_ thee.

23^3. Saith: no close, _Furnivall_. South: in close, _my copy_. to

chose, _Böddeker_.

24^2. _Perhaps_ carnall: _Furnivall_.

25^1. Bush _in my copy_: merymen _in MS._

25^3. dreme, hall _in my copy_: _Furnivall as printed_.

26^1. busht _in my copy_: buskt, _Furnivall_.

26^{2,3}. _My copy renders_ And (&) O: _Furnivall as printed._

28^4. _Editors supply_ awaye _at the end of the line. Böddeker

reads_ so gai.

29^2. bande _looks like_ baides, _one stroke of the_ n _wanting_.

30^1. _Should we not read_ me _for_ eny? she _for_ he _in my

copy_: he, _Furnivall._

And _for_ & _throughout_.

Finis p_er_ me Will_elmu_m Asheton, cleri_cu_m.

_By_ my copy _is meant a collation made for me by Miss Lucy

Toulmin Smith_.

#B.#

13^3. 2.

14^4, 16^3, 18^1. 3.

10^3, 21^4. _Half a page gone._

And _for_ &.

#D.#

27^1, 28^1. Mudiemen, Mudie men.

Quhen, ze, zour, _etc._, _are here spelled_ when, ye, your, _etc._

#F.#

5^4. the loun to: _cf._ #G# 13^4.

#G.#

6^4. _Another recitation gave_ Auchindown.

179

ROOKHOPE RYDE

The Bishopric Garland, or Durham Minstrel [edited by Joseph Ritson],

2d ed., Newcastle, 1792; here, from the reprint by Joseph Haslewood,

1809, p. 54, in Northern Garlands, London, 1810. “Taken down from

the chanting of George Collingood the elder, late of Boltsburn, in

the neighborhood of Ryhope,” who died in 1785.

Printed in Bell’s Rhymes of Northern Bards, 1812, p. 276; Minstrelsy of

the Scottish Border, 1833, II, 101; [Sir Cuthbert Sharp’s] Bishoprick

Garland, 1834, p. 14.

The date of this ryde, or raid, may be precisely ascertained from the

ballad itself; it is shown by 13^4, 11 to be December 6, 1569.

The thieves of Thirlwall (Northumberland) and Williehaver, or Willeva

(Cumberland), avail themselves of the confusion incident to the Rising

in the North and of the absence of a part of the fencible men (some of

whom were with the earls, others with Bowes in Barnard castle) to make a

foray into Rookhope, in Weardale, Durham. In four hours they get

together six hundred sheep. But the alarm is given by a man whose horses

they have taken; the cry spreads through the dale; word comes to the

bailiff, who instantly arms, and is joined by his neighbors to the

number of forty or fifty. The thieves are a hundred, the stoutest men

and best in gear.

When the Weardale men come up with them, the marauders get fighting

enough. The fray lasts an hour; four of the robbers are killed, a

handsome number wounded, and eleven taken prisoners, with the loss of

only one of those who fought for the right.

Rookhope is the name of a valley, about five miles in length, at the

termination of which Rookhope burn empties itself into the river Wear.

Rookhope-head is the top of the vale. (Ritson.)

The Weardale man who was killed was Rowland Emerson, perhaps a kinsman

of the bailiff. The family of Emerson of Eastgate, says Surtees, long

exercised the offices of bailiff of Wolsingham (the chief town and

borough of Weardale) and of forester, etc., etc., under successive

prelates. (Surtees to Scott, Memoir by Taylor and Raine, p. 33.)

34. The thieves bare ‘three banners’ against the Weardale men. They

choose three captains in 9.

Rookhope stands in a pleasant place,

If the false thieves wad let it be;

But away they steal our goods apace,

And ever an ill death may they die!

And so is the men of Thirlwa ‘nd Williehaver,

And all their companies thereabout,

That is minded to do mischief,

And at their stealing stands not out.

But yet we will not slander them all,

For there is of them good enough;

It is a sore consumed tree

That on it bears not one fresh bough.

Lord God! is not this a pitiful case,

That men dare not drive their goods to t’fell,

But limmer thieves drives them away,

That fears neither heaven nor hell?

Lord, send us peace into the realm,

That every man may live on his own!

I trust to God, if it be his will,

That Weardale men may never be overthrown.

For great troubles they’ve had in hand,

With borderers pricking hither and thither,

But the greatest fray that eer they had

Was with the ‘men’ of Thirlwa’nd Williehaver.

They gatherd together so royally,

The stoutest men and the best in gear,

And he that rade not on a horse,

I wat he rade on a weil-fed mear.

So in the morning, before they came out,

So well, I wot, they broke their fast;

In the [forenoon they came] unto a bye fell,

Where some of them did eat their last.

When they had eaten aye and done,

They sayd some captains here needs must be:

Then they choosed forth Harry Corbyl,

And ‘Symon Fell,’ and Martin Ridley.

Then oer the moss, where as they came,

With many a brank and whew,

One of them could to another say,

‘I think this day we are men enew.

‘For Weardale men is a journey taen;

They are so far out-oer yon fell

That some of them’s with the two earls,

And others fast in Barnard castell.

‘There we shal get gear enough,

For there is nane but women at hame;

The sorrowful fend that they can make

Is loudly cries as they were slain.’

Then in at Rookhope-head they came,

And there they thought tul a had their prey,

But they were spy’d coming over the Dry Rig,

Soon upon Saint Nicholas’ day.

Then in at Rookhope-head they came,

They ran the forest but a mile;

They gatherd together in four hours

Six hundred sheep within a while.

And horses I trow they gat

But either ane or twa,

And they gat them all but ane

That belanged to great Rowley.

That Rowley was the first man that did them spy;

With that he raised a mighty cry;

The cry it came down Rookhope burn,

And spread through Weardale hasteyly.

Then word came to the bailif’s house,

At the East Gate, where he did dwell;

He was walkd out to the Smale Burns,

Which stands above the Hanging Well.

His wife was wae when she heard tell,

So well she wist her husband wanted gear;

She gard saddle him his horse in haste,

And neither forgot sword, jack, nor spear.

The bailif got wit before his gear came

That such news was in the land;

He was sore troubled in his heart,

That on no earth that he could stand.

His brother was hurt three days before,

With limmer thieves that did him prick;

Nineteen bloody wounds lay him upon;

What ferly was’t that he lay sick?

But yet the bailif shrinked nought,

But fast after them he did hye,

And so did all his neighbours near,

That went to bear him company.

But when the bailiff was gathered,

And all his company,

They were numberd to never a man

But forty [or] under fifty.

The thieves was numberd a hundred men,

I wat they were not of the worst

That could be choosed out of Thirlwa’nd Williehaver,

. . . . . . . .

But all that was in Rookhope-head,

And all that was i Nuketon Cleugh,

Where Weardale men oertook the thieves,

And there they gave them fighting eneugh.

So sore they made them fain to flee,

As many was ‘a’’ out of hand,

And, for tul have been at home again,

They would have been in iron bands;

And for the space of long seven years,

As sore they mighten a had their lives;

But there was never one of them

That ever thought to have seen their ‘wives.’

About the time the fray began,

I trow it lasted but an hour,

Till many a man lay weaponless,

And was sore wounded in that stour.

Also before that hour was done,

Four of the thieves were slain,

Besides all those that wounded were,

And eleven prisoners there was taen.

George Carrick and his brother Edie,

Them two, I wot, they were both slain;

Harry Corbyl and Lennie Carrick

Bore them company in their pain.

One of our Weardale men was slain,

Rowland Emerson his name hight;

I trust to God his soul is well,

Because he ‘fought’ unto the right.

But thus they sayd: ‘We’ll not depart

While we have one; speed back again!’

And when they came amongst the dead men,

There they found George Carrick slain.

And when they found George Carrick slain,

I wot it went well near their ‘heart;’

Lord, let them never make a better end

That comes to play them sicken a ‘part!’

I trust to God, no more they shal,

Except it be one for a great chance;

For God wil punish all those

With a great heavy pestilence.

Thir limmer thieves, they have good hearts,

They nevir think to be oerthrown;

Three banners against Weardale men they bare,

As if the world had been all their own.

Thir Weardale men, they have good hearts,

They are as stif as any tree;

For, if they’d every one been slain,

Never a foot back man would flee.

And such a storm amongst them fell

As I think you never heard the like,

For he that bears his head so high,

He oft-times falls into the dyke.

And now I do entreat you all,

As many as are present here,

To pray for [the] singer of this song,

For he sings to make blithe your cheer.

* * * * *

2^3. mischief hither _in Bell_, _who, however, prints from

Ritson_.

2^4. as: at _in Scott, who had his copy, as printed in 1792, from

Ritson’s nephew_. at _also in Bell_.

9^3, 29^3. Corbyl, _it is thought, should be_ Corbyt, _which is a

northern name. Both_ Corbyl _and_ Carrick _were new to Surtees_.

10^3. _Bell reads_ would, _not understanding that could means_

did.

11^1. _Scott, wrongly_, have _for_ is: _Bell, who aims at

grammar_, are.

17^3. He had, _Bell, for improvement again_.

23^4. _The reciter, from his advanced age, could not recollect

this line: Ritson._

25^2. _Bell_, land _for_ hand.

30^3. _Bell_, in _for_ to.

_Ritson’s emendations, indicated by ’ ‘, have necessarily been

allowed to stand._

180

KING JAMES AND BROWN

‘Kinge James and Browne,’ Percy MS., p. 58; Hales and Furnivall, I,

135.

As the minstrel is walking by himself, he hears a young prince

lamenting. The prince says to him, Yonder comes a Scot who will do me

wrong. Douglas comes with armed men, who beset the king with swords and

spears. Are you lords of Scotland, come for council, asks the king, or

are you traitors, come for my blood? They say that they are traitors,

come for his blood. Fie on you, false Scots! exclaims the king; you have

slain my grandfather, caused my mother to flee, and hanged my father.

[About nine stanzas are lost here.] Douglas offers Brown his daughter in

marriage to betray the king; Brown will never be a traitor. Douglas is

making off fast, but Brown takes him prisoner and conducts him to the

king. Douglas prays for pardon. The king replies that Douglas has sought

to kill him ever since he was born. Douglas swears to be a true subject

if pardoned. The king pardons him freely, and all traitors in Scotland,

great and small. Douglas mutters to himself (we may suppose), If I live

a twelvemonth you shall die, and I will burn Edinburgh to-morrow. This

irredeemable traitor hies to Edinburgh with his men, but the people shut

the gates against him. Brown is always where he is wanted, and takes

Douglas prisoner again; the report that Douglas is secured goes to the

king, who demands his taker to be brought into his presence, and

promises him a thousand pound a year. So they call Brown; we may imagine

that the distance is no greater than Holyrood. How often hast thou

fought for me, Brown? asks James. Brown’s first service was in

Edinburgh; had he not stood stoutly there, James had never been king.

The second was his killing the sheriff of Carlisle’s son, who was on the

point of slaying his Grace. The third was when he killed the Bishop of

St Andrews, who had undertaken to poison the king. James had already

made the faithful Englishman (for such he is) knight; now he makes him

an earl, with professions of fidelity to the English queen.

This third service of Brown is the subject of a poem by William

Elderton, here given in an appendix. The bishop is about to give the

king (then a child) a poisoned posset. The lady nurse calls for aid.

Brown, an Englishman, hears, goes to help, meets the bishop hurrying off

with the posset in his hand, and forces him to drink it, though the

bishop makes him handsome offers not to interfere. The venom works

swiftly, the bishop’s belly bursts. The king knights Brown, and gives

him lands and livings.