Chapter 4
There was a knicht riding frae the east, _Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree_. Who had been wooing at monie a place, _As the dew flies ower the mulberry tree_.
He cam' unto a widow's door, And speird whare her three dochters were.
The auldest ane's to a washing gane, The second's to a baking gane.
The youngest ane's to a wedding gane, And it will be nicht or she be hame.
He sat him doun upon a stane, Till thir three lasses cam' tripping hame.
The auldest ane she let him in, And pin'd the door wi' a siller pin.
The second ane she made his bed, And laid saft pillows unto his head.
The youngest ane was bauld and bricht, And she tarried for words wi' this unco knicht.
"Gin ye will answer me questions ten, The morn ye sall be made my ain.
"O what is heigher nor the tree? And what is deeper nor the sea?
"Or what is heavier nor the lead? And what is better nor the breid?
"O what is whiter nor the milk? Or what is safter nor the silk?
"Or what is sharper nor a thorn? Or what is louder nor a horn?
"Or what is greener nor the grass? Or what is waur nor a woman was?"
"O heaven is higher nor the tree, And hell is deeper nor the sea.
"O sin is heavier nor the lead, The blessing's better nor the breid.
"The snaw is whiter nor the milk, And the down is safter nor the silk.
"Hunger is sharper nor a thorn, And shame is louder nor a horn.
"The pies are greener nor the grass, And Clootie's waur nor a woman was."
As sune as she the fiend did name, _Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree_, He flew awa in a blazing flame, _As the dew files ower the mulberry tree_.
* * * * *
BALLADS OF TRADITION.
SIR PATRICK SPENS.
The King sits in Dunfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O whaur shall I get a skeely skipper, To sail this gude ship of mine?"
Then up an' spake an eldern knight, Sat at the King's right knee; "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea."
The King has written a braid letter, And seal'd it wi' his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens Was walking on the sand.
"To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The King's daughter to Noroway, It's thou maun tak' her hame."
The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud laugh laughed he, The neist line that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e.
"O wha is this hae dune this deed, And tauld the King o' me, To send us out at this time o' the year To sail upon the sea?
"Be it wind or weet, be it hail or sleet, Our ship maun sail the faem, The King's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis we maun tak' her hame."
They hoisted their sails on Monday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; And they hae landed in Noroway Upon the Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say--
"Ye Scotsmen spend a' our King's gowd, And a' our Queenis fee." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, Sae loud's I hear ye lie!
"For I brouct as mickle white monie, As gane my men and me, And a half-fou o' the gude red gold, Out owre the sea wi' me.
"Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a', Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now ever alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm.
"I saw the new moon late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And I fear, I fear, my master dear, That we sall come to harm!"
They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.
The ropes they brak, and the top-masts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam' o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn.
"O whaur will I get a gude sailor Will tak' the helm in hand, Until I win to the tall top-mast, And see if I spy the land?"
"It's here am I, a sailor gude, Will tak' the helm in hand, Till ye win to the tall top-mast, But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bolt flew out of the gude ship's side, And the saut sea it cam' in.
"Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And wap them into the gude ship's side, And let na the sea come in."
They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And they wapp'd them into that gude ship's side, But aye the sea cam' in.
O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To weet their cock-heeled shoon, But lang ere a' the play was o'er They wat their hats abune.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their milk-white hands, But lang ere a' the play was played They wat their gouden bands.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Or ever they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the maidens sit, Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves, For them they'll see nae mair.
Half owre, half owre to Aberdour, It's fifty fathom deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
* * * * *
THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURNE.
It fell about the Lammas tide, When muirmen win their hay, That the doughty Earl of Douglas rade Into England to fetch a prey.
And he has ta'en the Lindsays light, With them the Gordons gay; But the Jardines wad not with him ride, And they rue it to this day.
Then they hae harried the dales o' Tyne, And half o' Bambrough-shire, And the Otter-dale they burned it haill, And set it a' on fire.
Then he cam' up to New Castel, And rade it round about: "O who is the lord of this castel, Or who is the lady o't?"
But up and spake Lord Percy then, And O but he spake hie: "It's I am the lord of this castel, My wife is the lady gay."
"If thou'rt the lord of this castel, Sae weel it pleases me! For ere I cross the Border fell, The tane of us shall dee."--
He took a lang spear in his hand, Shod with the metal free; And forth to meet the Douglas then, He rade richt furiouslie.
But O how pale his lady looked Frae aff the castle wa', As doun before the Scottish spear She saw proud Percy fa'!
"Had we twa been upon the green, And never an eye to see, I wad hae had you, flesh and fell, But your sword shall gae wi' me."
"Now gae up to the Otterburne, And bide there dayis three, And gin I come not ere they end, A fause knight ca' ye me!"
"The Otterburne is a bonnie burn, 'Tis pleasant there to be; But there is nought at Otterburne To feed my men and me.
"The deer rins wild on hill and dale, The birds fly wild frae tree to tree; But there is neither bread nor kale, To fend my men and me.
"Yet I will stay at the Otterburne, Where you shall welcome be; And, if ye come not at three dayis end, A fause lord I'll ca' thee."
"Thither will I come," Earl Percy said, By the might of our Ladye!" "There will I bide thee," said the Douglas, "My troth I plight to thee!"
They lichted high on Otterburne, Upon the bent sae broun; They lichted high on Otterburne, And pitched their pallions doun.
And he that had a bonnie boy, He sent his horse to grass; And he that had not a bonnie boy, His ain servant he was.
Then up and spake a little boy, Was near of Douglas' kin-- "Methinks I see an English host Come branking us upon!
"Nine wargangs beiring braid and wide, Seven banners beiring high; It wad do any living gude, To see their colours fly!"
"If this be true, my little boy, That thou tells unto me, The brawest bower o' the Otterburne Sall be thy morning fee.
"But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, Ayont the Isle o' Skye,-- I saw a deid man win a fight, And I think that man was I."
He belted on his gude braid-sword, And to the field he ran; But he forgot the hewmont strong, That should have kept his brain.
When Percy wi' the Douglas met, I wot he was fu' fain: They swakkit swords, and they twa swat, Till the blude ran down like rain.
But Percy wi' his gude braid-sword, That could sae sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, That he fell to the ground.
And then he called his little foot-page, And said--"Run speedilie, And fetch my ae dear sister's son, Sir Hugh Montgomerie.
"My nephew gude!" the Douglas said, "What recks the death of ane? Last night I dreamed a dreary dream, And ken the day's thy ain!
"My wound is deep; I fain wad sleep! Tak' thou the vanguard o' the three, And bury me by the bracken bush, That grows on yonder lily lea.
"O bury me by the bracken bush, Beneath the blumin' brier; Let never living mortal ken That a kindly Scot lies here!"
He lifted up that noble lord, Wi' the saut tear in his e'e; And he hid him by the bracken bush, That his merry men might not see.
The moon was clear, the day drew near, The spears in flinders flew; And many a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew.
The Gordons gay, in English blude They wat their hose and shoon; The Lindsays flew like fire about, Till a' the fray was dune.
The Percy and Montgomery met, That either of other was fain; They swakkit swords, and sair they swat, And the blude ran down between.
"Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy!" he said, Or else I will lay thee low!" "To whom maun I yield," Earl Percy said, "Since I see that it maun be so?"
"Thou shalt not yield to lord or loun, Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; But yield thee to the bracken-bush That grows on yonder lily lea!"
This deed was done at the Otterburne About the breaking o' the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the bracken bush, And the Percy led captive away.
* * * * *
THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT.
THE FIRST FIT.
The Persè owt off Northombarlande, And a vowe to God mayd he, That he wold hunte in the mountayns Off Chyviat within days thre, In the mauger of doughtè Dogles, And all that ever with him be.
The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat He sayd he wold kill, and cary them away: "Be my feth," sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn, "I wyll let that hontyng, yf that I may."
Then the Persè owt of Banborowe cam, With him a myghtye meany; With fifteen hondrith archares bold; The wear chosen owt of shyars thre.
This begane on a monday at morn, In Cheviat the hillys so he; The chyld may rue that ys un-born, It was the mor pittè.
The dryvars thorowe the woodès went, For to reas the dear; Bomen byckarte uppone the bent With ther browd aras cleare.
Then the wyld thorowe the woodès went, On every sydè shear; Grea-hondes thorowe the grevis glent, For to kyll thear dear.
The begane in Chyviat the hyls above, Yerly on a monnynday; Be that it drewe to the oware off none, A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.
The blewe a mort uppone the bent, The semblyd on sydis shear; To the quyrry then the Persè went To se the bryttlynge off the deare.
He sayd, "It was the Duglas promys This day to meet me hear; But I wyste he wold faylle, verament:" A gret oth the Persè swear.
At the laste a squyar of Northombelonde Lokyde at his hand full ny; He was war ath the doughetie Doglas comynge, With him a myghtè meany;
Both with spear, byll, and brande; Yt was a myghti sight to se; Hardyar men both off hart nar hande Wear not in Christiantè.
The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good, Withowtè any fayle; The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, Yth bowndes of Tividale.
"Leave off the brytlyng of the dear," he sayde, "And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed; For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne Had ye never so mickle need."
The dougheti Dogglas on a stede He rode aft his men beforne; His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede; A bolder barne was never born.
"Tell me what men ye ar," he says, "Or whos men that ye be: Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays, In the spyt of me?"
The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, Yt was the good lord Persè: We wyll not tell the what men we ar," he says, "Nor whos men that we be; But we wyll hount hear in this chays, In the spyt of thyne and of the.
"The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat We have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way: "Be my troth," sayd the doughtè Dogglas agayn, "Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day."
Then sayd the doughtè Doglas Unto the lord Persè: "To kyll all thes giltles men, Alas, it were great pitte!
"But, Persè, thowe art a lord of lande, I am a yerle callyd within my contrè; Let all our men uppone a parti stande, And do the battell off the and of me."
"Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne," sayd the lord Persè, "Whosoever ther-to says nay; Be my troth, doughtè Doglas," he says, "Thow shalt never se that day.
"Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, Nor for no man of a woman born, But, and fortune be my chance, I dar met him, on man for on."
Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, Richard Wytharynton was him nam; "It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde," he says, "To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.
"I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, I am a poor squyar of lande; I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, And stande myselffe, and looke on, But whyll I may my weppone welde, I wyll not ffayll both hart and hande."
That day, that day, that dredfull day! The first fit here I fynde; And youe wyll here any mor a' the hountyng a' the Chyviat, Yet ys ther mor behynd.
THE SECOND FIT.
The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, Ther hartes were good yenoughe; The first off arros that the shote off, Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.
Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, A captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.
The Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre, Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde, With suar speares off myghttè tre, The cum in on every syde:
Thrughe our Yngglishe archery Gave many a wounde full wyde; Many a doughete the garde to dy, Which ganyde them no pryde.
The Yngglyshe men let thear bowys be, And pulde owt brandes that wer bright; It was a hevy syght to se Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.
Throrowe ryche male and myneyeple, Many sterne the stroke downe streght; Many a freyke, that was full fre, Ther undar foot dyd lyght.
At last the Duglas and the Persè met, Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; The swapte togethar tyll the both swat, With swordes that wear of fyn myllàn,
Thes worthè freckys for to fyght, Ther-to the wear full fayne, Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, As ever dyd heal or rayne.
"Holde the, Persè," sayd the Doglas, "And i' feth I shall the brynge Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis Of Jamy our Scottish kynge.
"Thoue shalte have thy ranson fre, I hight the hear this thinge, For the manfullyste man yet art thowe, That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng."
"Nay," sayd the lord Persè, "I tolde it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be To no man of woman born."
With that ther cam an arrowe hastely Forthe off a myghtte wane; Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas In at the brest bane.
Thoroue lyvar and longs bathe The sharp arrowe ys gane, That never after in all his lyffe-days, He spayke mo wordes but ane: That was, "Fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may, For my lyff-days ben gan."
The Persè leanyde on his brande, And sawe the Duglas de; He tooke the dede man be the hande, And sayd, "Wo ys me for the!
"To have savyde thy lyffe I wolde have pertyde with My landes for years thre, For a better man, of hart nare of hande, Was not in all the north contrè."
Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry; He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght, He spendyd a spear, a trust! tre:--
He rod uppon a corsiare Throughe a hondrith archery: He never styntyde, nar never blane, Tyll he cam to the good lord Persè.
He set uppone the lord Persè A dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghttè tre Clean thorow the body he the Persè bore,
A' the tother syde that a man myght se A large cloth yard and mare: Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Christiantè, Then that day slain wear ther.
An archar off Northomberlonde Say slean was the lord Persè; He bar a bende-bowe in his hande, Was made off trusti tre.
An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, To th' hard stele halyde he; A dynt that was both sad and soar, He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry.
The dynt yt was both sad and sar, That he on Mongonberry sete; The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar, With his hart-blood the wear wete.
Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, But still in stour dyd stand, Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre, With many a balful brande.
This battell begane in Chyviat An owar befor the none, And when even-song bell was rang, The battell was nat half done.
The tooke on ethar hand Be the lyght off the mone; Many hade no strenght for to stande, In Chyviat the hillys aboun.
Of fifteen hondrith archars of Yonglonde Went away but fifti and thre; Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, But even five and fifti:
But all wear slayne Cheviat within; The hade no strengthe to stand on hie; The chylde may rue that ys unborne, It was the mor pittè.
Thear was slayne with the lord Persè Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly, Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.
Sir Jorg the worthè Lovele, A knyght of great renowen, Sir Raff the ryche Rugbè, With dyntes wear beaten dowene.
For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, That ever he slayne shulde be; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, Yet he knyled and fought on hys kne.
Ther was slayne with the dougheti Douglas, Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry, Sir Davye Lwdale, that worthè was, His sistars son was he:
His Charls a Murrè in that place, That never a foot wolde fle; Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was, With the Duglas dyd he dey.
So on the morrowe the mayde them byears Off birch and hasell so gray; Many wedous with wepyng tears Cam to fach ther makys away.
Tivydale may carpe off care, Northombarlond may mayk grat mon, For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear, On the march perti shall never be non.
Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches, He lay slean Chyviot with-in.
His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, He sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me! "Such an othar captayn Skotland within," He sayd, "y-feth shall never be."
Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, Till the fourth Harry our kyng, That lord Persè, lyffe-tennante of the Merchis, He lay slayne Chyviat within.
"God have merci on his soil," sayd kyng Harry, "Good lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd, "As good as ever was hee: But Persè, and I brook my lyffe, Thy deth well quyte shall be."
As our noble kyng mayd his a-vowe, Lyke a noble prince of renowen, For the deth of the lord Persè He dyde the battell of Hombyll-down:
Wher syx and thrittè Skottishe knyghtes On a day wear beaten down; Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, Over castill, towar, and town.
This was the Hontynge off the Cheviat; That tear begane this spurn: Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe, Call it the Battell of Otterburn.
At Otterburn began this spurne Uppon a monnynday: Ther was the dougghtè Doglas slean, The Persè never went away.
Ther was never a tym on the March partes Sen the Doglas and the Persè met, But yt was marvele, and the redde blude ronne not, As the reane doys in the stret.
Jhesue Christ our balys bete, And to the blys us brynge! Thus was the Hountynge of the Chevyat: God send us all good endyng.
* * * * *
EDOM O' GORDON.
It fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and cauld, Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, "We maun draw to a hauld.
"And whatna hauld sall we draw to, My merry men and me? We will gae to the house o' the Rodes, To see that fair ladie."
The ladie stude on her castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down, There she was ware of a host of men Were riding towards the town.
"O see ye not, my merry men a', O see ye not what I see? Methinks I see a host of men-- I marvel what they be."
She ween'd it had been ner ain dear lord As he cam' riding hame; It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon, Wha recked nor sin nor shame.
She had nae suner buskit hersell, Nor putten on her goun, Till Edom o' Gordon and his men Were round about the toun.
They had nae suner supper set, Nor suner said the grace, Till Edom o' Gordon and his men Were light about the place.
The ladie ran to her tower head, As fast as she could hie, To see if, by her fair speeches, She could with him agree.
"Come doun to me, ye ladye gay, Come doun, come doun to me; This nicht sall ye lie within my arms, The morn my bride sall be."
"I winna come doun, ye fause Gordon, I winna come doun to thee; I winna forsake my ain dear lord, That is sae far frae me."
"Gie owre your house, ye ladie fair, Gie owre your house to me; Or I sail burn yoursell therein, But and your babies three."
"I winna gie owre, ye false Gordon, To nae sic traitor as thee; And if ye burn my ain dear babes, My lord sall mak' ye dree!
"But reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, And charge ye weel my gun; For, but an I pierce that bludy butcher, We a' sall be undone."
She stude upon the castle wa', And let twa bullets flee; She miss'd that bludy butcher's heart, And only razed his knee.
"Set fire to the house!" quo' the false Gordon, All wude wi' dule and ire; "False ladie! ye sail rue that shot, As ye burn in the fire."
"Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye weel your fee; Why pu' ye out the grund-wa-stane, Lets in the reek to me?
"And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye weel your hire; Why pu' ye out my grund-wa-stane, To me lets in the fire?"
"Ye paid me weel my hire, lady, Ye paid me weel my fee; But now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man, Maun either do or die."
O then bespake her youngest son, Sat on the nourice' knee; Says, "Mither dear, gie owre this house, For the reek it smothers me."
"I wad gie a' my gowd, my bairn, Sae wad I a' my fee, For ae blast o' the westlin' wind, To blaw the reek frae thee!"
O then bespake her daughter dear-- She was baith jimp and sma'-- "O row me in a pair o' sheets, And tow me owre the wa'."
They rowed her in a pair o' sheets, And towed her owre the wa'; But on the point o' Gordon's spear She gat a deadly fa'.
O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, And cherry were her cheeks; And clear, clear was her yellow hair, Whereon the red blude dreeps.
Then wi' his spear he turned her owre, O gin her face was wan! He said, "You are the first that e'er I wish'd alive again."
He turned her owre and owre again, O gin her skin was white! "I might hae spared that bonnie face, To hae been some man's delight.
"Busk and boun, my merry men a', For ill dooms I do guess; I canna look on that bonnie face, As it lies on the grass!"
"Wha looks to freits, my master deir, It's freits will follow them; Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon Was dauntit by a dame."
But when the lady saw the fire Come flaming owre her head, She wept, and kiss'd her children twain, Says, "Bairns, we been but dead."
The Gordon then his bugle blew, And said, "Awa', awa'; The house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame, I hold it time to ga'."
O then bespied her ain dear lord, As he came owre the lee; He saw his castle all in a lowe, Sae far as he could see.
"Put on, put on, my wichty men, As fast as ye can dri'e; For he that is hindmost of the thrang, Shall ne'er get gude o' me!"
Then some they rade, and some they ran, Fu' fast out-owre the bent; But ere the foremost could win up, Baith lady and babes were brent.
He wrang his hands, he rent his hair, And wept in teenfu' mood; "Ah, traitors! for this cruel deed, Ye shall weep tears of blude."