Chapter 2
But up then spake a little page, Before the peep of dawn: “O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, For Percy’s hard at hand.”
“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! Sae loud I hear ye lie; For Percy had not men yestreen, To dight my men and me.
“But I have dream’d a dreary dream, Beyond the Isle of Sky; I saw a dead man win a fight, And I think that man was I.”
He belted on his guid braid sword, And to the field he ran; But he forgot the helmet good, That should have kept his brain.
When Percy wi the Douglas met, I wat he was fu fain! They swakked their swords, till sair they swat, And the blood ran down like rain.
But Percy with his good broad sword, That could so sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, Till he fell to the ground.
Then he calld on his little foot-page, And said—“Run speedilie, And fetch my ain dear sister’s son, Sir Hugh Montgomery.
“My nephew good,” the Douglas said, “What recks the death of ane! Last night I dreamd a dreary dream, And I ken the day’s thy ain.
“My wound is deep; I fain would sleep; Take thou the vanguard of the three, And hide me by the braken bush, That grows on yonder lilye lee.
“O bury me by the braken-bush, Beneath the blooming brier; Let never living mortal ken That ere a kindly Scot lies here.”
He lifted up that noble lord, Wi the saut tear in his e’e; He hid him in the braken bush, That his merrie men might not see.
The moon was clear, the day drew near, The spears in flinders flew, But mony a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew.
The Gordons good, in English blood, They steepd their hose and shoon; The Lindesays flew like fire about, Till all the fray was done.
The Percy and Montgomery met, That either of other were fain; They swapped swords, and they twa swat, And aye the blood ran down between.
“Yield thee, now yield thee, Percy,” he said, “Or else I vow I’ll lay thee low!” “To whom must I yield,” quoth Earl Percy, “Now that I see it must be so?”
“Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun, Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; But yield thee to the braken-bush, That grows upon yon lilye lee!”
“I will not yield to a braken-bush, Nor yet will I yield to a brier; But I would yield to Earl Douglas, Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here.”
As soon as he knew it was Montgomery, He stuck his sword’s point in the gronde; The Montgomery was a courteous knight, And quickly took him by the honde.
This deed was done at Otterbourne, About the breaking of the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush, And the Percy led captive away.
TAM LIN
(_Child_, Part II., p. 340, Burns’s Version.)
O I FORBID you, maidens a’, That wear gowd on your hair, To come or gae by Carterhaugh, For young Tam Lin is there.
There’s nane that gaes by Carterhaugh But they leave him a wad, Either their rings, or green mantles, Or else their maidenhead.
Janet has kilted her green kirtle A little aboon her knee, And she has braided her yellow hair A little aboon her bree, And she’s awa’ to Carterhaugh, As fast as she can hie.
When she came to Carterhaugh Tam Lin was at the well, And there she fand his steed standing, But away was himsel.
She had na pu’d a double rose, A rose but only twa, Till up then started young Tam Lin, Says, “Lady, thou’s pu nae mae.
“Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet, And why breaks thou the wand? Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh Withoutten my command?”
“Carterhaugh, it is my ain, My daddie gave it me; I’ll come and gang by Carterhaugh, And ask nae leave at thee.”
* * * * *
Janet has kilted her green kirtle A little aboon her knee, And she has snooded her yellow hair A little aboon her bree, And she is to her father’s ha, As fast as she can hie.
Four and twenty ladies fair Were playing at the ba, And out then cam the fair Janet, Ance the flower amang them a’.
Four and twenty ladies fair Were playing at the chess, And out then cam the fair Janet, As green as onie grass.
Out then spak an auld grey knight, Lay oer the castle wa, And says, “Alas, fair Janet, for thee But we’ll be blamed a’.”
“Haud your tongue, ye auld-fac’d knight, Some ill death may ye die! Father my bairn on whom I will, I’ll father nane on thee.”
Out then spak her father dear, And he spak meek and mild; “And ever alas, sweet Janet,” he says. “I think thou gaes wi child.”
“If that I gae wi’ child, father, Mysel maun bear the blame; There’s neer a laird about your ha Shall get the bairn’s name.
“If my love were an earthly knight, As he’s an elfin grey, I wad na gie my ain true-love For nae lord that ye hae.
“The steed that my true-love rides on Is lighter than the wind; Wi siller he is shod before Wi burning gowd behind.”
Janet has kilted her green kirtle A little aboon her knee, And she has snooded her yellow hair A little aboon her bree, And she’s awa’ to Carterhaugh, As fast as she can hie.
When she cam to Carterhaugh, Tam Lin was at the well, And there she fand his steed standing, But away was himsel.
She had na pu’d a double rose, A rose but only twa, Till up then started young Tam Lin, Says, “Lady, thou pu’s nae mae.
“Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet, Amang the groves sae green, And a’ to kill the bonie babe That we gat us between?”
“O tell me, tell me, Tam Lin,” she says, “For’s sake that died on tree, If eer ye was in holy chapel, Or christendom did see?”
“Roxbrugh he was my grandfather, Took me with him to bide, And ance it fell upon a day That wae did me betide.
“And ance it fell upon a day, A cauld day and a snell, When we were frae the hunting come, That frae my horse I fell; The Queen o Fairies she caught me, In yon green hill to dwell.
“And pleasant is the fairy land, But, an eerie tale to tell, Ay at the end of seven years We pay a tiend to hell; I am sae fair and fu’ o flesh I’m feared it be mysel.
“But the night is Halloween, lady, The morn is Hallowday; Then win me, win me, an ye will, For weel I wat ye may.
“Just at the mirk and midnight hour The fairy folk will ride, And they that wad their true love win, At Miles Cross they maun bide.”
“But how shall I thee ken, Tam Lin, Or how my true-love know, Amang sae mony unco knights The like I never saw?”
“O first let pass the black, lady, And syne let pass the brown, But quickly run to the milk-white steed, Pu ye his rider down.
“For I’ll ride on the milk-white steed, And ay nearest the town; Because I was an earthly knight They gie me that renown.
“My right hand will be gloyd, lady, My left hand will be bare, Cockt up shall my bonnet be, And kaimd down shall my hair; And thae’s the takens I gie thee, Nae doubt I will be there.
“They’ll turn me in your arms, lady, Into an esk and adder; But hold me fast, and fear me not, I am your bairn’s father.
“They’ll turn me to a bear sae grim, And then a lion bold; But hold me fast, and fear me not, As ye shall love your child.
“Again they’ll turn me in your arms To a red het gaud of airn; But hold me fast, and fear me not, I’ll do to you nae harm.
“And last they’ll turn me in your arms Into the burning gleed; Then throw me into well water, O throw me in wi speed.
“And then I’ll be your ain true-love, I’ll turn a naked knight; Then cover me wi your green mantle, And cover me out o sight.”
Gloomy, gloomy was the night, And eerie was the way, As fair Jenny in her green mantle To Miles Cross she did gae.
About the middle o’ the night She heard the bridles ring; This lady was as glad at that As any earthly thing.
First she let the black pass by, And syne she let the brown; But quickly she ran to the milk-white steed, And pu’d the rider down,
Sae weel she minded whae he did say, And young Tam Lin did win; Syne coverd him wi her green mantle, As blythe’s a bird in spring.
Out then spak the Queen o Fairies, Out of a bush o broom: “Them that has gotten young Tam Lin Has gotten a stately groom.”
Out then spak the Queen o Fairies, And an angry woman was she; “Shame betide her ill-far’d face, And an ill death may she die, For she’s taen awa the bonniest knight In a’ my companie.
“But had I kend, Tam Lin,” she says, “What now this night I see, I wad hae taen out thy twa grey e’en, And put in twa een o tree.”
THOMAS THE RHYMER
(_Child_, Part II., p. 317.)
TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi’ his ee; And there he saw a lady bright, Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o the grass-green silk, Her mantle o the velvet fyne, At ilka tett of her horse’s mane Hang fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pulld aff his cap, And louted low down to his knee: “All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven! For thy peer on earth I never did see.”
“O no, O no, Thomas,” she said, “That name does not belang to me; I am but the queen of fair Elfland, That am hither come to visit thee.
“Harp and carp, Thomas,” she said, “Harp and carp, along wi’ me, And if ye dare to kiss my lips, Sure of your bodie I will be!”
“Betide me weal, betide me woe, That weird sall never daunton me; Syne he has kissed her rosy lips, All underneath the Eildon Tree.
“Now, ye maun go wi me,” she said, “True Thomas, ye maun go wi me, And ye maun serve me seven years, Thro weal or woe as may chance to be.”
She mounted on her milk-white steed, She’s taen True Thomas up behind, And aye wheneer her bride rung, The steed flew swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on— The steed gaed swifter than the wind— Until they reached a desart wide, And living land was left behind.
“Light down, light down, now, True Thomas, And lean your head upon my knee; Abide and rest a little space, And I will shew you ferlies three.
“O see ye not yon narrow road, So thick beset with thorns and briers? That is the path of righteousness, Tho after it but few enquires.
“And see ye not that braid braid road, That lies across that lily leven? That is the path of wickedness, Tho some call it the road to heaven.
“And see not ye that bonny road, That winds about the fernie brae? That is the road to fair Elfland, Where thou and I this night maun gae.
“But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, Whatever ye may hear or see, For, if you speak word in Elflyn land, Ye’ll neer get back to your ain countrie.”
O they rade on, and farther on, And they waded thro rivers aboon the knee, And they saw neither sun nor moon, But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light, And they waded thro red blude to the knee; For a’ the blude that’s shed an earth Rins thro the springs o that countrie.
Syne they came on to a garden green, And she pu’d an apple frae a tree: “Take this for thy wages, True Thomas, It will give the tongue that can never lie.”
“My tongue is mine ain,” True Thomas said, “A gudely gift ye wad gie me! I neither dought to buy nor sell, At fair or tryst where I may be.
“I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair ladye:” “Now hold thy peace,” the lady said, “For as I say, so must it be.”
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair of shoes of velvet green, And till seven years were gane and past True Thomas on earth was never seen.
“SIR HUGH; OR THE JEW’S DAUGHTER”
(_Child_, vol. v.)
FOUR-AND-TWENTY bonny boys Were playing at the ba, And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh, And he playd o’er them a’.
He kickd the ba with his right foot And catchd it wi his knee, And throuch-and-thro the Jew’s window He gard the bonny ba flee.
He’s doen him to the Jew’s castell And walkd it round about; And there he saw the Jew’s daughter, At the window looking out.
“Throw down the ba, ye Jew’s daughter, Throw down the ba to me!” “Never a bit,” says the Jew’s daughter, “Till up to me come ye.”
“How will I come up? How can I come up? How can I come to thee? For as ye did to my auld father, The same ye’ll do to me.”
She’s gane till her father’s garden, And pu’d an apple red and green; ’Twas a’ to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh, And to entice him in.
She’s led him in through ae dark door, And sae has she thro nine; She’s laid him on a dressing-table, And stickit him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood, And syne came out the thin; And syne came out the bonny heart’s blood; There was nae mair within.
She’s rowd him in a cake o lead, Bade him lie still and sleep; She’s thrown him in Our Lady’s draw-well, Was fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a’ the bairns came hame, When every lady gat hame her son, The Lady Maisry gat nane.
She’s taen her mantle her about, Her coffer by the hand, And she’s gane out to seek her son, And wandered o’er the land.
She’s doen her to the Jew’s castell, Where a’ were fast asleep: “Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh, I pray you to me speak.”
“Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, Prepare my winding-sheet, And at the back o merry Lincoln The morn I will you meet.”
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame, Make him a winding-sheet, And at the back o merry Lincoln, The dead corpse did her meet.
And a the bells o merry Lincoln Without men’s hands were rung, And a’ the books o merry Lincoln Were read without man’s tongue, And neer was such a burial Sin Adam’s days begun.
SON DAVIE! SON DAVIE!
(_Mackay_.)
“WHAT bluid’s that on thy coat lap? Son Davie! Son Davie! What bluid’s that on thy coat lap? And the truth come tell to me, O.”
“It is the bluid of my great hawk, Mother lady, Mother lady! It is the bluid of my great hawk, And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.”
“Hawk’s bluid was ne’er sae red, Son Davie! Son Davie! Hawk’s bluid was ne’er sae red, And the truth come tell to me, O.”
“It is the bluid of my grey hound, Mother lady! Mother lady! It is the bluid of my grey hound, And it wudna rin for me, O.”
“Hound’s bluid was ne’er sae red, Son Davie! Son Davie! Hound’s bluid was ne’er sae red, And the truth come tell to me, O.”
“It is the bluid o’ my brother John, Mother lady! Mother lady! It is the bluid o’ my brother John, And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.”
“What about did the plea begin? Son Davie! Son Davie!” “It began about the cutting o’ a willow wand, That would never hae been a tree, O.”
“What death dost thou desire to die? Son Davie! Son Davie! What death dost thou desire to die? And the truth come tell to me, O.”
“I’ll set my foot in a bottomless ship, Mother lady! mother lady! I’ll set my foot in a bottomless ship, And ye’ll never see mair o’ me, O.”
“What wilt thou leave to thy poor wife? Son Davie! Son Davie!” “Grief and sorrow all her life, And she’ll never get mair frae me, O.”
“What wilt thou leave to thy young son? Son Davie! son Davie!” “The weary warld to wander up and down, And he’ll never get mair o’ me, O.”
“What wilt thou leave to thy mother dear? Son Davie! Son Davie!” “A fire o’ coals to burn her wi’ hearty cheer, And she’ll never get mair o’ me, O.”
THE WIFE OF USHER’S WELL
(_Child_, vol. iii.)
THERE lived a wife at Usher’s Well, And a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them oer the sea,
They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, When word came to the carline wife That her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, Whan word came to the carlin wife That her sons she’d never see.
“I wish the wind may never cease, Nor fashes in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, In earthly flesh and blood!”
It fell about the Martinmass, Whan nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife’s three sons came hame, And their hats were o the birk.
It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gates o Paradise That birk grew fair eneugh.
* * * * *
“Blow up the fire, my maidens! Bring water from the well; For a’ my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well.”
And she has made to them a bed, She’s made it large and wide; And she’s taen her mantle her about, Sat down at the bedside.
* * * * *
Up then crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said, “’Tis time we were away.”
The cock he hadna crawd but once, And clapp’d his wings at a’, Whan the youngest to the eldest said, “Brother, we must awa.
“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin worm doth chide; Gin we be mist out o our place, A sair pain we maun bide.
“Fare ye weel, my mother dear! Fareweel to barn and byre! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass That kindles my mother’s fire!”
THE TWA CORBIES
(_Child_, vol. i.)
AS I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t’other say, “Where sall we gang and dine the day?”
“In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.
“His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady’s ta’en another mate, So we may make our dinner sweet.
“Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane, And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een; Wi ae lock o his gowden hair We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.
“Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken whae he is gane, Oer his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.”
THE BONNIE EARL MORAY
(_Child_, vol. vi.)
A.
YE Highlands, and ye Lawlands Oh where have you been? They have slain the Earl of Murray, And they layd him on the green.
“Now wae be to thee, Huntly! And wherefore did you sae? I bade you bring him wi you, But forbade you him to slay.”
He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring; And the bonny Earl of Murray, Oh he might have been a King!
He was a braw gallant, And he playd at the ba; And the bonny Earl of Murray, Was the flower amang them a’.
He was a braw gallant, And he playd at the glove; And the bonny Earl of Murray, Oh he was the Queen’s love!
Oh lang will his lady Look oer the castle Down, Eer she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding thro the town! Eer she, etc.
B.
“Open the gates and let him come in; He is my brother Huntly, he’ll do him nae harm.”
The gates they were opent, they let him come in, But fause traitor Huntly, he did him great harm.
He’s ben and ben, and ben to his bed, And with a sharp rapier he stabbed him dead.
The lady came down the stair, wringing her hands: “He has slain the Earl o Murray, the flower o Scotland.”
But Huntly lap on his horse, rade to the King: “Ye’re welcome hame, Huntly, and whare hae ye been?
“Where hae ye been? and how hae ye sped?” “I’ve killed the Earl o Murray dead in his bed.”
“Foul fa you, Huntly! and why did ye so? You might have taen the Earl o Murray, and saved his life too.”
“Her bread it’s to bake, her yill is to brew; My sister’s a widow, and sair do I rue.
“Her corn grows ripe, her meadows grow green, But in bonnie Dinnibristle I darena be seen.”
CLERK SAUNDERS
(_Child_, vol. iii.)
CLERK SAUNDERS and may Margaret Walked ower yon garden green; And sad and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between.
“A bed, a bed,” Clerk Saunders said, “A bed for you and me!” “Fye na, fye na,” said may Margaret, “’Till anes we married be.
“For in may come my seven bauld brothers, Wi’ torches burning bright; They’ll say,—‘We hae but ae sister, And behold she’s wi a knight!’”
“Then take the sword frae my scabbard, And slowly lift the pin; And you may swear, and save your aith. Ye never let Clerk Saunders in.
“And take a napkin in your hand, And tie up baith your bonny e’en, And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye saw me na since late yestreen.”
It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi’ torches burning red.
When in and came her seven brothers, Wi’ torches burning bright: They said, “We hae but ae sister, And behold her lying with a knight!”
Then out and spake the first o’ them, “I bear the sword shall gar him die!” And out and spake the second o’ them, “His father has nae mair than he!”
And out and spake the third o’ them, “I wot that they are lovers dear!” And out and spake the fourth o’ them, “They hae been in love this mony a year!”
Then out and spake the fifth o’ them, “It were great sin true love to twain!” And out and spake the sixth o’ them, “It were shame to slay a sleeping man!”
Then up and gat the seventh o’ them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye.
Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae.
And they lay still and sleeped sound Until the day began to daw; And kindly to him she did say, “It is time, true love, you were awa’.”
But he lay still, and sleeped sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She looked atween her and the wa’, And dull and drowsie were his e’en.
Then in and came her father dear; Said,—“Let a’ your mourning be: I’ll carry the dead corpse to the clay, And I’ll come back and comfort thee.”
“Comfort weel your seven sons; For comforted will I never be: I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi’ me.”
The clinking bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window, I wot, an hour before the day.
“Are ye sleeping, Margaret?” he says, “Or are ye waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, I wot, true love, I gied to thee.”
“Your faith and troth ye sall never get, Nor our true love sall never twin, Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheik and chin.”
“My mouth it is full cold, Margaret, It has the smell, now, of the ground; And if I kiss thy comely mouth, Thy days of life will not be lang.