Part 5

6 ‘To the hunting, ho!’ cried Parcy Reed, ‘The morning sun is on the dew; The cauler breeze frae off the fells Will lead the dogs to the quarry true.

7 ‘To the hunting, ho!’ cried Parcy Reed, And to the hunting he has gane; And the three fause Ha’s o Girsonsfield Alang wi him he has them taen.

8 They hunted high, they hunted low, By heathery hill and birken shaw; They raised a buck on Rooken Edge, And blew the mort at fair Ealylawe.

9 They hunted high, they hunted low, They made the echoes ring amain; With music sweet o horn and hound, They merry made fair Redesdale glen.

10 They hunted high, they hunted low, They hunted up, they hunted down, Until the day was past the prime, And it grew late in the afternoon.

11 They hunted high in Batinghope, When as the sun was sinking low; Says Parcy then, Ca off the dogs, We’ll bait our steeds and homeward go.

12 They lighted high in Batinghope, Atween the brown and benty ground; They had but rested a little while Till Parcy Reed was sleeping sound.

13 There’s nane may lean on a rotten staff, But him that risks to get a fa; There’s nane may in a traitor trust, And traitors black were every Ha.

14 They’ve stown the bridle off his steed, And they’ve put water in his lang gun; They’ve fixed his sword within the sheath That out again it winna come.

15 ‘Awaken ye, waken ye, Parcy Reed, Or by your enemies be taen; For yonder are the five Crosiers A-coming owre the Hingin-stane.’

16 ‘If they be five, and we be four, Sae that ye stand alang wi me, Then every man ye will take one, And only leave but two to me: We will them meet as brave men ought, And make them either fight or flee.’

17 ‘We mayna stand, we canna stand, We daurna stand alang wi thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and we.’

18 ‘O turn thee, turn thee, Johnie Ha, O turn thee, man, and fight wi me; When ye come to Troughend again, My gude black naig I will gie thee; He cost full twenty pound o gowd, Atween my brother John and me.’

19 ‘I mayna turn, I canna turn, I daurna turn and fight wi thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and me’

20 ‘O turn thee, turn thee, Willie Ha, O turn thee, man, and fight wi me; When ye come to Troughend again, A yoke o owsen I’ll gie thee.’

21 ‘I mayna turn, I canna turn, I daurna turn and fight wi thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and me.’

22 ‘O turn thee, turn thee, Tommy Ha, O turn now, man, and fight wi me; If ever we come to Troughend again, My daughter Jean I’ll gie to thee.’

23 ‘I mayna turn, I canna turn, I daurna turn and fight wi thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and me.’

24 ‘O shame upon ye, traitors a’! I wish your hames ye may never see; Ye’ve stown the bridle off my naig, And I can neither fight nor flee.

25 ‘Ye’ve stown the bridle off my naig, And ye’ve put water i my lang gun; Ye’ve fixed my sword within the sheath That out again it winna come.’

26 He had but time to cross himsel, A prayer he hadna time to say, Till round him came the Crosiers keen, All riding graithed and in array.

27 ‘Weel met, weel met, now, Parcy Reed, Thou art the very man we sought; Owre lang hae we been in your debt, Now will we pay you as we ought.

28 ‘We’ll pay thee at the nearest tree, Where we shall hang thee like a hound;’ Brave Parcy raisd his fankit sword, And felld the foremost to the ground.

29 Alake, and wae for Parcy Reed, Alake, he was an unarmed man; Four weapons pierced him all at once, As they assailed him there and than.

30 They fell upon him all at once, They mangled him most cruellie; The slightest wound might caused his deid, And they hae gien him thirty-three; They hacket off his hands and feet, And left him lying on the lee.

31 ‘Now, Parcy Reed, we’ve paid our debt, Ye canna weel dispute the tale,’ The Crosiers said, and off they rade; They rade the airt o Liddesdale.

32 It was the hour o gloaming gray, When herds come in frae fauld and pen; A herd he saw a huntsman lie, Says he, Can this be Laird Troughen?

33 ‘There’s some will ca me Parcy Reed, And some will ca me Laird Troughen; It’s little matter what they ca me, My faes hae made me ill to ken.

34 ‘There’s some will ca me Parcy Reed, And speak my praise in tower and town; It’s little matter what they do now, My life-blood rudds the heather brown.

35 ‘There’s some will ca me Parcy Reed, And a’ my virtues say and sing; I would much rather have just now A draught o water frae the spring.’

36 The herd flung aff his clouted shoon And to the nearest fountain ran; He made his bonnet serve a cup, And wan the blessing o the dying man.

37 ‘Now, honest herd, ye maun do mair, Ye maun do mair, as I you tell; Ye maun bear tidings to Troughend, And bear likewise my last farewell.

38 ‘A farewell to my wedded wife, A farewell to my brother John, Wha sits into the Troughend tower Wi heart as black as any stone.

39 ‘A farewell to my daughter Jean, A farewell to my young sons five; Had they been at their father’s hand, I had this night been man alive.

40 ‘A farewell to my followers a’, And a’ my neighbours gude at need; Bid them think how the treacherous Ha’s Betrayed the life o Parcy Reed.

41 ‘The laird o Clennel bears my bow, The laird o Brandon bears my brand; Wheneer they ride i the Border-side, They’ll mind the fate o the laird Troughend.’

* * * * *

#A.#

10^1, 12^1, 14^1, or _for_ nor; _cf._ 8^1.

12^2. “O Parcy Reed, etc. (same as stanza 8, save at end, thee and me).” _The same abridgment and remark at 10^2, 14^2, but the last words are there given as_ me and thee. _Uniformity is to be expected._

16^1. fare thou: _cf._ 16^3, 17^1.

194

THE LAIRD OF WARISTON

#A.# ‘The Laird of Waristoun,’ Jamieson’s Popular Ballads, I, 109.

#B.# ‘Laird of Wariestoun,’ Kinloch MSS, VII, 217; Kinloch’s Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 49.

#C.# ‘Death of Lord Warriston,’ Buchan’s Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 56.

Birrell’s Diary, under the date of July 2, 1600, has the following entry: “John Kinland [Kincaid] of Waristone murderit be hes awin wyff and servant-man, and the nurische being also upone the conspiracy. The said gentilwoman being apprehendit, scho was tane to the Girth Crosse upon the 5 day of Julii, and her heid struck fra her bodie at the Can-nagait fit; quha diet verie patiently. Her nurische was brunt at the same tyme, at 4 houres in the morneing, the 5 of Julii.” P. 49.

Both husband and wife belonged to houses of some note. The wife, Jean Livingston, was a daughter of John Livingston of Dunipace, “and related to many of the first families in Scotland.”

Nothing seems to have been done to keep the murder from divulging. Warriston being only about a mile from Edinburgh, information very soon reached the authorities of justice, and those who were found in the house, the mistress, the nurse, and two female servants, were arrested. The crime was committed on Tuesday morning, not long after midnight. On Thursday such trial as there was took place, and it may have occupied three hours, probably less. At three o’clock on Saturday morning sentence was executed. This had been burning (_i. e._ after strangling), both for the principal and her accomplice, the nurse; but for the well-born woman, no doubt through the influence of her kindred, it was commuted to beheading. The servant-man who did the handiwork fled, but the penalty for undue devotion to his former master’s daughter overtook him within four years. He was broken on a cart-wheel with a plough-coulter.

The judicial records in the case of Jean Livingston are lost, but the process of the murder and the provocation are known from a register of the trial of Robert Weir, the actual perpetrator, and partly also from Jean Livingston’s own relation. Jean Livingston, having conceived a deadly hatred and malice against her husband, John Kincaid, “for the alleged biting of her in the arm and striking her divers times,” sent word by her nurse, Janet Murdo, to Robert Weir, formerly servant to her father, to come to Wariston to speak with her concerning the murdering of him. The nurse, who, we may safely suppose, had been the witness of Kincaid’s brutal behavior, was no unwilling agent. “She helped me too well in mine evil purpose,” says her mistress; “for when I told her what I was minded to do, she consented to the doing of it, and ... when I sent her to seek the man who would do it, she said, I shall go and seek him, and if I get him not, I shall seek another; and if I get none, I shall do it myself.” This the nurse confessed. The other two women knew nothing of the deed before it was done; “and that which they knew,” says the mistress again, “they durst not tell for fear, for I had compelled them to dissemble.” Robert Weir, having given consent, was put in a cellar, where he stayed till midnight, about which time he came up and went to Kincaid’s chamber. Kincaid, who had waked with the “din,” and was leaning over the side of his bed, was knocked to the floor by a blow in the neck, kicked in the belly, and then throttled. “As soon as that man gripped him and began his evil turn,” says the wife, “so soon as my husband cried so fearfully, I leapt outover my bed and went to the hall, where I sat all the time till that unhappy man came to me and reported that mine husband was dead.” She desired Weir, she says, to take her away with him, for she feared trial, albeit flesh and blood made her think that her father’s interest at court would have saved her (this may have been an after-thought). But Weir refused, saying, You shall tarry still, and if this matter come not to light, you shall say he died in the gallery, and I shall return to my master’s service. But if it be known, I shall fly and take the crime on me, and none dare pursue you.

A benevolent minister, who visited Jean Livingston in prison about ten o’clock on Thursday, the third day after the murder, found her “raging in a senseless fury, disdainfully taunting every word of grace that was spoken to her, impatiently tearing her hair, sometimes running up and down the house like one possessed, sometimes throwing herself on the bed and sprawling, refusing all comfort by word, and, when the book of God was brought to her, flinging it upon the walls, twice or thrice, most unreverently.” His warnings of wrath to come and his exhortations to seek mercy through repentance were treated as “trittle, trattle,” and she stubbornly refused to pray for herself, or to take part in his prayer, or to say so much as God help me. He told her that she was promising herself impunity, but within a few hours, when she should have the sentence of death pronounced against her, the pride of her heart would be broken. The trial and sentence followed hard upon this, and when the minister returned, some time in the afternoon, he found a visible and apparent grace beginning in her. He remained with her till after midnight, and when he left her, Jean Livingston could say that she felt in her heart a free remission of all her sins. This worthy man came to the prison again early the next morning, and found God’s grace wonderfully augmented in her. She was full of joy and courage. Those that stood about her said they never saw her so amiable or well-favored. The glory of God was shining both without and within her.

To follow no further this astounding chapter in psychology, this bairn of twenty-one years,[10] with whom the Lord began to work in mercy upon Thursday at two hours in the afternoon, gave up her soul to him in peace upon the Saturday following at three hours in the morning. “When she came to the scaffold and was carried up upon it, she looked up to the Maiden with two longsome looks,” but her serenity was not disturbed. She made a confession at each of the four corners of the scaffold, took “good night” cheerfully of all her friends, kissing them, and then, “as a constant saint of God, humbled herself on her knees and offered her neck to the axe.”[11]

It may be gathered from Weir’s indictment that it was the ill treatment which she had received from her husband that incited the wife to the murder. Two of the ballads, #A# 4, #B# 2, make the same representation. An epitaph on Jean Livingston gives us to understand that both parties were very young, and were married aganst their will (invita invito subjuncta puella puello): whence perpetual disagreements (nihil in thalamo nisi rixæ, jurgia, lites).

In #A#, #B#, the strangling is done by the nurse and her lady, Man’s Enemy personally knotting the tether in #A#; in #C# it is done by the nurse alone. In #B# 8 the great Dunipace, in his anger at hearing what his daughter has done, cries out for her to be put in a barrel of pikes[12] and rolled down some lea. In #C# the father, mother, and brother come to see Jean, and would fain give everything to borrow her. This is a by much too flattering account of the behavior of her relatives, who were principally anxious to have her got out of the world with as little éclat as might be. None of them came near her in prison, though Wariston’s brother did. #C# makes Wariston’s mortal offence not the throwing a plate at her face (#A#) or striking her on the mouth (#B#), but the taxing her with a bairn by another man.[13] The unfriendly relations of the pair must have been notorious. In the prison the wife “purged herself very sincerely from many scandalous things she had been bruited with. Not that she would excuse herself that she was a sinner in the highest rank, but that she might clear herself from these false reports that her house was charged with:” Memorial, p. XXVII.

* * * * *

A

Jamieson’s Popular Ballads, I, 109, as taken down by Sir Walter Scott from the recitation of his mother.

1 Down by yon garden green Sae merrily as she gaes; She has twa weel-made feet, And she trips upon her taes.

2 She has twa weel-made feet, Far better is her hand; She’s as jimp in the middle As ony willow-wand.

3 ‘Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, It’s I will make you lady Of a’ the lands you see.’

* * * * * *

4 He spak a word in jest; Her answer wasna good; He threw a plate at her face, Made it a’ gush out o blood.

5 She wasna frae her chamber A step but barely three, When up and at her richt hand There stood Man’s Enemy.

6 ‘Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, I’ll learn you a wile Avenged for to be.’

7 The Foul Thief knotted the tether, She lifted his head on hie, The nourice drew the knot That gard lord Waristoun die.

8 Then word is gane to Leith, Also to Edinburgh town, That the lady had killd the laird, The laird o Waristoun.

* * * * * *

9 ‘Tak aff, tak aff my hood, But lat my petticoat be; Put my mantle oer my head, For the fire I downa see.

10 ‘Now, a’ ye gentle maids, Tak warning now by me, And never marry ane But wha pleases your ee.

11 ‘For he married me for love, But I married him for fee; And sae brak out the feud That gard my dearie die.’

* * * * *

B

Kinloch MSS, VII, 217; from the recitation of Jenny Watson.

1 It was at dinner as they sat, And whan they drank the wine, How happy war the laird and lady Of bonnie Wariston!

2 The lady spak but ae word, The matter to conclude; The laird strak her on the mouth, Till she spat out o blude.

3 She did not know the way Her mind to satisfy, Till evil cam into [her] head All by the Enemy.

* * * * * *

4 ‘At evening when ye sit, And whan ye drink the wine, See that ye fill the glass weill up To the laird o Wariston.’

5 So at table whan they sat, And whan they drank the wine, She made the glass aft gae round To the laird o Wariston.

6 The nurice she knet the knot, And O she knet it sicker! The lady did gie it a twig, Till it began to wicker.

7 But word’s gane doun to Leith, And up to Embro toun, That the lady she has slain the laird, The laird o Waristoun.

8 Word has gane to her father, the grit Dunipace, And an angry man was he; Cries, Gar mak a barrel o pikes, And row her down some lea!

9 She said, Wae be to ye, Wariston, I wish ye may sink for sin! For I have been your wife These nine years, running ten; And I never loved ye sae well As now whan ye’re lying slain.

10 ‘But tak aff this gowd brocade, And let my petticoat stay, And tie a handkerchief round my face, That the people may not see.’

* * * * *

C

Buchan’s Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 56.

1 ‘My mother was an ill woman, In fifteen years she married me; I hadna wit to guide a man, Alas! ill counsel guided me.

2 ‘O Warriston, O Warriston, I wish that ye may sink for sin! I was but bare fifteen years auld, Whan first I enterd your yates within.

3 ‘I hadna been a month married, Till my gude lord went to the sea; I bare a bairn ere he came hame, And set it on the nourice knee.

4 ‘But it fell ance upon a day, That my gude lord returnd from sea; Then I did dress in the best array, As blythe as ony bird on tree.

5 ‘I took my young son in my arms, Likewise my nourice me forebye, And I went down to yon shore-side, My gude lord’s vessel I might spy.

6 ‘My lord he stood upon the deck, I wyte he haild me courteouslie: Ye are thrice welcome, my lady gay, Whae’s aught that bairn on your knee?’

7 She turnd her right and round about, Says, ‘Why take ye sic dreads o me? Alas! I was too young married, To love another man but thee.’

8 ‘Now hold your tongue, my lady gay, Nae mair falsehoods ye’ll tell to me; This bonny bairn is not mine, You’ve loved another while I was on sea.’

9 In discontent then hame she went, And aye the tear did blin her ee; Says, Of this wretch I’ll be revenged For these harsh words he’s said to me.

10 She’s counselld wi her father’s steward What way she coud revenged be; Bad was the counsel then he gave, It was to gar her gude lord dee.

11 The nourice took the deed in hand, I wat she was well paid her fee; She kiest the knot, and the loop she ran, Which soon did gar this young lord dee.

12 His brother lay in a room hard by, Alas! that night he slept too soun; But then he wakend wi a cry, ‘I fear my brother’s putten down.

13 ‘O get me coal and candle light, And get me some gude companie;’ But before the light was brought, Warriston he was gart dee.

14 They’ve taen the lady and fause nourice, In prison strong they hae them boun; The nourice she was hard o heart, But the bonny lady fell in swoon.

15 In it came her brother dear, And aye a sorry man was he: ‘I woud gie a’ the lands I heir, O bonny Jean, to borrow thee.’

16 ‘O borrow me, brother, borrow me? O borrowd shall I never be; For I gart kill my ain gude lord, And life is nae pleasure to me.’

17 In it came her mother dear, I wyte a sorry woman was she: ‘I woud gie my white monie and gowd, O bonny Jean, to borrow thee.’

18 ‘Borrow me, mother, borrow me? O borrowd shall I never be; For I gart kill my ain gude lord, And life’s now nae pleasure to me,’

19 Then in it came her father dear, I wyte a sorry man was he; Says, ‘Ohon, alas! my bonny Jean, If I had you at hame wi me!

20 ‘Seven daughters I hae left at hame, As fair women as fair can be; But I would gie them ane by ane, O bonny Jean, to borrow thee.’

21 ‘O borrow me, father, borrow me? O borrowd shall I never be; I that is worthy o the death, It is but right that I shoud dee.’

22 Then out it speaks the king himsell, And aye as he steps in the fleer; Says, ‘I grant you your life, lady, Because you are of tender year.’

23 ‘A boon, a boon, my liege the king, The boon I ask, ye’ll grant to me;’ ‘Ask on, ask on, my bonny Jean, Whateer ye ask it’s granted be.’

24 ‘Cause take me out at night, at night, Lat not the sun upon me shine, And take me to yon heading-hill, Strike aff this dowie head o mine.

25 ‘Ye’ll take me out at night, at night, When there are nane to gaze and see, And hae me to yon heading-hill, And ye’ll gar head me speedilie.’

26 They’ve taen her out at nine at night, Loot not the sun upon her shine, And had her to yon heading-hill, And headed her baith neat and fine.

27 Then out it speaks the king himsell, I wyte a sorry man was he: ‘I’ve travelld east, I’ve travelld west, And sailed far beyond the sea, But I never saw a woman’s face I was sae sorry to see dee.

28 ‘But Warriston was sair to blame, For slighting o his lady so; He had the wyte o his ain death, And bonny lady’s overthrow.’

* * * * *

#B.#

4. _The MS indicates that this is the nurse’s speech._

5^1. whan _struck out_, as _written over_.

8. has _struck out_, ‘s _substituted_.

10^2. stay _struck out_, be _substituted_.

10^3. _Originally_ handkerchief; hand _struck out_.

_Kinloch has made several changes in printing_:

7^1. has gane.

8^3. Fy! gar.

8^4. some brae.

9^3. gud wife. _He gives_ as _in 5^1;_ be _in 10^2;_ handkerchief _in 10^3._

#C.#

6^4. Whase. _Perhaps_, Wha’s _rather than_ Whae’s.

195

LORD MAXWELL’S LAST GOODNIGHT

#A.# ‘Lord Maxwell’s Last Goodnight,’ communicated to Percy by G. Paton, 1778.

#B.# ‘Lord Maxwell’s Goodnight,’ Glenriddell MSS, XI, 18, 1791, Scott’s Minstrelsy, I, 194, 1802; II, 133, 1833.

First published in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, “from a copy in Glenriddell’s MS., with some slight variations from tradition.” I understand this to mean, not that the variations were derived from tradition, but that the text of the Minstrelsy departs somewhat from that of the manuscript.

#A# and #B# agree entirely as to matter. The order of the stanzas, not being governed by an explicit story, might be expected to vary with every reciter.

In the year 1585, John, Lord Maxwell, having incurred the enmity of the king’s favorite, the Earl of Arran, was denounced rebel, on such charges as were always at hand, and a commission was given to the Laird of Johnstone to pursue and take him. A hired force, by the aid of which this was expected to be done, was badly routed by the Maxwells in a sharp fight. Johnstone made a raid on Maxwell’s lands; Maxwell burnt Johnstone’s house. Finally, in one of their skirmishes, Johnstone was captured: “the grief of this overthrow gave Johnstone, shortly after he was liberated, his death.”