Chapter 7
Then out it spake him Bold Arthur, An a hearty laugh laugh he: “I trow some may has playd the loun, And fled her ain country.”
“Bring me my steed,” then cry’d the king, “My bow and arrows keen; I’ll ride mysel to good green wood, An see what’s to be seen.”
“An’t please your grace,” said Bold Arthur, “My liege, I’ll gang you wi, An try to fin a little foot-page, That’s strayd awa frae me.”
O they’ve hunted i the good green wood The buck but an the rae, An they drew near Brown Robin’s bowr, About the close of day.
Then out it spake the king in hast, Says, “Arthur look an see Gin that be no your little foot-page That leans against yon tree.”
Then Arthur took his bugle-horn, An blew a blast sae shrill; Sweet Willy started at the sound, An ran him quickly till.
“O wanted ye your meat, Willy? Or wanted ye your fee? Or gat ye ever an angry word, That ye ran awa frae me?”
“I wanted nought, my master dear; To me ye ay was good; I came but to see my ae brother, That wons in this green wood.”
Then out it spake the king again, Says, “Bonny boy, tell to me, Wha lives into yon bigly bowr, Stands by yon green oak tree?”
“Oh, pardon me,” says Sweet Willie, “My liege, I dare no tell; An I pray you go no near that bowr, For fear they do you fell.”
“Oh, haud your tongue, my bonny boy, For I winna be said nay; But I will gang that bowr within, Betide me weal or wae.”
They’ve lighted off their milk-white steeds, An saftly enterd in, And there they saw her White Lilly, Nursing her bonny young son.
“Now, by the rood,” the king coud say, “This is a comely sight; I trow, instead of a forrester’s man, This is a lady bright!”
Then out it spake her, Rose the Red, An fell low down on her knee: “Oh, pardon us, my gracious liege, An our story I’ll tell thee.
“Our father was a wealthy lord, That wond in Barnsdale; But we had a wicked step-mother, That wrought us meickle bale.
“Yet she had twa as fu fair sons As ever the sun did see, An the tane of them lood my sister dear, An the tother said he lood me.”
Then out it spake him Bold Arthur, As by the king he stood: “Now, by the faith o my body, This shoud be Rose the Red!”
Then in it came him Brown Robin, Frae hunting O the deer; But whan he saw the king was there, He started back for fear.
The king has taen him by the hand, An bide him naithing dread; Says, “Ye maun leave the good greenwood, Come to the court wi speed.”
Then up he took White Lilly’s son, An set him on his knee; Says—“Gin ye live to wield a bran, My bowman ye sall bee.”
The king he sent for robes of green, An girdles o shinning gold; He gart the ladies be arrayd Most comely to behold.
They’ve done them unto Mary kirk, An there gat fair wedding, An fan the news spread oer the lan, For joy the bells did ring.
Then out it spake her Rose the Red, An a hearty laugh laugh she: “I wonder what would our step-dame say, Gin she his sight did see!”
THE BATTLE OF HARLAW EVERGREEN VERSION
(_Child_, vol. vii. Early Edition, Appendix.)
FRAE Dunidier as I cam throuch, Doun by the hill of Banochie, Allangst the lands of Garioch. Grit pitie was to heir and se The noys and dulesum hermonie, That evir that dreiry day did daw! Cryand the corynoch on hie, Alas! alas! for the Harlaw.
I marvlit what the matter meant; All folks were in a fiery fariy: I wist nocht wha was fae or freind, Yet quietly I did me carrie. But sen the days of auld King Hairy, Sic slauchter was not hard nor sene, And thair I had nae tyme to tairy, For bissiness in Aberdene.
Thus as I walkit on the way, To Inverury as I went, I met a man, and bad him stay, Requeisting him to mak me quaint Of the beginning and the event That happenit thair at the Harlaw; Then he entreited me to tak tent, And he the truth sould to me schaw.
Grit Donald of the Ysles did claim Unto the lands of Ross sum richt, And to the governour he came, Them for to haif, gif that he micht, Wha saw his interest was but slicht, And thairfore answerit with disdain. He hastit hame baith day and nicht, And sent nae bodward back again.
But Donald richt impatient Of that answer Duke Robert gaif, He vow’d to God Omniyotent, All the hale lands of Ross to half, Or ells be graithed in his graif: He wald not quat his richt for nocht, Nor be abusit like a slaif; That bargin sould be deirly bocht.
Then haistylie he did command That all his weir-men should convene; Ilk an well harnisit frae hand, To melt and heir what he did mein. He waxit wrath and vowit tein; Sweirand he wald surpryse the North, Subdew the brugh of Aberdene, Mearns, Angus, and all Fyfe to Forth.
Thus with the weir-men of the yles, Wha war ay at his bidding bown, With money maid, with forss and wyls, Richt far and neir, baith up and doun, Throw mount and muir, frae town to town, Allangst the lands of Ross he roars, And all obey’d at his bandown, Evin frae the North to Suthren shoars.
Then all the countrie men did yield; For nae resistans durst they mak, Nor offer batill in the feild, Be forss of arms to beir him bak. Syne they resolvit all and spak, That best it was for thair behoif, They sould him for thair chiftain tak, Believing weil he did them luve.
Then he a proclamation maid, All men to meet at Inverness, Throw Murray land to mak a raid, Frae Arthursyre unto Spey-ness. And further mair, he sent express, To schaw his collours and ensenzie, To all and sindry, mair and less, Throchout the bounds of Byne and Enzie.
And then throw fair Strathbogie land His purpose was for to pursew, And whatsoevir durst gainstand, That race they should full sairly rew. Then he bad all his men be trew, And him defend by forss and slicht, And promist them rewardis anew, And mak them men of mekle micht.
Without resistans, as he said, Throw all these parts he stoutly past, Where sum war wae, and sum war glaid, But Garioch was all agast. Throw all these feilds be sped him fast, For sic a sicht was never sene; And then, forsuith, he langd at last To se the bruch of Aberdene.
To hinder this prowd enterprise, The stout and michty Erl of Marr With all his men in arms did ryse, Even frae Curgarf to Craigyvar: And down the syde of Don richt far, Angus and Mearns did all convene To fecht, or Donald came sae nar The ryall bruch of Aberdene.
And thus the martial Erle of Marr Marcht with his men in richt array; Befoir his enemis was aware, His banner bauldly did display. For weil enewch they kent the way, And all their semblance well they saw: Without all dangir or delay, Come haistily to the Harlaw.
With him the braif Lord Ogilvy, Of Angus sheriff principall, The constable of gude Dundè, The vanguard led before them all. Suppose in number they war small, Thay first richt bauldlie did pursew, And maid thair faes befor them fall, Wha then that race did sairly rew.
And then the worthy Lord Salton, The strong undoubted Laird of Drum, The stalwart Laird of Lawristone, With ilk thair forces all and sum. Panmuir with all his men, did cum, The provost of braif Aberdene, With trumpets and with tuick of drum, Came schortly in thair armour schene.
These with the Earle of Marr came on, In the reir-ward richt orderlie, Thair enemies to sett upon; In awfull manner hardilie, Togither vowit to live and die, Since they had marchit mony mylis, For to suppress the tyrannie Of douted Donald of the Ysles.
But he, in number ten to ane, Right subtilè alang did ryde, With Malcomtosch, and fell Maclean, With all thair power at thair syde; Presumeand on their strenth and pryde, Without all feir or ony aw, Richt bauldie battil did abyde, Hard by the town of fair Harlaw.
The armies met, the trumpet sounds, The dandring drums alloud did touk, Baith armies byding on the bounds, Till ane of them the feild sould bruik. Nae help was thairfor, nane wald jouk, Ferss was the fecht on ilka syde, And on the ground lay mony a bouk Of them that thair did battil byd.
With doutsum victorie they dealt, The bludy battil lastit lang; Each man fits nibours forss thair felt, The weakest aft-tymes gat the wrang: Thair was nae mowis thair them amang, Naithing was hard but heavy knocks, That eccho mad a dulefull sang, Thairto resounding frae the rocks.
But Donalds men at last gaif back, For they war all out of array: The Earl of Marris men throw them brak, Pursewing shairply in thair way, Thair enemys to tak or slay, Be dynt of forss to gar them yield; Wha war richt blyth to win away, And sae for feirdness tint the feild.
Then Donald fled, and that full fast, To mountains hich for all his micht; For he and his war all agast, And ran till they war out of sicht; And sae of Ross he lost his richt, Thocht mony men with hem he brocht; Towards the yles fled day and nicht, And all he wan was deirlie bocht.
This is (quod he) the richt report Of all that I did heir and knaw; Thocht my discourse be sumthing schort, Tak this to be a richt suthe saw: Contrairie God and the kings law, Thair was spilt mekle Christian blude, Into the battil of Harlaw: This is the sum, sae I conclude.
But yet a bonnie while abide, And I sall mak thee cleirly ken What slaughter was on ilkay syde, Of Lowland and of Highland men, Wha for thair awin haif evir bene; These lazie lowns micht weil be spared, Chased like deers into their dens, And gat their wages for reward.
Malcomtosh, of the clan heid-cheif, Macklean with his grit hauchty heid, With all thair succour and relief, War dulefully dung to the deid; And now we are freid of thair feid, They will not lang to cum again; Thousands with them, without remeid, On Donald’s syd, that day war slain.
And on the uther syde war lost, Into the feild that dismal day, Chief men of worth, of mekle cost, To be lamentit sair for ay. The Lord Saltoun of Rothemay, A man of micht and mekle main; Grit dolour was for his decay, That sae unhappylie was slain.
Of the best men amang them was The gracious gude Lord Ogilvy, The sheriff-principal of Angus, Renownit for truth and equitie, For faith and magnanimitie; He had few fallows in the field, Yet fell by fatall destinie, For he naeways wad grant to yield.
Sir James Scrimgeor of Duddap, knicht, Grit constabill of fair Dundè, Unto the dulefull deith was dicht; The kingis cheif bannerman was he, A valiant man of chevalrie, Whose predecessors wan that place At Spey, with gude King William frie ’Gainst Murray, and Macduncan’s race.
Gude Sir Allexander Irving, The much renowit laird of Drum, Nane in his days was bettir sene When they war semblit all and sum. To praise him we sould not be dumm, For valour, witt, and worthyness; To end his days he ther did cum Whose ransom is remeidyless.
And thair the knicht of Lawriston Was slain into his armour schene, And gude Sir Robert Davidson, Wha provost was of Aberdene: The knicht of Panmure, as was sene, A mortall man in armour bricht, Sir Thomas Murray, stout and kene, Left to the warld thair last gude nicht.
Thair was not sen King Keneths days Sic strange intestine crewel stryf In Scotland sene, as ilk man says, Whare mony liklie lost thair lyfe; Whilk maid divorce twene man and wyfe, And mony childrene fatherless, Whilk in this realme has bene full ryfe: Lord help these lands, our wrangs redress.
In July, on Saint James his even, That four and twenty dismall day, Twelve hundred, ten score and eleven Of theirs sen Chryst, the suthe to say, Men will remember, as they may, When thus the ventie they knaw, And mony a ane may murn for ay, The brim battil of the Harlaw.
TRADITIONARY VERSION
(_Child_, Part VI.)
AS I came in by Dunidier, An doun by Netherha, There was fifty thousand Hielanmen A marching to Harlaw. (Chorus) Wi a dree dree dradie drumtie dree.
As I cam on, an farther on, An doun an by Balquhain, Oh there I met Sir James the Rose, Wi him Sir John the Gryme.
“O cam ye frae the Hielans, man? And cam ye a’ the wey? Saw ye Macdonell an his men, As they cam frae the Skee?”
“Yes, me cam frae ta Hielans, man, An me cam a ta wey, An she saw Macdonell an his men, As they cam frae ta Skee.”
“Oh, was ye near Macdonell’s men? Did ye their numbers see? Come, tell to me, John Hielanman, What micht their numbers be?”
“Yes, me was near, an near eneuch, An me their numbers saw; There was fifty thousand Hielanmen A marching to Harlaw.”
“Gin that be true,” says James the Rose, “We’ll no come meikle speed; We’ll cry upo our merry men, And lichtly mount our steed.”
“Oh no, oh no!” quo’ John the Gryme, “That thing maun never be; The gallant Grymes were never bate, We’ll try what we can dee.”
As I cam on, an farther on, An doun an by Harlaw, They fell fu close on ilka side; Sic fun ye never saw.
They fell fu close on ilka side, Sic fun ye never saw; For Hielan swords gied clash for clash, At the battle o Harlaw.
The Hielanmen, wi their lang swords, They laid on us fu sair, An they drave back our merry men Three acres breadth an mair.
Brave Forbës to his brither did say, “Noo brither, dinna ye see? They beat us back on ilka side, An we’se be forced to flee.”
“Oh no, oh no, my brither dear, That thing maun never be; Tak ye your good sword in your hand, An come your wa’s wi me.”
“Oh no, oh no, my brither dear, The clans they are ower strang, An they drive back our merry men, Wi swords baith sharp an lang.”
Brave Forbës drew his men aside, Said, “Tak your rest a while, Until I to Drumminnor send, To fess my coat o mail.”
The servan he did ride, An his horse it did na fail, For in twa hours an a quarter He brocht the coat o mail.
Then back to back the brithers twa Gaed in amo the thrang, An they hewed doun the Hielanmen, Wi swords baith sharp an lang.
Macdonell he was young an stout, Had on his coat o mail, And he has gane oot throw them a’ To try his han himsell.
The first ae straik that Forbës strack, He garrt Macdonell reel; An the neist ae straik that Forbës strack, The great Macdonell fell.
And siccan a lierachie, I’m sure ye never sawe As wis amo the Hielanmen, When they saw Macdonell fa.
An whan they saw that he was deid, They turnd and ran awa, An they buried him in Legget’s Den, A large mile frae Harlaw.
They rade, they ran, an some did gang, They were o sma record; But Forbës and his merry men, They slew them a’ the road.
On Monanday, at mornin, The battle it began, On Saturday at gloamin’, Ye’d scarce kent wha had wan.
An sic a weary buryin, I’m sure ye never saw, As wis the Sunday after that, On the muirs aneath Harlaw.
Gin anybody speer at ye For them ye took awa, Ye may tell their wives and bairnies, They’re sleepin at Harlaw.
DICKIE MACPHALION
(_Sharpe’s Ballad Book_, No. XIV.)
I WENT to the mill, but the miller was gone, I sat me down, and cried ochone! To think on the days that are past and gone, Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain. Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo, To think on the days that are past and gone, Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.
I sold my rock, I sold my reel, And sae hae I my spinning wheel, And a’ to buy a cap of steel For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain! Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo, And a’ to buy a cap of steel For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.
A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE
(_Border Minstrelsy_, vol. ii., p. 357.)
THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte, _Every nighte and alle_, Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte, _And Christe receive thye saule_.
When thou from hence away art paste, _Every nighte and alle_, To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste; _And Christe receive thye saule_.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, _Every nighte and alle_, Sit thee down and put them on; _And Christe receive thye saule_.
If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gavest nane, _Every nighte and alle_, The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane; _And Christe receive thye saule_.
From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, _Every nighte and alle_, To Brigg o’ Dread thou comest at laste, _And Christe receive thye saule_.
From Brigg o’ Dread when thou mayst passe, _Every nighte and alle_, To Purgatory fire thou comest at last, _And Christe receive thye saule_.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink, _Every nighte and alle_, The fire sall never make thee shrinke; _And Christe receive thye saule_.
If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane, _Every nighte and alle_, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; _And Christe receive thye saule_.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte, _Every nighte and alle_, Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte, _And Christe receive thye saule_.
THE LAIRD OF WARISTOUN
(_Child_, vol. iii. Early Edition.)
DOWN by yon garden green, Sae merrily as she gaes; She has twa weel-made feet, And she trips upon her taes.
She has twa weel-made feet; Far better is her hand; She’s as jimp in the middle As ony willow wand.
“Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, It’s I will make you lady Of a’ the lands you see.”
* * * * *
He spak a word in jest; Her answer was na good; He threw a plate at her face, Made it a’ gush out o’ blood.
She wasna frae her chamber A step but barely three, When up and at her richt hand There stood Man’s Enemy.
“Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, I’ll learn you a wile, Avenged for to be.”
The foul thief knotted the tether; She lifted his head on hie; The nourice drew the knot That gar’d lord Waristoun die.
Then word is gane to Leith, Also to Edinburgh town That the lady had kill’d the laird, The laird o’ Waristoun.
* * * * *
Tak aff, tak aff my hood But lat my petticoat be; Pat my mantle o’er my head; For the fire I downa see.
Now, a’ ye gentle maids, Tak warning now by me, And never marry ane But wha pleases your e’e.
“For he married me for love, But I married him for fee; And sae brak out the feud That gar’d my dearie die.”
MAY COLVEN
(_Child_, Part I., p. 56.)
FALSE Sir John a wooing came To a maid of beauty fair; May Colven was this lady’s name, Her father’s only heir.
He wood her butt, he wood her ben, He wood her in the ha, Until he got this lady’s consent To mount and ride awa.
He went down to her father’s bower, Where all the steeds did stand, And he’s taken one of the best steeds That was in her father’s land.
He’s got on and she’s got on, As fast as they could flee, Until they came to a lonesome part, A rock by the side of the sea.
“Loup off the steed,” says false Sir John, “Your bridal bed you see; For I have drowned seven young ladies, The eighth one you shall be.
“Cast off, cast off, my May Colven, All and your silken gown, For it’s oer good and oer costly To rot in the salt sea foam.
“Cast off, cast off, my May Colven, All and your embroiderd shoen, For oer good and oer costly To rot in the salt sea foam.”
“O turn you about, O false Sir John, And look to the leaf of the tree, For it never became a gentleman A naked woman to see.”
He turned himself straight round about, To look to the leaf of the tree, So swift as May Colven was To throw him in the sea.
“O help, O help, my May Colven, O help, or else I’ll drown; I’ll take you home to your father’s bower, And set you down safe and sound.”
“No help, no help, O false Sir John, No help, nor pity thee; Tho’ seven kings’ daughters you have drownd, But the eighth shall not be me.”
So she went on her father’s steed, As swift as she could flee, And she came home to her father’s bower Before it was break of day.
Up then and spoke the pretty parrot: “May Colven, where have you been? What has become of false Sir John, That woo’d you so late the streen?
“He woo’d you butt, he woo’d you ben, He woo’d you in the ha, Until he got your own consent For to mount and gang awa.”
“O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot, Lay not the blame upon me; Your cup shall be of the flowered gold, Your cage of the root of the tree.”
Up then spake the king himself, In the bed-chamber where he lay: “What ails the pretty parrot, That prattles so long or day?”
“There came a cat to my cage door, It almost a worried me, And I was calling on May Colven To take the cat from me.”
JOHNIE FAA
(_Child_, vol. iv. Early Edition.)
THE gypsies came to our good lord’s gate And wow but they sang sweetly! They sang sae sweet and sae very complete That down came the fair lady.
And she came tripping doun the stair, And a’ her maids before her; As soon as they saw her weel-far’d face, They coost the glamer o’er her.
“O come with me,” says Johnie Faw, “O come with me, my dearie; For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword, That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.”
Then she gied them the beer and the wine, And they gied her the ginger; But she gied them a far better thing, The goud ring aff her finger.
“Gae take frae me this yay mantle, And bring to me a plaidie; For if kith and kin, and a’ had sworn, I’ll follow the gypsy laddie.
“Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed, Wi’ my good lord beside me; But this night I’ll lye in a tenant’s barn, Whatever shall betide me!”
“Come to your bed,” says Johnie Faw, “Oh, come to your bed, my dearie: For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword, Your lord shall nae mair come near ye.”
“I’ll go to bed to my Johnie Faw, I’ll go to bed to my dearie; For I vow and I swear by the fan in my hand, My lord shall nae mair come near me.
“I’ll mak a hap to my Johnie Faw, I’ll mak a hap to my dearie; And he’s get a’ the coat gaes round, And my lord shall nae mair come near me.”
And when our lord came hame at e’en, And spier’d for his fair lady, The tane she cry’d, and the other reply’d, “She’s awa’ wi’ the gypsy laddie!”
“Gae saddle to me the black black steed, Gae saddle and make him ready; Before that I either eat or sleep, I’ll gae seek my fair lady.”