Chapter 3

For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised warres Within the realme of France.

But yet before our comelye king The English land forsooke, Of Rosamond, his lady faire, His farewelle thus he tooke:

"My Rosamonde, my only Rose, That pleasest best mine eye, The fairest flower in all the worlde To feed my fantasye,--

"The flower of mine affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excelle, My royal Rose, a thousand times I bid thee nowe farwelle!

"For I must leave my fairest flower, My sweetest Rose, a space, And cross the seas to famous France, Proud rebelles to abase.

"But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt My coming shortlye see, And in my heart, when hence I am, Ile beare my Rose with mee."

When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, Did heare the king saye soe, The sorrowe of her grieved heart Her outward lookes did showe.

And from her cleare and crystall eyes The teares gusht out apace, Which, like the silver-pearled dewe, Ranne downe her comely face.

Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, Did waxe both wan and pale, And for the sorrow she conceivde Her vitall spirits faile.

And falling downe all in a swoone Before King Henryes face, Full oft he in his princelye armes Her bodye did embrace.

And twentye times, with watery eyes, He kist her tender cheeke, Untill he had revivde againe Her senses milde and meeke.

"Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?" The king did often say: "Because," quoth shee, "to bloodye warres My lord must part awaye.

"But since your Grace on forrayne coastes, Amonge your foes unkinde, Must goe to hazard life and limbe, Why should I staye behinde?

"Nay, rather let me, like a page, Your sworde and target beare; That on my breast the blowes may lighte, Which would offend you there.

"Or lett mee, in your royal tent, Prepare your bed at nighte, And with sweete baths refresh your grace, At your returne from fighte.

"So I your presence may enjoye No toil I will refuse; But wanting you, my life is death: Nay, death Ild rather chuse."

"Content thy self, my dearest love, Thy rest at home shall bee, In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle; For travell fits not thee.

"Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; Soft peace their sexe delightes; Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; Gay feastes, not cruell fightes.

"My Rose shall safely here abide, With musicke passe the daye, Whilst I amonge the piercing pikes My foes seeke far awaye.

"My Rose shall shine in pearle and golde, Whilst Ime in armour dighte; Gay galliards here my love shall dance, Whilst I my foes goe fighte.

"And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste To bee my loves defence, Be carefull of my gallant Rose When I am parted hence."

And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, As though his heart would breake; And Rosamonde, for very griefe, Not one plaine word could speake.

And at their parting well they mighte In heart be grieved sore: After that daye, faire Rosamonde The king did see no more.

For when his Grace had past the seas, And into France was gone, With envious heart, Queene Ellinor To Woodstocke came anone.

And forth she calls this trustye knighte In an unhappy houre, Who, with his clue of twined-thread, Came from this famous bower.

And when that they had wounded him, The queene this thread did gette, And wente where Ladye Rosamonde Was like an angell sette.

But when the queene with stedfast eye Beheld her beauteous face, She was amazed in her minde At her exceeding grace.

"Cast off from thee those robes," she said, "That riche and costlye bee; And drinke thou up this deadlye draught Which I have brought to thee."

Then presentlye upon her knees Sweet Rosamonde did falle; And pardon of the queene she crav'd For her offences all.

"Take pitty on my youthfull yeares," Faire Rosamonde did crye; "And lett mee not with poison stronge Enforced bee to dye.

"I will renounce my sinfull life, And in some cloyster bide; Or else be banisht, if you please, To range the world soe wide.

"And for the fault which I have done, Though I was forc'd theretoe, Preserve my life, and punish mee As you thinke meet to doe."

And with these words, her lillie handes She wrunge full often there; And downe along her lovely face Did trickle many a teare.

But nothing could this furious queene Therewith appeased bee; The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, As she knelt on her knee,

She gave this comelye dame to drinke; Who tooke it in her hand, And from her bended knee arose, And on her feet did stand,

And casting up her eyes to heaven, Shee did for mercye calle; And drinking up the poison stronge, Her life she lost withalle.

And when that death through everye limbe Had showde its greatest spite, Her chiefest foes did plain confesse Shee was a glorious wight.

Her body then they did entomb, When life was fled away, At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, As may be seene this day.

Phillida and Corydon

In the merrie moneth of Maye, In a morne by break of daye, With a troope of damselles playing Forthe 'I yode' forsooth a maying;

When anon by a wood side, Where that Maye was in his pride, I espied all alone Phillida and Corydon.

Much adoe there was, God wot: He wold love, and she wold not. She sayde, "Never man was trewe;" He sayes, "None was false to you."

He sayde, hee had lovde her longe; She sayes, love should have no wronge. Corydon wold kisse her then; She sayes, "Maydes must kisse no men,

"Tyll they doe for good and all." When she made the shepperde call All the heavens to wytnes truthe, Never loved a truer youthe.

Then with manie a prettie othe, Yea and nay, and faithe and trothe, Suche as seelie shepperdes use When they will not love abuse,

Love, that had bene long deluded, Was with kisses sweete concluded; And Phillida with garlands gaye Was made the lady of the Maye.

Fair Margaret and Sweet William

As it fell out on a long summer's day, Two lovers they sat on a hill; They sat together that long summer's day, And could not talk their fill.

"I see no harm by you, Margaret, And you see none by mee; Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock A rich wedding you shall see."

Fair Margaret sat in her bower-wind w, Combing her yellow hair; There she spyed sweet William and his bride, As they were a riding near.

Then down she layd her ivory combe, And braided her hair in twain: She went alive out of her bower, But ne'er came alive in't again.

When day was gone, and night was come, And all men fast asleep, Then came the spirit of Fair Marg'ret, And stood at William's feet.

"Are you awake, sweet William?" shee said, "Or, sweet William, are you asleep? God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, And me of my winding sheet."

When day was come, and night was gone, And all men wak'd from sleep, Sweet William to his lady sayd, "My dear, I have cause to weep.

"I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, Such dreames are never good: I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,' And my bride-bed full of blood."

"Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, They never do prove good; To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,' And thy bride-bed full of blood."

He called up his merry men all, By one, by two, and by three; Saying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower, By the leave of my ladie."

And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower, He knocked at the ring; And who so ready as her seven brethren To let sweet William in.

Then he turned up the covering-sheet; "Pray let me see the dead; Methinks she looks all pale and wan. She hath lost her cherry red.

"I'll do more for thee, Margaret, Than any of thy kin: For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, Though a smile I cannot win."

With that bespake the seven brethren, Making most piteous mone, "You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, And let our sister alone."

"If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, I do but what is right; I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, By day, nor yet by night.

"Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, Deal on your cake and your wine: For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine."

Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, Sweet William dyed the morrow: Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love, Sweet William dyed for sorrow.

Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, And William in the higher: Out of her brest there sprang a rose, And out of his a briar.

They grew till they grew unto the church top, And then they could grow no higher; And there they tyed in a true lover's knot, Which made all the people admire.

Then came the clerk of the parish, As you the truth shall hear, And by misfortune cut them down, Or they had now been there.

Annan Water

"Annan Water's wading deep, And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; I will keep my tryst to-night, And win the heart o' lovely Annie."

He's loupen on his bonny grey, He rade the right gate and the ready', For a' the storm he wadna stay, For seeking o' his bonny lady.

And he has ridden o'er field and fell, Through muir and moss, and stones and mire; His spurs o' steel were sair to bide, And frae her four feet flew the fire.

"My bonny grey, noo play your part! Gin ye be the steed that wins my dearie, Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, And never spur sail mak' you wearie."

The grey was a mare, and a right gude mare: But when she wan the Annan Water, She couldna hae found the ford that night Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.

"O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, Put off your boat for gouden money!" But for a' the goud in fair Scotland, He dared na tak' him through to Annie.

"O I was sworn sae late yestreen, Not by a single aith, but mony. I'll cross the drumly stream to-night, Or never could I face my honey."

The side was stey, and the bottom deep, Frae bank to brae the water pouring; The bonny grey mare she swat for fear, For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.

He spurred her forth into the flood, I wot she swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, her strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny lady.

O wae betide the frush saugh wand! And wae betide the bush of brier! That bent and brake into his hand, When strength of man and horse did tire.

And wae betide ye, Annan Water! This night ye are a drumly river; But over thee we'll build a brig, That ye nae mair true love may sever.

The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington

There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, And he was a squire's son; He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coye, and would not believe That he did love her soe, Noe nor at any time would she Any countenance to him showe.

But when his friendes did understand His fond and foolish minde, They sent him up to faire London, An apprentice for to binde.

And when he had been seven long yeares, And never his love could see,-- "Many a teare have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of mee."

Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and playe, All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; She secretly stole awaye.

She pulled off her gowne of greene, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would go Her true love to enquire.

And as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and drye, She sat her downe upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour soe redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine; "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, "Will ease me of much paine."

"Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Praye tell me where you were borne." "At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, "Where I have had many a scorne."

"I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, O tell me, whether you knowe The bayliffes daughter of Islington." "She is dead, sir, long agoe."

"If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will into some farr countrye, Where noe man shall me knowe."

"O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, She standeth by thy side; She is here alive, she is not dead, And readye to be thy bride."

"O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, Ten thousand times therefore; For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, Whom I thought I should never see more."

Barbara Allen's Cruelty

All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swelling, Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay For love o' Barbara Allen.

He sent his man unto her then, To the town where she was dwelling: "O haste and come to my master dear, If your name be Barbara Allen."

Slowly, slowly rase she up, And she cam' where he was lying; And when she drew the curtain by, Says, "Young man, I think you're dying."

"O it's I am sick, and very, very sick, And it's a' for Barbara Allen." "O the better for me ye'se never be, Tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling!

"O dinna ye min', young man," she says, "When the red wine ye were filling, That ye made the healths gae round and round And ye slighted Barbara Allen?"

He turn'd his face unto the wa', And death was wi' him dealing: "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'; Be kind to Barbara Allen."

As she was walking o'er the fields, She heard the dead-bell knelling;

And every jow the dead-bell gave, It cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!"

"O mother, mother, mak' my bed, To lay me down in sorrow. My love has died for me to-day, I'll die for him to-morrow."

The Douglas Tragedy

"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, "And put on your armour so bright; Sweet William will hae Lady Margaret awi' Before that it be light.

"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, And put on your armour so bright, And take better care of your youngest sister, For your eldest's awa' the last night."

He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a buglet horn hung down by his side And lightly they rode away.

Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, To see what he could see, And there he spied her seven brethren bold Come riding o'er the lea.

"Light down, light down, Lady Margaret," he said, "And hold my steed in your hand, Until that against your seven brethren bold, And your father I make a stand."

She held his steed in her milk-white hand, And never shed one tear, Until that she saw her seven brethren fa' And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.

"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, "For your strokes they are wondrous sair; True lovers I can get many a ane, But a father I can never get mair."

O, she's ta'en out her handkerchief, It was o' the holland sae fine, And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, That were redder than the wine.

"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margaret," he said, "O whether will ye gang or bide?" "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, "For you have left me nae other guide."

He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a buglet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they baith rade away.

O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they came to yon wan water, And there they lighted down.

They lighted down to tak a drink Of the spring that ran sae clear; And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, And sair she 'gan to fear.

"Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, "For I fear that you are slain!" "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, That shines in the water sae plain."

O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they came to his mother's ha' door, And there they lighted down.

"Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "Get up, and let me in! Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "For this night my fair lady I've win.

"O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, "O mak it braid and deep! And lay Lady Margaret close at my back, And the sounder I will sleep."

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, Lady Margaret lang ere day: And all true lovers that go thegither, May they have mair luck than they!

Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk, Lady Margaret in Marie's quire; Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And out o' the knight's a brier.

And they twa met, and they twa plat And fain they wad be near; And a' the world might ken right weel, They were twa lovers dear.

But bye and rade the black Douglas And wow but he was rough! For he pulled up the bonny brier, And flanged in St. Marie's Loch.

Young Waters

About Yule, when the wind blew cool; And the round tables began, A' there is come to our king's court Mony a well-favoured man.

The queen looked o'er the castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down, And then she saw young Waters Come riding to the town.

His footmen they did rin before, His horsemen rade behind; Ane mantle of the burning gowd Did keep him frae the wind.

Gowden graith'd[FN#1] his horse before, And siller shod behind; The horse young Waters rade upon Was fleeter than the wind.

[FN#1] Graitih'd, girthed.

Out then spake a wily lord, Unto the queen said he: "O tell me wha's the fairest face Rides in the company?"

"I've seen lord, and I've seen laird, And knights of high degree, But a fairer face than young Waters Mine eyen did never see."

Out then spake the jealous king And an angry man was he: "O if he had been twice as fair, You might have excepted me."

"You're neither laird nor lord," she says, "But the king that wears the crown; There is not a knight in fair Scotland, But to thee maun bow down."

For a' that she could do or say, Appeased he wad nae be; But for the words which she had said, Young Waters he maun dee.

They hae ta'en young Waters, And put fetters to his feet; They hae ta'en young Waters, And thrown him in dungeon deep.

"Aft I have ridden thro' Stirling town, In the wind but and the weet; But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town Wi' fetters at my feet.

"Aft have I ridden thro' Stirling town, In the wind but and the rain; But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town Ne'er to return again."

They hae ta'en to the heading-hill His young son in his cradle; And they hae ta'en to the heading-hill His horse but and his saddle.

They hae ta'en to the heading-hill His lady fair to see; And for the words the queen had spoke Young Waters he did dee.

Flodden Field

King Jamie hath made a vow, Keepe it well if he may: That he will be at lovely London Upon Saint James his day.

Upon Saint James his day at noone, At faire London will I be, And all the lords in merrie Scotland, They shall dine there with me.

"March out, march out, my merry men, Of hie or low degree; I'le weare the crowne in London towne, And that you soon shall be."

Then bespake good Queene Margaret, The teares fell from her eye: "Leave off these warres, most noble King, Keepe your fidelitie.

"The water runnes swift, and wondrous deepe, From bottome unto the brimme; My brother Henry hath men good enough; England is hard to winne."

"Away" quoth he "with this silly foole! In prison fast let her lie: For she is come of the English bloud, And for these words she shall dye."

With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard, The Queenes chamberlaine that day: "If that you put Queene Margaret to death, Scotland shall rue it alway."

Then in a rage King Jamie did say, "Away with this foolish mome; He shall be hanged, and the other be burned, So soone as I come home."

At Flodden Field the Scots came in, Which made our English men faine; At Bramstone Greene this battaile was seene, There was King Jamie slaine.

His bodie never could be found, When he was over throwne, And he that wore faire Scotland's crowne That day could not be knowne.

Then presently the Scot did flie, Their cannons they left behind; Their ensignes gay were won all away, Our souldiers did beate them blinde.

To tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine, That to the fight did stand, And many prisoners tooke that day, The best in all Scotland.

That day made many [a] fatherlesse child, And many a widow poore, And many a Scottish gay lady Sate weeping in her bower.

Jack with a feather was lapt all in leather, His boastings were all in vaine; He had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance He never went home againe.

This was written to adapt the ballad to the seventeenth century.

Now heaven we laude that never more Such biding shall come to hand; Our King, by othe, is King of both England and faire Scotland.

Helen of Kirkconnell

I wad I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me!

O think na but my heart was sair When my Love dropt and spak nae mair! I laid her down wi' meikle care, On fair Kirkconnell lea.

As I went down the water side, Nane but my foe to be my guide, Nane but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I lighted down my sword to draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll make a garland of thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee!

O that I were where Helen lies Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I were blest, Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wad my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wad I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries, And I am weary of the skies, Since my Love died for me.

Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale

Come listen to me, you gallants so free, All you that love mirth for to hear, And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, That lived in Nottinghamshire.