Chapter 9

“Your steed was auld, and ye’ve plenty mair, Edward, Edward; Your steed was auld, and ye’ve plenty mair; Some ither dule ye dree, O.” “O I hae killed my father dear, Mither, mither; O I hae killed my father dear, Alas, and wae is me, O!”

“And whatten penance will ye dree for that, Edward, Edward? Whatten penance will ye dree for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.” “I’ll set my feet in yonder boat, Mither, mither; I’ll set my feet in yonder boat, And I’ll fare over the sea, O.”

“And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’, Edward, Edward? And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’, That were sae fair to see, O?” “I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’, Mither, mither; I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’, For here never mair maun I be, O.”

“And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang ower the sea, O?” “The warld’s room: let them beg through life, Mither, mither; The warld’s room: let them beg through life; For them never mair will I see, O.”

“And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?” “The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Mither, mither; The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear: Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!”

YOUNG BENJIE

OF all the maids of fair Scotland, The fairest was Marjorie; And young Benjie was her ae true love, And a dear true love was he.

And wow but they were lovers dear, And lov’d full constantlie; But aye the mair when they fell out, The sairer was their plea.

And they ha’e quarrell’d on a day, Till Marjorie’s heart grew wae; And she said she’d chuse another luve, And let young Benjie gae.

And he was stout and proud-hearted, And thought o’t bitterlie; And he’s gane by the wan moonlight, To meet his Marjorie.

“Oh, open, open, my true love, Oh, open and let me in!” “I darena open, young Benjie, My three brothers are within.”

“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonnie burd, Sae loud’s I hear ye lee; As I came by the Louden banks, They bade gude e’en to me.

“But fare ye weel, my ae fause love, That I have lov’d sae lang! It sets ye chuse another love, And let young Benjie gang.”

Then Marjorie turn’d her round about, The tear blinding her e’e; “I darena, darena let thee in, But I’ll come down to thee.”

Then salt she smil’d, and said to him— “Oh, what ill ha’e I done?” He took her in his arms twa, And threw her o’er the linn.

The stream was strong, the maid was stout, And laith, laith to be dang; But ere she wan the Louden banks, Her fair colour was wan.

Then up bespake her eldest brother— “Oh, see na ye what I see?” And out then spake her second brother— “It is our sister Marjorie!”

Out then spake her eldest brother— “Oh, how shall we her ken?” And out then spake her youngest brother— “There’s a honey mark on her chin.”

Then they’ve ta’en the comely corpse, And laid it on the ground; Saying—“Wha has kill’d our ae sister? And how can he be found?

“The night it is her low lykewake, The morn her burial day; And we maun watch at mirk midnight, And hear what she will say.”

With doors ajar, and candles light, And torches burning clear, The streekit corpse, till still midnight, They waked, but naething hear.

About the middle of the night The cocks began to craw; And at the dead hour of the night, The corpse began to thraw.

“Oh, wha has done thee wrang, sister, Or dared the deadly sin? Wha was sae stout, and fear’d nae dout, As throw ye o’er the linn?”

“Young Benjie was the first ae man I laid my love upon; He was sae stout and proud-hearted, He threw me o’er the linn.”

“Shall we young Benjie head, sister? Shall we young Benjie hang? Or shall we pike out his twa gray een, And punish him ere he gang?”

“Ye maunna Benjie head, brothers, Ye maunna Benjie hang; But ye maun pike out his twa gray een. And punish him ere he gang.

“Tie a green gravat round his neck, And lead him out and in, And the best ae servant about your house To wait young Benjie on.

“And aye at every seven years’ end, Ye’ll take him to the linn; For that’s the penance he maun dree, To scug his deadly sin.”

AULD MAITLAND

THERE lived a king in southern land, King Edward hight his name; Unwordily he wore the crown, Till fifty years were gane.

He had a sister’s son o’s ain, Was large of blood and bane; And afterward, when he came up, Young Edward hight his name.

One day he came before the king, And kneel’d low on his knee: “A boon, a boon, my good uncle, I crave to ask of thee!

“At our lang wars, in fair Scotland, I fain ha’e wish’d to be, If fifteen hundred waled wight men You’ll grant to ride with me.”

“Thou shall ha’e thae, thou shall ha’e mae; I say it sickerlie; And I myself, an auld gray man, Array’d your host shall see.”

King Edward rade, King Edward ran— I wish him dool and pyne! Till he had fifteen hundred men Assembled on the Tyne.

And thrice as many at Berwicke Were all for battle bound, [Who, marching forth with false Dunbar, A ready welcome found.]

They lighted on the banks of Tweed, And blew their coals sae het, And fired the Merse and Teviotdale, All in an evening late.

As they fared up o’er Lammermoor, They burn’d baith up and down, Until they came to a darksome house, Some call it Leader-Town.

“Wha hauds this house?” young Edward cried, “Or wha gi’est o’er to me?” A gray-hair’d knight set up his head, And crackit right crousely:

“Of Scotland’s king I haud my house; He pays me meat and fee; And I will keep my gude auld house, While my house will keep me.”

They laid their sowies to the wall, With mony a heavy peal; But he threw o’er to them agen Baith pitch and tar barrel.

With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn, Amang them fast he threw; Till mony of the Englishmen About the wall he slew.

Full fifteen days that braid host lay, Sieging Auld Maitland keen; Syne they ha’e left him, hail and feir, Within his strength of stane.

Then fifteen barks, all gaily good, Met them upon a day, Which they did lade with as much spoil As they you’d bear away.

“England’s our ain by heritage; And what can us withstand, Now we ha’e conquer’d fair Scotland, With buckler, bow, and brand?”

Then they are on to the land of France, Where auld king Edward lay, Burning baith castle, tower, and town, That he met in his way.

Until he came unto that town, Which some call Billop-Grace: There were Auld Maitland’s sons, all three, Learning at school, alas!

The eldest to the youngest said, “Oh, see ye what I see? If all be true yon standard says, We’re fatherless all three.

“For Scotland’s conquer’d up and down; Landmen we’ll never be! Now, will you go, my brethren two, And try some jeopardy?”

Then they ha’e saddled twa black horse, Twa black horse and a gray; And they are on to king Edward’s host, Before the dawn of day.

When they arrived before the host, They hover’d on the lay: “Wilt thou lend me our king’s standard, To bear a little way?”

“Where wast thou bred? where wast thou born? Where, or in what countrie?” “In north of England I was born;” (It needed him to lee.)

“A knight me gat, a ladye bore, I am a squire of high renown; I well may bear’t to any king That ever yet wore crown.”

“He ne’er came of an Englishman, Had sic an e’e or bree; But thou art the likest Auld Maitland, That ever I did see.

“But sic a gloom on ae browhead, Grant I ne’er see again! For mony of our men he slew, And mony put to pain.”

When Maitland heard his father’s name, An angry man was he; Then, lifting up a gilt dagger, Hung low down by his knee,

He stabb’d the knight the standard bore, He stabb’d him cruellie; Then caught the standard by the neuk, And fast away rode he.

“Now, is’t na time, brothers,” he cried, “Now, is’t na time to flee?” “Ay, by my sooth!” they baith replied, “We’ll bear you companye.”

The youngest turn’d him in a path, And drew a burnish’d brand, And fifteen of the foremost slew, Till back the lave did stand.

He spurr’d the gray into the path, Till baith his sides they bled: “Gray! thou maun carry me away, Or my life lies in wad!”

The captain lookit o’er the wall, About the break of day; There he beheld the three Scots lads Pursued along the way.

“Pull up portcullize! down draw-brig! My nephews are at hand; And they shall lodge with me to-night, In spite of all England.”

Whene’er they came within the yate, They thrust their horse them frae, And took three lang spears in their hands, Saying—“Here shall come nae me!”

And they shot out, and they shot in, Till it was fairly day; When mony of the Englishmen About the draw-brig lay.

Then they ha’e yoked the carts and wains, To ca’ their dead away, And shot auld dykes abune the lave, In gutters where they lay.

The king, at his pavilion door, Was heard aloud to say: “Last night, three of the lads of France My standard stole away.

“With a fause tale, disguised they came, And with a fauser trayne; And to regain my gaye standard, These men where all down slayne.”

“It ill befits,” the youngest said, “A crownèd king to lee; But, or that I taste meat and drink, Reprovèd shall he be.”

He went before king Edward straight, And kneel’d low on his knee: “I wou’d ha’e leave, my lord,” he said, “To speak a word with thee.”

The king he turn’d him round about, And wistna what to say: Quo’ he, “Man, thou’s ha’e leave to speak, Though thou should speak all day.”

“Ye said that three young lads of France Your standard stole away, With a fause tale and fauser trayne, And mony men did slay;

“But we are nane the lads of France, Nor e’er pretend to be: We are three lads of fair Scotland,— Auld Maitland’s sons are we.

“Nor is there men in all your host Daur fight us three to three.” “Now, by my sooth,” young Edward said, “Weel fitted ye shall be!

“Piercy shall with the eldest fight, And Ethert Lunn with thee; William of Lancaster the third, And bring your fourth to me!

“Remember, Piercy, aft the Scot Has cower’d beneath thy hand; For every drap of Maitland blood, I’ll gi’e a rig of land.”

He clanked Piercy o’er the head A deep wound and a sair, Till the best blood of his body Came running down his hair.

“Now, I’ve slayne ane; slay ye the twa; And that’s gude companye; And if the twa shou’d slay ye baith, Ye’se get nae help frae me.”

But Ethert Lunn, a baited bear, Had many battles seen; He set the youngest wonder sair, Till the eldest he grew keen.

“I am nae king, nor nae sic thing: My word it shanna stand! For Ethert shall a buffet bide, Come he beneath my brand.”

He clankit Ethert o’er the head A deep wound and a sair, Till the best blood in his body Came running o’er his hair.

“Now, I’ve slayne twa; slay ye the ane; Isna that gude companye? And though the ane shou’d slay ye baith. Ye’se get nae help of me.”

The twa-some they ha’e slayne the ane, They maul’d him cruellie; Then hung him over the draw-brig, That all the host might see.

They rade their horse, they ran their horse, Then hover’d on the lee: “We be three lads of fair Scotland, That fain wou’d fighting see.”

This boasting when young Edward heard, An angry man was he: “I’ll take yon lad, I’ll bind yon lad, And bring him bound to thee!

“Now, God forbid,” king Edward said, “That ever thou shou’d try! Three worthy leaders we ha’e lost, And thou the forth wou’d lie.

“If thou shou’dst hang on yon draw-brig, Blythe wou’d I never be.” But, with the poll-axe in his hand, Upon the brig sprang be.

The first stroke that young Edward ga’e, He struck with might and main; He clove the Maitland’s helmet stout, And bit right nigh the brain.

When Maitland saw his ain blood fall, An angry man was he; He let his weapon frae him fall, And at his throat did flee.

And thrice about he did him swing, Till on the ground he light, Where he has halden young Edward, Tho’ he was great in might.

“Now let him up,” king Edward cried, “And let him come to me; And for the deed that thou hast done, Thou shalt ha’e earldomes three!”

“It’s ne’er be said in France, nor e’er In Scotland, when I’m hame, That Edward once lay under me, And e’er gat up again!”

He pierced him through and through the heart, He maul’d him cruellie; Then hung him o’er the draw-brig, Beside the other three.

“Now take frae me that feather-bed, Make me a bed of strae! I wish I hadna lived this day, To make my heart sae wae.

“If I were ance at London Tow’r, Where I was wont to be, I never mair shou’d gang frae hame, Till borne on a bier-tree.”

THE BROOMFIELD HILL

THERE was a knight and lady bright Set trysts amo the broom, The one to come at morning eav, The other at afternoon.

“I’ll wager a wager wi’ you,” he said, “An hundred marks and ten, That ye shall not go to Broomfield Hills, Return a maiden again.”

“I’ll wager a wager wi’ you,” she said, “A hundred pounds and ten, That I will gang to Broomfield Hills, A maiden return again.”

The lady stands in her bower door, And thus she made her mane: “Oh, shall I gang to Broomfield Hills, Or shall I stay at hame?

“If I do gang to Broomfield Hills A maid I’ll not return; But if I stay from Broomfield Hills, I’ll be a maid mis-sworn.”

Then out it speaks an auld witch wife, Sat in the bower aboon: “O ye shall gang to Broomfield Hills, Ye shall not stay at hame.

“But when ye gang to Broomfield Hills, Walk nine times round and round; Down below a bonny burn bank, Ye’ll find your love sleeping sound.

“Ye’ll pu the bloom frae off the broom, Strew’t at his head and feet, And aye the thicker that ye do strew, The sounder he will sleep.

“The broach that is on your napkin, Put it on his breast bane, To let him know, when he does wake, That’s true love’s come and gane.

“The rings that are on your fingers, Lay them down on a stane, To let him know, when he does wake, That’s true love’s come and gane.

“And when he hae your work all done, Ye’ll gang to a bush o’ broom, And then you’ll hear what he will say, When he sees ye are gane.”

When she came to Broomfield Hills, She walked it nine times round, And down below yon burn bank, She found him sleeping sound.

She pu’d the bloom frae off the broom, Strew’d it at ’s head and feet, And aye the thicker that she strewd, The sounder he did sleep.

The broach that was on her napkin, She put it on his breast-bane, To let him know, when he did wake, His love was come and gane.

The rings that were on her fingers, She laid upon a stane, To let him know, when he did wake, His love was come and gane.

Now when she had her work all dune, She went to a bush o’ broom, That she might hear what he did say, When he saw that she was gane.

“O where were ye my guid grey hound, That I paid for sae dear, Ye didna waken me frae my sleep When my true love was sae near?”

“I scraped wi’ my foot, master, Till a’ my collars rang, But still the mair that I did scrape, Waken woud ye nane.”

“Where were ye, my bony brown steed, That I paid for sae dear, That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep When my love was sae near?”

“I patted wi my foot, master, Till a’ my bridles rang, But the mair that I did patt, Waken woud ye nane.”

“O where were ye, my gay goss-hawk That I paid for sae dear, That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep When ye saw my love near?”

“I flapped wi my wings, master, Till a’ my bells they rang, But still, the mair that I did flap, Waken woud ye nane.”

“O where were ye, my merry young men That I pay meat and fee, That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep When my love ye did see?”

“Ye’ll sleep mair on the night, master, And wake mair on the day; Gae sooner down to Broomfield Hills When ye’ve sic pranks to play.

“If I had seen any armèd men Come riding over the hill— But I saw but a fair lady Come quietly you until.”

“O wae mat worth yow, my young men, That I pay meat and fee, That ye woudna waken me frae sleep When ye my love did see?

“O had I waked when she was nigh, And o her got my will, I shoudna cared upon the morn The sma birds o her were fill.”

When she went out, right bitter she wept, But singing came she hame; Says, “I hae been at Broomfield Hills, And maid returned again.”

WILLIE’S LADYE

WILLIE has ta’en him o’er the faem, He’s wooed a wife, and brought her hame; He’s wooed her for her yellow hair, But his mother wrought her meikle care;

And meikle dolour gar’d her dree, For lighter she can never be; But in her bow’r she sits with pain, And Willie mourns o’er her in vain.

And to his mother he has gane, That vile rank witch, of vilest kind! He says—“My lady has a cup, With gowd and silver set about; This gudely gift shall be your ain, And let her be lighter of her bairn.”

“Of her bairn she’s never be lighter, Nor in her bow’r to shine the brighter But she shall die, and turn to clay, And you shall wed another may.”

“Another may I’ll never wed, Another may I’ll never bring hame.” But, sighing, said that weary wight— “I wish my life were at an end.”

“Yet gae ye to your mother again, That vile rank witch, of vilest kind And say, your ladye has a steed, The like of him’s no in the land of Leed.

“For he is silver shod before, And he is gowden shod behind; At every tuft of that horse mane There’s a golden chess, and a bell to ring. This gudely gift shall be her ain, And let me be lighter of my bairn.”

“Of her young bairn she’s ne’er be lighter, Nor in her bow’r to shine the brighter; But she shall die, and turn to clay, And ye shall wed another may.”

“Another may I’ll never wed, Another may I’ll never bring hame.” But, sighing, said that weary wight— “I wish my life were at an end!”

“Yet gae ye to your mother again, That vile rank witch, of rankest kind! And say, your ladye has a girdle, It’s all red gowd to the middle;

“And aye, at ilka siller hem, Hang fifty siller bells and ten; This gudely gift shall be her ain, And let me be lighter of my bairn.”

“Of her young bairn she’s ne’er be lighter, Nor in your bow’r to shine the brighter; For she shall die, and turn to clay, And thou shall wed another may.”

“Another may I’ll never wed, Another may I’ll never bring hame.” But, sighing, said that weary wight— “I wish my days were at an end!”

Then out and spak the Billy Blind, He spak aye in good time [his mind]:— “Yet gae ye to the market place, And there do buy a loaf of wace; Do shape it bairn and bairnly like, And in it two glassen een you’ll put.

“Oh, wha has loosed the nine witch-knots That were amang that ladye’s locks? And wha’s ta’en out the kames of care, That were amang that ladye’s hair?

“And wha has ta’en down that bush of woodbine That hung between her bow’r and mine? And wha has kill’d the master kid That ran beneath that ladye’s bed? And wha has loosed her left foot shee, And let that ladye lighter be?”

Syne, Willie’s loosed the nine witch-knots That were amang that ladye’s locks; And Willie’s ta’en out the kames of care That were into that ladye’s hair; And he’s ta’en down the bush of woodbine, Hung atween her bow’r and the witch carline.

And he has killed the master kid That ran beneath that ladye’s bed; And he has loosed her left foot shee, And latten that ladye lighter be; And now he has gotten a bonnie son, And meikle grace be him upon.

ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK

IN somer when the shawes be sheyne, And leves be large and longe, Hit is full mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song.

To se the dere draw to the dale, And leve the hilles hee, And shadow hem in the leves grene, Vndur the grene-wode tre.

Hit befell on Whitsontide, Erly in a may mornyng, The son vp fayre can shyne, And the briddis mery can syng.

“This is a mery mornyng,” seid Litulle Johne, “Be hym that dyed on tre; A more mery man than I am one Lyves not in Cristianté.”

“Pluk vp thi hert, my dere mayster,” Litulle Johne can sey, “And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme In a mornynge of may.”

“Ze on thynge greves me,” seid Robyne, “And does my hert mych woo, That I may not so solem day To mas nor matyns goo.

“Hit is a fourtnet and more,” seyd hee, “Syn I my Sauyour see; To day will I to Notyngham,” seid Robyn, “With the myght of mylde Mary.”

Then spake Moche the mylner sune, Euer more wel hym betyde, “Take xii thi wyght zemen Well weppynd be thei side. Such on wolde thi selfe slon That xii dar not abyde.”

“Off alle my mery men,” seid Robyne, “Be my feithe I wil non haue; But Litulle Johne shall beyre my bow Til that me list to drawe.”

* * * * *

“Thou shalle beyre thin own,” seid Litulle Jon, “Maister, and I wil beyre myne, And we wille shete a peny,” seid Litulle Jon, “Vnder the grene wode lyne.”

“I wil not shete a peny,” seyde Robyn Hode, “In feith, Litulle Johne, with thee, But euer for on as thou shetes,” seid Robyn, “In feith I holde the thre.”

Thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too, Bothe at buske and brome, Til Litulle Johne wan of his maister V s. to hose and shone.

A ferly strife fel them betwene, As they went bi the way; Litull Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs, And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.

With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jone, And smote him with his honde; Litul John waxed wroth therwith, And pulled out his bright bronde.

“Were thou not my maister,” seid Litulle Johne, “Thou shuldis by hit ful sore; Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn, For thou getes me no more.”

Then Robyn goes to Notyngham, Hymselfe mornynge allone, And Litulle Johne to mery Scherewode, The pathes he knowe alkone.

Whan Robyn came to Notyngham, Sertenly withoutene layne, He prayed to God and myld Mary To brynge hym out saue agayne.

He gos into seynt Mary chirche, And knelyd downe before the rode; Alle that euer were the churche within Beheld wel Robyne Hode.