Chapter 6

"I'll read your dream, sister," he says, "I'll read it into sorrow; Ye're bidden go take up your love, He's sleeping sound on Yarrow."

She's torn the ribbons frae her head That were baith braid and narrow; She's kilted up her lang claithing, And she's awa' to Yarrow.

She's ta'en him in her arms twa, And gi'en him kisses thorough; She sought to bind his mony wounds, But he lay dead on Yarrow.

"O haud your tongue," her father says, "And let be a' your sorrow; I'll wed you to a better lord Than him ye lost on Yarrow."

"O haud your tongue, father," she says, "Far warse ye mak' my sorrow; A better lord could never be Than him that lies on Yarrow."

She kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair, As aft she had dune before, O; And there wi' grief her heart did break, Upon the banks o' Yarrow.

Hugh of Lincoln

SHOWING THE CRUELTY OF A JEW'S DAUGHTER

Four and twenty bonny boys Were playing at the ba', And up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh, The flower among them a'.

He kicked the ba' there wi' his foot, And keppit it wi' his knee, Till even in at the Jew's window He gart the bonny ba' flee.

"Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, Cast out the ba' to me." "Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter, Till ye come up to me."

"Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, Come up and get the ba'." "I winna come, I mayna come, Without my bonny boys a'."

She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden, Where the grass grew lang and green, She's pu'd an apple red and white, To wyle the bonny boy in.

She's wyled him in through ae chamber, She's wyled him in through twa, She's wyled him into the third chamber, And that was the warst o' a'.

She's tied the little boy, hands and feet, She's pierced him wi' a knife, She's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup, And twinn'd him o' his life.

She row'd him in a cake o' lead, Bade him lie still and sleep, She cast him in a deep draw-well Was fifty fathom deep.

When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And every bairn went hame, Then ilka lady had her young son, But Lady Helen had nane.

She row'd her mantle her about, And sair, sair 'gan she weep; And she ran unto the Jew's house, When they were all asleep.

"My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh, I pray thee to me speak!" "Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-well 'Gin ye your son wad seek."

Lady Helen ran to the deep draw-well, And knelt upon her knee: "My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here, I pray thee speak to me!"

"The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, The well is wondrous deep; A keen penknife sticks in my heart, It is hard for me to speak.

"Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, Fetch me my winding-sheet; And at the back o' merry Lincoln, It's there we twa sall meet."

Now Lady Helen she's gane hame, Made him a winding-sheet; And at the back o' merry Lincoln, The dead corpse did her meet.

And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln Without men's hands were rung; And a' the books o' merry Lincoln Were read without men's tongue: Never was such a burial Sin' Adam's days begun.

Sir Patrick Spens

The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, To sail this new ship of mine?"

O up and spak' an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee, "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, That ever sailed the sea."

Our king has written a braid letter, And seated it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway 'Tis thou maun bring her hame."

The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his ee.

"O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea?

"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame."

They hoysed their sails an Moneday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway, Upon a Wednesday.

They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say:

"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, And a' our queen's fee." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lie;

"For I brought as much white monie, As gane my men and me, And I brought a half-fou of gude red goud, Out o'er the sea wi' me.

"Make ready, make ready, my merry men a', Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm!

"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the old moon in her arm; And, if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm."

They hadna sailed 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 ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn.

"O where will I get a gude sail'r, To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall top-mast, To see if I can spy land?"

"O here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall top-mast; But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it cam in.

"Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in."

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea cam in.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang or a' the play was played, They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather bed, That flattered on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son, That never mair cam hame.

The ladies wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves For them they'll see nae mair.

O lang, lang, may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, With their goud kaims in their hair A' waiting for their ain dear loves, For them they'll see nae mair!

O forty miles off Aberdeen, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.