Chapter 6
The prisner now, upo his back, The Laird’s Jock’s gotten up fu hie; And down the stair him, irons and a’, Wi nae sma speed and joy brings he.
“Now, Jock, I wat,” quo Hobie Noble, “Part o the weight ye may lay on me,” “I wat weel no,” quo the Laird’s Jock “I count him lighter than a flee.”
Sae out at the gates they a’ are gane, The prisner’s set on horseback hie; And now wi speed they’ve tane the gate; While ilk ane jokes fu wantonlie.
“O Jock, sae winsomely’s ye ride, Wi baith your feet upo ae side! Sae weel’s ye’re harnessd, and sae trig! In troth ye sit like ony bride.”
The night, tho wat, they didna mind, But hied them on fu mirrilie, Until they cam to Cholerford brae, Where the water ran like mountains hie.
But when they came to Cholerford, There they met with an auld man; Says, “Honest man, will the water ride? Tell us in haste, if that ye can.”
“I wat weel no,” quo the good auld man; “Here I hae livd this threty yeirs and three, And I neer yet saw the Tyne sae big, Nor rinning ance sae like a sea.”
Then up and spake the Laird’s saft Wat, The greatest coward in the company; “Now halt, now halt, we needna try’t; The day is comd we a’ maun die!”
“Poor faint-hearted thief!” quo the Laird’s Jock, “There’ll nae man die but he that’s fie; I’ll lead ye a’ right safely through; Lift ye the prisner on ahint me.”
Sae now the water they a’ hae tane, By anes and ’twas they a’ swam through “Here are we a’ safe,” says the Laird’s Jock, “And, poor faint Wat, what think ye now?”
They scarce the ither side had won, When twenty men they saw pursue; Frae Newcastle town they had been sent, A’ English lads right good and true.
But when the land-sergeant the water saw, “It winna ride, my lads,” quo he; Then out he cries, “Ye the prisner may take, But leave the irons, I pray, to me.”
“I wat weel no,” cryd the Laird’s Jock, “I’ll keep them a’; shoon to my mare they’ll be; My good grey mare; for I am sure, She’s bought them a’ fu dear frae thee.”
Sae now they’re away for Liddisdale, Een as fast as they coud them hie; The prisner’s brought to his ain fireside, And there o’s airns they make him free.
“Now, Jock, my billie,” quo a’ the three, “The day was comd thou was to die; But thou’s as weel at thy ain fireside, Now sitting, I think, ’tween thee and me.”
They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl, And after it they maun hae anither, And thus the night they a’ hae spent, Just as they had been brither and brither.
LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET
(_Child_, Part III., p. 182.)
LORD THOMAS and Fair Annet Sate a’ day on a hill; Whan night was cum, and sun was sett, They had not talkt their fill.
Lord Thomas said a word in jest, Fair Annet took it ill: “A, I will nevir wed a wife Against my ain friend’s will.”
“Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife, A wife wull neir wed yee;” Sae he is hame to tell his mither, And knelt upon his knee.
“O rede, O rede, mither,” he says, “A gude rede gie to mee; O sall I tak the nut-browne bride, And let Faire Annet bee?”
“The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear, Fair Annet she has gat nane; And the little beauty Fair Annet haes O it wull soon be gane.”
And he has till his brother gane: “Now, brother, rede ye mee; A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride, And let Fair Annet bee?”
“The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother, The nut-browne bride has kye; I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride, And cast Fair Annet bye.”
“Her oxen may dye i’ the house, billie, And her kye into the byre; And I sall hae nothing to mysell Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.”
And he has till his sister gane: “Now, sister, rede ye mee; O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride, And set Fair Annet free?”
“I’se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas, And let the browne bride alane; Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace, What is this we brought hame!”
“No, I will tak my mither’s counsel, And marrie me owt o hand; And I will tak the nut-browne bride, Fair Annet may leive the land.”
Up then rose Fair Annet’s father, Twa hours or it wer day, And he is gane unto the bower Wherein Fair Annet lay.
“Rise up, rise up, Fair Annet,” he says “Put on your silken sheene; Let us gae to St. Marie’s Kirke, And see that rich weddeen.”
“My maides, gae to my dressing-roome, And dress to me my hair; Whaireir yee laid a plait before, See yee lay ten times mair.
“My maids, gae to my dressing-room, And dress to me my smock; The one half is o the holland fine, The other o needle-work.”
The horse Fair Annet rade upon, He amblit like the wind; Wi siller he was shod before, Wi burning gowd behind.
Four and twanty siller bells Wer a’ tyed till his mane, And yae tift o the norland wind, They tinkled ane by ane.
Four and twanty gay gude knichts Rade by Fair Annet’s side, And four and twanty fair ladies, As gin she had bin a bride.
And whan she cam to Marie’s Kirk, She sat on Marie’s stean: The cleading that Fair Annet had on It skinkled in their een.
And whan she cam into the kirk, She shimmerd like the sun; The belt that was about her waist Was a’ wi pearles bedone.
She sat her by the nut-browne bride, And her een they wer sae clear, Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride, When Fair Annet drew near.
He had a rose into his hand, He gae it kisses three, And reaching by the nut-browne bride, Laid it on Fair Annet’s knee.
Up then spak the nut-browne bride, She spak wi meikle spite: “And whair gat ye that rose-water, That does mak yee sae white?”
“O I did get the rose-water Whair ye wull neir get nane, For I did get that very rose-water Into my mither’s wame.”
The bride she drew a long bodkin Frae out her gay head-gear, And strake Fair Annet unto the heart, That word spak nevir mair.
Lord Thomas he saw Fair Annet wex pale, And marvelit what mote bee; But when he saw her dear heart’s blude, A’ wood-wroth wexed bee.
He drew his dagger that was sae sharp, That was sae sharp and meet, And drave it into the nut-browne bride, That fell deid at his feit.
“Now stay for me, dear Annet,” he sed, “Now stay, my dear,” he cry’d; Then strake the dagger untill his heart, And fell deid by her side.
Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa, Fair Annet within the quiere, And o the ane thair grew a birk, The other a bonny briere.
And ay they grew, and ay they threw, As they wad faine be neare; And by this ye may ken right weil They were twa luvers deare.
FAIR ANNIE
(_Child_, Part III., p. 69.)
“IT’S narrow, narrow, make your bed, And learn to lie your lane: For I’m ga’n oer the sea, Fair Annie, A braw bride to bring hame. Wi her I will get gowd and gear; Wi you I neer got nane.
“But wha will bake my bridal bread, Or brew my bridal ale? And wha will welcome my brisk bride, That I bring oer the dale?”
“It’s I will bake your bridal bread, And brew your bridal ale, And I will welcome your brisk bride, That you bring oer the dale.”
“But she that welcomes my brisk bride Maun gang like maiden fair; She maun lace on her robe sae jimp, And braid her yellow hair.”
“But how can I gang maiden-like, When maiden I am nane? Have I not born seven sons to thee, And am with child again?”
She’s taen her young son in her arms, Another in her hand, And she’s up to the highest tower, To see him come to land.
“Come up, come up, my eldest son, And look oer yon sea-strand, And see your father’s new-come bride, Before she come to land.”
“Come down, come down, my mother dear, Come frae the castle wa! I fear, if langer ye stand there, Ye’ll let yoursell down fa.”
And she gaed down, and farther down, Her love’s ship for to see, And the topmast and the mainmast Shone like the silver free.
And she’s gane down, and farther down, The bride’s ship to behold, And the topmast and the mainmast They shone just like the gold.
She’s taen her seven sons in her hand, I wot she didna fail; She met Lord Thomas and his bride, As they came oer the dale.
“You’re welcome to your house, Lord Thomas, You’re welcome to your land; You’re welcome with your fair ladye, That you lead by the hand.
“You’re welcome to your ha’s, ladye, You’re welcome to your bowers; Your welcome to your hame, ladye, For a’ that’s here is yours.”
“I thank thee, Annie; I thank thee, Annie, Sae dearly as I thank thee; You’re the likest to my sister Annie, That ever I did see.
“There came a knight out oer the sea, And steald my sister away; The shame scoup in his company, And land where’er he gae!”
She hang ae napkin at the door, Another in the ha, And a’ to wipe the trickling tears, Sae fast as they did fa.
And aye she served the lang tables With white bread and with wine, And aye she drank the wan water, To had her colour fine.
And aye she served the lang tables, With white bread and with brown; And aye she turned her round about, Sae fast the tears fell down.
And he’s taen down the silk napkin, Hung on a silver pin, And aye he wipes the tear trickling A’down her cheek and chin.
And aye he turn’d him round about, And smiled amang his men; Says, “Like ye best the old ladye, Or her that’s new come hame?”
When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a’ men bound to bed, Lord Thomas and his new-come bride To their chamber they were gaed.
Annie made her bed a little forbye, To hear what they might say; “And ever alas!” Fair Annie cried, “That I should see this day!
“Gin my seven sons were seven young rats, Running on the castle wa, And I were a grey cat mysell, I soon would worry them a’.
“Gin my young sons were seven young hares, Running oer yon lilly lee, And I were a grew hound mysell, Soon worried they a’ should be.”
And wae and sad Fair Annie sat, And drearie was her sang, And ever, as she sobbd and grat, “Wae to the man that did the wrang!”
“My gown is on,” said the new-come bride, “My shoes are on my feet, And I will to Fair Annie’s chamber, And see what gars her greet.
“What ails ye, what ails ye, Fair Annie, That ye make sic a moan? Has your wine-barrels cast the girds, Or is your white bread gone?
“O wha was’t was your father, Annie, Or wha was’t was your mother? And had ye ony sister, Annie, Or had ye ony brother?”
“The Earl of Wemyss was my father, The Countess of Wemyss my mother; And a’ the folk about the house To me were sister and brother.”
“If the Earl of Wemyss was your father, I wot sae was he mine; And it shall not be for lack o gowd That ye your love sall fyne.
“For I have seven ships o mine ain, A’ loaded to the brim, And I will gie them a’ to thee Wi four to thine eldest son: But thanks to a’ the powers in heaven That I gae maiden hame!”
THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW
(_Child_, Part III. Early Edition.)
LATE at e’en, drinking the wine, And ere they paid the lawing, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawing.
“Oh, stay at hame, my noble lord, Oh, stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel brother will you betray On the dowie houms of Yarrow.”
“Oh, fare ye weel, my ladye gaye! Oh, fare ye weel, my Sarah! For I maun gae, though I ne’er return, Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.”
She kiss’d his cheek, she kaim’d his hair, As oft she had done before, O; She belted him with his noble brand, And he’s away to Yarrow.
As he gaed up the Tennies bank, I wot he gaed wi’ sorrow, Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm’d men, On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
“Oh, come ye here to part your land, The bonnie Forest thorough? Or come ye here to wield your brand, On the dowie houms of Yarrow?”
“I come not here to part my land, And neither to beg nor borrow; I come to wield my noble brand, On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.
“If I see all, ye’re nine to ane; An that’s an unequal marrow: Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.”
Four has he hurt, and five has slain, On the bloody braes of Yarrow; Till that stubborn knight came him behind, And ran his body thorough.
“Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John, And tell your sister Sarah, To come and lift her leafu’ lord; He’s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.”
“Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream; I fear there will be sorrow! I dream’d I pu’d the heather green, Wi’ my true love, on Yarrow.
“O gentle wind, that bloweth south, From where my love repaireth, Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, And tell me how he fareth!
“But in the glen strive armed men; They’ve wrought me dole and sorrow; They’ve slain—the comeliest knight they’ve slain— He bleeding lies on Yarrow.”
As she sped down yon high, high hill, She gaed wi’ dole and sorrow, And in the den spied ten slain men, On the dowie banks of Yarrow.
She kiss’d his cheek, she kaim’d his hair, She search’d his wounds all thorough, She kiss’d them, till her lips grew red, On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
“Now, haud your tongue, my daughter dear! For a’ this breeds but sorrow; I’ll wed ye to a better lord Than him ye lost on Yarrow.”
“Oh, haud your tongue, my father dear! Ye mind me but of sorrow: A fairer rose did never bloom Than now lies cropp’d on Yarrow.”
SIR ROLAND
(_Child_, vol. i. Early Edition.)
WHAN he cam to his ain luve’s bouir He tirled at the pin, And sae ready was his fair fause luve To rise and let him in.
“O welcome, welcome, Sir Roland,” she says, “Thrice welcome thou art to me; For this night thou wilt feast in my secret bouir, And to-morrow we’ll wedded be.”
“This night is hallow-eve,” he said, “And to-morrow is hallow-day; And I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, That has made my heart fu’ wae.
“I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, And I wish it may cum to gude: I dreamed that ye slew my best grew hound, And gied me his lappered blude.”
* * * * *
“Unbuckle your belt, Sir Roland,” she said, And set you safely down.” “O your chamber is very dark, fair maid, And the night is wondrous lown.”
“Yes, dark, dark is my secret bouir, And lown the midnight may be; For there is none waking in a’ this tower But thou, my true love, and me.”
* * * * *
She has mounted on her true love’s steed, By the ae light o’ the moon; She has whipped him and spurred him, And roundly she rade frae the toun.
She hadna ridden a mile o’ gate, Never a mile but ane, When she was aware of a tall young man, Slow riding o’er the plain,
She turned her to the right about, Then to the left turn’d she; But aye, ’tween her and the wan moonlight, That tall knight did she see.
And he was riding burd alane, On a horse as black as jet, But tho’ she followed him fast and fell, No nearer could she get.
“O stop! O stop! young man,” she said; “For I in dule am dight; O stop, and win a fair lady’s luve, If you be a leal true knight.”
But nothing did the tall knight say, And nothing did he blin; Still slowly ride he on before And fast she rade behind.
She whipped her steed, she spurred her steed, Till his breast was all a foam; But nearer unto that tall young knight, By Our Ladye she could not come.
“O if you be a gay young knight, As well I trow you be, Pull tight your bridle reins, and stay Till I come up to thee.”
But nothing did that tall knight say, And no whit did he blin, Until he reached a broad river’s side And there he drew his rein.
“O is this water deep?” he said, “As it is wondrous dun? Or is it sic as a saikless maid, And a leal true knight may swim?”
“The water it is deep,” she said, “As it is wondrous dun; But it is sic as a saikless maid, And a leal true knight may swim.”
The knight spurred on his tall black steed; The lady spurred on her brown; And fast they rade unto the flood, And fast they baith swam down.
“The water weets my tae,” she said; “The water weets my knee, And hold up my bridle reins, sir knight, For the sake of Our Ladye.”
“If I would help thee now,” he said, “It were a deadly sin, For I’ve sworn neir to trust a fair may’s word, Till the water weets her chin.”
“Oh, the water weets my waist,” she said, “Sae does it weet my skin, And my aching heart rins round about, The burn maks sic a din.
“The water is waxing deeper still, Sae does it wax mair wide; And aye the farther that we ride on, Farther off is the other side.
“O help me now, thou false, false knight, Have pity on my youth, For now the water jawes owre my head, And it gurgles in my mouth.”
The knight turned right and round about, All in the middle stream; And he stretched out his head to that lady, But loudly she did scream.
“O this is hallow-morn,” he said, “And it is your bridal-day, But sad would be that gay wedding, If bridegroom and bride were away.
“And ride on, ride on, proud Margaret! Till the water comes o’er your bree, For the bride maun ride deep, and deeper yet, Wha rides this ford wi’ me.
“Turn round, turn round, proud Margaret! Turn ye round, and look on me, Thou hast killed a true knight under trust, And his ghost now links on with thee.”
ROSE THE RED AND WHITE LILY
(_Child_, Part IV.)
O ROSE the Red and White Lilly, Their mother dear was dead, And their father married an ill woman, Wishd them twa little guede.
Yet she had twa as fu fair sons As eer brake manis bread, And the tane of them loed her White Lilly, And the tither lood Rose the Red.
O, biggit ha they a bigly bowr, And strawn it oer wi san, And there was mair mirth i the ladies’ bowr Than in a’ their father’s lan.
But out it spake their step-mother, Wha stood a little foreby: “I hope to live and play the prank Sal gar your loud sang ly.”
She’s calld upon her eldest son: “Come here, my son, to me; It fears me sair, my eldest son, That ye maun sail the sea.”
“Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear, Your bidding I maun dee; But be never war to Rose the Red Than ye ha been to me.”
“O had your tongue, my eldest son, For sma sal be her part; You’ll nae get a kiss o her comely mouth Gin your very fair heart should break.”
She’s calld upon her youngest son: “Come here, my son, to me; It fears me sair, my youngest son, That ye maun sail the sea.”
“Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear, Your bidding I maun dee; But be never war to White Lilly Than ye ha been to me.”
“O haud your tongue, my youngest son, For sma sall be her part; You’ll neer get a kiss o her comely mouth Tho your very fair heart should break.”
When Rose the Red and White Lilly Saw their twa loves were gane, Then stopped ha they their loud, loud sang, And tane up the still moarnin; And their step-mother stood listnin by, To hear the ladies’ mean.
Then out it spake her, White Lily; “My sister, we’ll be gane; Why shou’d we stay in Barnsdale, To waste our youth in pain?”
Then cutted ha they their green cloathing, A little below their knee; And sae ha they their yallow hair, A little aboon there bree; And they’ve doen them to haely chapel Was christened by Our Ladye.
There ha they changed their ain twa names, Sae far frae ony town; And the tane o them hight Sweet Willy, And the tither o them Roge the Roun.
Between this twa a vow was made, An they sware it to fulfil; That at three blasts o a buglehorn, She’d come her sister till.
Now Sweet Willy’s gane to the kingis court, Her true-love for to see, And Roge the Roun to good green wood, Brown Robin’s man to be.
As it fell out upon a day, They a did put the stane; Full seven foot ayont them a She gard the puttin-stane gang.
She leand her back against an oak, And gae a loud Ohone! Then out it spake him Brown Robin, “But that’s a woman’s moan!”
“Oh, ken ye by my red rose lip? Or by my yallow hair; Or ken ye by my milk-white breast? For ye never saw it bare?”
“I ken no by your red rose lip, Nor by your yallow hair; Nor ken I by your milk-white breast, For I never saw it bare; But, come to your bowr whaever sae likes, Will find a ladye there.”
“Oh, gin ye come to my bowr within, Thro fraud, deceit, or guile, Wi this same bran that’s in my han I swear I will thee kill.”
“But I will come thy bowr within, An spear nae leave,” quoth he; “An this same bran that’s i my ban, I sall ware back on the.”
About the tenth hour of the night, The ladie’s bowr door was broken, An eer the first hour of the day The bonny knave bairn was gotten.
When days were gane and months were run, The ladye took travailing, And sair she cry’d for a bow’r-woman, For to wait her upon.
Then out it spake him, Brown Robin: “Now what needs a’ this din? For what coud any woman do But I coud do the same?”
“Twas never my mither’s fashion,” she says, “Nor sall it ever be mine, That belted knights shoud eer remain Where ladies dreed their pine.
“But ye take up that bugle-horn, An blaw a blast for me; I ha a brother i the kingis court Will come me quickly ti.”
“O gin ye ha a brither on earth That ye love better nor me, Ye blaw the horn yoursel,” he says, “For ae blast I winna gie.”
She’s set the horn till her mouth, And she’s blawn three blasts sae shrill; Sweet Willy heard i the kingis court, And came her quickly till.
Then up it started Brown Robin, An an angry man was he: “There comes nae man this bowr within But first must fight wi me.”
O they hae fought that bowr within Till the sun was gaing down, Till drops o blude frae Rose the Red Cam trailing to the groun.
She leand her back against the wa, Says, “Robin, let a’ be; For it is a lady born and bred That’s foughten sae well wi thee.”
O seven foot he lap a back; Says, “Alas, and wae is me! I never wisht in a’ my life, A woman’s blude to see; An ae for the sake of ae fair maid Whose name was White Lilly.”
Then out it spake her White Lilly, An a hearty laugh laugh she: “She’s lived wi you this year an mair, Tho ye kenntna it was she.”
Now word has gane thro a’ the lan, Before a month was done, That Brown Robin’s man, in good green wood, Had born a bonny young son.
The word has gane to the kingis court, An to the king himsel; “Now, by my fay,” the king could say, “The like was never heard tell!”