Chapter 8
And we were fifteen weel-made men, Altho’ we were na bonny; And we were a’ put down but ane, For a fair young wanton lady.
HOBBIE NOBLE
(_Child_, vi. Early Edition.)
FOUL fa’ the breast first treason bred in! That Liddesdale may safely say: For in it there was baith meat and drink, And corn unto our geldings gay.
We were stout-hearted men and true, As England it did often say; But now we may turn our backs and fly, Since brave Noble is seld away.
Now Hobie he was an English man, And born into Bewcastle dale; But his misdeeds they were sae great, They banish’d him to Liddisdale.
At Kershope foot the tryst was set, Kershope of the lilye lee; And there was traitour Sim o’ the Mains, With him a private companie.
Then Hobie has graith’d his body weel, I wat it was wi’ baith good iron and steel; And he has pull’d out his fringed grey, And there, brave Noble, he rade him weel.
Then Hobie is down the water gane, E’en as fast as he may drie; Tho’ they shoud a’ brusten and broken their hearts, Frae that tryst Noble he would na be.
“Weel may ye be, my feiries five! And aye, what is your wills wi’ me?” Then they cry’d a’ wi’ ae consent, “Thou’rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me.
“Wilt thou with us in England ride, And thy safe warrand we will be? If we get a horse worth a hundred punds, Upon his back that thou shalt be.”
“I dare not with you into England ride; The Land-sergeant has me at feid: I know not what evil may betide, For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead.
“And Anton Shiel he loves not me, For I gat twa drifts o his sheep; The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not, For nae gear frae me he e’er could keep.
“But will ye stay till the day gae down, Until the night come o’er the grund, And I’ll be a guide worth ony twa, That may in Liddesdale be fund?
“Tho’ dark the night as pitch and tar, I’ll guide ye o’er yon hills fu’ hie; And bring ye a’ in safety back, If ye’ll be true and follow me.”
He’s guided them o’er moss and muir, O’er hill and houp, and mony a down; Til they came to the Foulbogshiel, And there, brave Noble, he lighted down.
But word is gane to the Land-sergeant, In Askirton where that he lay— “The deer that ye hae hunted lang, Is seen into the Waste this day.”
“Then Hobbie Noble is that deer! I wat he carries the style fu’ hie; Aft has he beat your slough-hounds back, And set yourselves at little lee.
“Gar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn; See they shaft their arrows on the wa’! Warn Willeva and Spear Edom, And see the morn they meet me a’.
“Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh, And see it be by break o’ day; And we will on to Conscowthart-Green, For there, I think, we’ll get our prey.”
Then Hobbie Noble has dream’d a dream, In the Foulbogshiel, where that he lay; He thought his horse was neath him shot, And he himself got hard away.
The cocks could crow, the day could dawn, And I wot so even down fell the rain; If Hobbie had no waken’d at that time, In the Foulbogshiel he had been tane or slain.
“Get up, get up, my feiries five! For I wot here makes a fu’ ill day; Yet the warst cloak of this companie, I hope, shall cross the Waste this day.”
Now Hobie thought the gates were clear; But, ever alas! it was not sae: They were beset wi’ cruel men and keen, That away brave Hobbie could not gae.
“Yet follow me, my feiries five, And see of me ye keep good ray; And the worst cloak o’ this companie I hope shall cross the Waste this day.”
There was heaps of men now Hobbie before, And other heaps was him behind, That had he wight as Wallace was, Away brave Noble he could not win.
Then Hobie he had but a laddies sword; But he did more than a laddies deed; In the midst of Conscouthart-Green, He brake it oer Jersawigham’s head.
Now they have tane brave Hobie Noble, Wi’ his ain bowstring they band him sae; And I wat heart was ne’er sae sair, As when his ain five band him on the brae.
They have tane him on for West Carlisle; They ask’d him if he knew the why? Whate’er he thought, yet little he said; He knew the way as well as they.
They hae ta’en him up the Ricker gate; The wives they cast their windows wide; And every wife to anither can say, “That’s the man loos’d Jock o’ the Side!”
“Fye on ye, women! why ca’ ye me man? For it’s nae man that I’m used like; I am but like a forfoughen hound, Has been fighting in a dirty syke.”
Then they hae tane him up thro’ Carlisle town, And set him by the chimney fire; They gave brave Noble a wheat loaf to eat, And that was little his desire.
Then they gave him a wheat loaf to eat, And after that a can o beer; Then they cried a’ with ae consent, “Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheer!
“Confess my lord’s horse, Hobie,” they said, “And the morn in Carlisle thou’s no die;” “How shall I confess them,” Hobie says, “For I never saw them with mine eye?”
Then Hobie has sworn a fu’ great aith, By the day that he was gotten and born, He never had ony thing o’ my lord’s, That either eat him grass or corn.
“Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton! For I think again I’ll ne’er thee see: I wad betray nae lad alive, For a’ the goud in Christentie.
“And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale! Baith the hie land and the law; Keep ye weel frae traitor Mains! For goud and gear he’ll sell ye a’.
“Yet wad I rather be ca’d Hobie Noble, In Carlisle where he suffers for his faut, Before I’d be ca’d traitor Mains, That eats and drinks of the meal and maut.”
THE TWA SISTERS
(_Sharpe’s Ballad Book_, No. X., p. 30.)
THERE liv’d twa sisters in a bower, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. There liv’d twa sisters in a bower, Stirling for aye: The youngest o’ them, O, she was a flower! Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
There came a squire frae the west, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. There cam a squire frae the west, Stirling for aye: He lo’ed them baith, but the youngest best, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
He gied the eldest a gay gold ring, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. He gied the eldest a gay gold ring, Stirling for aye: But he lo’ed the youngest aboon a’ thing, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
“Oh sister, sister, will ye go to the sea? Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. Oh sister, sister, will ye go to the sea? Stirling for aye: Our father’s ships sail bonnilie, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.”
The youngest sat down upon a stane, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. The youngest sat down upon a stane, Stirling for aye: The eldest shot the youngest in, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
“Oh sister, sister, lend me your hand, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand, Stirling for aye: And you shall hae my gouden fan, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
“Oh, sister, sister, save my life, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. Oh sister, sister, save my life, Stirling for aye: And ye shall be the squire’s wife, Bonny Sweet Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.”
First she sank, and then she swam, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. First she sank, and then she swam, Stirling for aye: Until she cam to Tweed mill dam, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
The millar’s daughter was baking bread, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. The millar’s daughter was baking bread, Stirling for aye: She went for water, as she had need, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
“Oh father, father, in our mill dam, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch, Oh father, father, in our mill dam, Stirling for aye: There’s either a lady, or a milk-white swan, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.”
They could nae see her fingers small, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. They could nae see her fingers small, Stirling for aye: Wi’ diamond rings they were cover’d all, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
They could nae see her yellow hair, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. They could nae see her yellow hair, Stirling for aye: Sae mony knots and platts war there, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
Bye there cam a fiddler fair, Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch. Bye there cam a fiddler fair, Stirling for aye: And he’s ta’en three tails o’ her yellow hair, Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.
MARY AMBREE
(_Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, vol. ii. p. 230.)
WHEN captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte, Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt, They mustred their souldiers by two and by three, And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree.
When [the] brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight, Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight, Because he was slaine most treacherouslie Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree.
She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe; A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide, A stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side, On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand, Bidding all such, as wold, [to] bee of her band; To wayte on her person came thousand and three: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
“My soldiers,” she saith, “soe valliant and bold, Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde; Still formost in battell myselfe will I bee:” Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say, “Soe well thou becomest this gallant array, Thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree, No mayden was ever like Mary Ambree.”
She cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life, With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife, With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free; Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
“Before I will see the worst of you all To come into danger of death or of thrall, This hand and this life I will venture so free:” Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array, Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye; Seven howers in skirmish continued shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott, And her enemyes bodyes with bulletts so hott; For one of her own men a score killed shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent, Away all her pellets and powder had sent, Straight with her keen weapon she slasht him in three: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre, At length she was forced to make a retyre; Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?
Her foes they besett her on everye side, As thinking close siege shee cold never abide; To beate down the walles they all did decree: But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree.
Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand, And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand, There daring their captaines to match any three: O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!
“Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live? Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:” Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree.
“Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold, Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?” “A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free, Who shortlye with us a prisoner must bee.”
“No captaine of England; behold in your sight Two brests in my bosome, and therefore no knight: Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see, But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree.”
“But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare, Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre? If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee, Full well mey they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.”
The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne, Who long had advanced for England’s fair crowne; Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee, And offered rich presents to Mary Ambree.
But this virtuous mayden despised them all: “’Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall; A maiden of England, sir, never will bee The wench of a monarcke,” quoth Mary Ambree.
Then to her owne country shee back did returne, Still holding the foes of rare England in scorne! Therfore English captaines of every degree Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.
ALISON GROSS
O ALISON GROSS, that lives in yon tow’r, The ugliest witch in the north countrie, She trysted me ae day up till her bow’r, And mony fair speeches she made to me.
She straik’d my head, and she kaim’d my hair, And she set me down saftly on her knee; Says—“If ye will be my leman sae true, Sae mony braw things as I will you gi’e.”
She shaw’d me a mantle of red scarlet, With gowden flowers and fringes fine; Says—“If ye will be my leman sae true, This goodly gift it shall be thine.”
“Awa, awa, ye ugly witch, Hand far awa, and let me be; I never will be your leman sae true, And I wish I were out of your company.”
She neist brocht a sark of the saftest silk, Weel wrought with pearls about the band; Says—“If ye will be my ain true love, This goodly gift ye shall command.”
She show’d me a cup of the good red gowd, Weel set with jewels sae fair to see; Says—“If ye will be my leman sae true, This goodly gift I will you gi’e.”
“Awa, awa, ye ugly witch, Haud far awa, and let me be; For I wadna ance kiss your ugly mouth, For all the gifts that ye cou’d gi’e.”
She’s turn’d her richt and round about, And thrice she blew on a grass-green horn; And she sware by the moon and the stars aboon, That she’d gar me rue the day I was born.
Then out has she ta’en a silver wand, And she turn’d her three times round and round; She mutter’d sic words, that my strength it fail’d, And I fell down senseless on the ground.
She turn’d me into an ugly worm, And gar’d me toddle about the tree; And aye on ilka Saturday night, Auld Alison Gross she came to me,
With silver basin, and silver kame, To kame my headie upon her knee; But rather than kiss her ugly mouth, I’d ha’e toddled for ever about the tree.
But as it fell out on last Hallow-e’en, When the seely court was ridin’ by, The queen lighted down on a gowan bank, Near by the tree where I wont to lye.
She took me up in her milk-white hand, And she straik’d me three times o’er her knee; She chang’d me again to my ain proper shape, And nae mair do I toddle about the tree.
THE HEIR OF LYNNE
OF all the lords in faire Scotland A song I will begin: Amongst them all dwelled a lord Which was the unthrifty Lord of Lynne.
His father and mother were dead him froe, And so was the head of all his kinne; He did neither cease nor blinne To the cards and dice that he did run.
To drinke the wine that was so cleere! With every man he would make merry. And then bespake him John of the Scales, Unto the heire of Lynne say’d hee,
Sayes “how dost thou, Lord of Lynne, Doest either want gold or fee? Wilt thou not sell thy land so brode To such a good fellow as me?
“For . . . I . . . ” he said, “My land, take it unto thee; I draw you to record, my lords all;” With that he cast him a Gods pennie.
He told him the gold upon the bord, It wanted never a bare penny. “That gold is thine, the land is mine, The heire of Lynne I will bee.”
“Heeres gold enough,” saithe the heire of Lynne, “Both for me and my company.” He drunke the wine that was so cleere, And with every man he made merry.
Within three quarters of a yeare His gold and fee it waxed thinne, His merry men were from him gone, And left himselfe all alone.
He had never a penny left in his purse, Never a penny but three, And one was brasse and another was lead And another was white mony.
“Now well-a-day!” said the heire of Lynne, “Now well-a-day, and woe is mee! For when I was the Lord of Lynne, I neither wanted gold nor fee;
“For I have sold my lands so broad, And have not left me one penny! I must go now and take some read Unto Edenborrow and beg my bread.”
He had not beene in Edenborrow Nor three quarters of a yeare, But some did give him and some said nay, And some bid “to the deele gang yee!
“For if we should hang some land selfeer, The first we would begin with thee.” “Now well-a-day!” said the heire of Lynne, “Now well-a-day, and woe is mee!
“For now I have sold my lands so broad That merry man is irke with mee; But when that I was the Lord of Lynne Then on my land I lived merrily;
“And now I have sold my land so broade That I have not left me one pennye! God be with my father!” he said, “On his land he lived merrily.”
Still in a study there as he stood, He unbethought him of a bill, He unbethought him of a bill Which his father had left with him.
Bade him he should never on it looke Till he was in extreame neede, “And by my faith,” said the heire of Lynne, “Then now I had never more neede.”
He tooke the bill and looked it on, Good comfort that he found there; It told him of a castle wall Where there stood three chests in feare:
Two were full of the beaten gold, The third was full of white money. He turned then downe his bags of bread And filled them full of gold so red.
Then he did never cease nor blinne Till John of the Scales house he did winne. When that he came John of the Scales, Up at the speere he looked then;
There sate three lords upon a rowe, And John o’ the Scales sate at the bord’s head, And John o’ the Scales sate at the bord’s head Because he was the lord of Lynne.
And then bespake the heire of Lynne To John o’ the Scales wife thus sayd hee, Sayd “Dame, wilt thou not trust me one shott That I may sit downe in this company?”
“Now Christ’s curse on my head,” she said, “If I do trust thee one pennye,” Then bespake a good fellowe, Which sate by John o’ the Scales his knee,
Said “have thou here, thou heire of Lynne, Forty-pence I will lend thee,— Some time a good fellow thou hast beene And other forty if it need bee.”
They drunken wine that was so cleere, And every man they made merry, And then bespake him John o’ the Scales Unto the Lord of Lynne said hee;
Said “how doest thou heire of Lynne, Since I did buy thy lands of thee? I will sell it to thee twenty better cheepe, Nor ever did I buy it of thee.”
“I draw you to recorde, lords all:” With that he cast him god’s penny; Then he tooke to his bags of bread, And they were full of the gold so red.
He told him the gold then over the borde It wanted never a broad pennye; “That gold is thine, the land is mine, And the heire of Lynne againe I will bee.”
“Now well-a-day!” said John o’ the Scales’ wife, “Well-a-day, and woe is me! Yesterday I was the lady of Lynne, And now I am but John o’ the Scales wife!”
Says “have thou here, thou good fellow, Forty pence thou did lend me; Forty pence thou did lend me, And forty I will give thee, I’ll make thee keeper of my forrest, Both of the wild deere and the tame.”
But then bespake the heire of Lynne, These were the words and thus spake hee, “Christ’s curse light upon my crowne If ere my land stand in any jeopardye!”
GORDON OF BRACKLEY
DOWN Deeside cam Inveraye Whistlin’ and playing, An’ called loud at Brackley gate Ere the day dawning— “Come, Gordon of Brackley. Proud Gordon, come down, There’s a sword at your threshold Mair sharp than your own.”
“Arise now, gay Gordon,” His lady ’gan cry, “Look, here is bold Inveraye Driving your kye.” “How can I go, lady, An’ win them again, When I have but ae sword, And Inveraye ten?”
“Arise up, my maidens, Wi’ roke and wi’ fan, How blest had I been Had I married a man! Arise up, my maidens, Tak’ spear and tak’ sword, Go milk the ewes, Gordon, An’ I will be lord.”
The Gordon sprung up Wi’ his helm on his head, Laid his hand on his sword, An’ his thigh on his steed, An’ he stooped low, and said, As he kissed his young dame, “There’s a Gordon rides out That will never ride hame.”
There rode with fierce Inveraye Thirty and three, But wi’ Brackley were nane But his brother and he; Twa gallanter Gordons Did never blade draw, But against three-and-thirty Wae’s me! what are twa?
Wi’ sword and wi’ dagger They rushed on him rude; The twa gallant Gordons Lie bathed in their blude. Frae the springs o’ the Dee To the mouth o’ the Tay, The Gordons mourn for him, And curse Inveraye.
“O were ye at Brackley? An’ what saw ye there? Was his young widow weeping An’ tearing her hair?” “I looked in at Brackley, I looked in, and oh! There was mirth, there was feasting, But naething o’ woe.
“As a rose bloomed the lady, An’ blithe as a bride, As a bridegroom bold Inveraye Smiled by her side. Oh! she feasted him there As she ne’er feasted lord, While the blood of her husband Was moist on his sword.
“In her chamber she kept him Till morning grew gray, Thro’ the dark woods of Brackley She shewed him the way. ‘Yon wild hill,’ she said, ‘Where the sun’s shining on, Is the hill of Glentanner,— One kiss, and begone!’”
There’s grief in the cottage, There’s grief in the ha’, For the gude, gallant Gordon That’s dead an’ awa’. To the bush comes the bud, An’ the flower to the plain, But the gude and the brave They come never again.
EDWARD, EDWARD
“WHY does your brand sae drop wi’ blude, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude And why sae sad gang ye, O?” “O I hae killed my hawk sae gude, Mither, mither; O I hae killed my hawk sae gude, And I hae nae mair but he, O.”
“Your hawk’s blude was never sae red, Edward, Edward; Your hawk’s blude was never sae red, My dear son, I tell thee, O.” “O I hae killed my red-roan steed, Mither, mither; O I hae killed my red-roan steed, That was sae fair and free, O.”