INTERLEAVES
Tales of the Olden Time
These ancient ballads have come down to us from the long ago, having been told, like the old nursery tales, from generation to generation, altered, abbreviated, patched, and added to, as they passed from mouth to mouth of poet, high harper, gleeman, wandering minstrel, ballad-monger, and camp-follower. Some of them were repeated by the humble stroller who paid for a corner in the chimney-nook by the practice of his rude art; others were sung by minstrels of the court; most of them were chanted to a tune which served for a score of similar songs, while the verses were frequently interrupted by refrains of one sort or another, as, for instance, in "Hynde Horn," which is sometimes printed as follows:
"Near the King's Court was a young child born
With a hey lillalu and a how lo lan;
And his name it was called Young Hynde Horn
And the birk and the broom blooms bonnie."
Many of the ballads are gloomy and tragic stories, but told simply and with right feeling; others are gay tales of true love ending happily. Some, like "Sir Patrick Spens" and "Chevy Chace," are built upon historical foundations, and others, while not following history, have a real personage for hero or heroine. Lord Beichan, for instance, is supposed to be Gilbert Becket, father of the famous Saint Thomas of Canterbury, while Glenlogie is Sir George, one of the "gay Gordons," but whoever they are, wise abbots, jolly friars, or noble outlaws, they are always bold fellows, true lovers, and merry men.
Inconsequent, fascinating, high-handed, impossible, picturesque, these old ballads have come to us from the childhood of the world, and still speak to the child-heart in us all.
XV
TALES OF THE OLDEN TIME
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 o' mine!"
O up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee,—
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,
That ever sail'd the sea."
The king has written a braid letter,
And seal'd 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 laughèd he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his e'e.
"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 on Monenday morn,
Wi' a' the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway,
Upon a Wodensday.
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 queenis fee."
"Ye lee, ye lee, ye liars loud!
Fu' loud I hear ye lee.
"For I brought as much white monie,
As gane my men and me,
And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud,
Out o'er the sea wi' me.
"Mak' ready, mak' 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 auld moon in her arm;
And, if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm."
They had not 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 sailor,
To tak' 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 o' our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.
"Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,
Anither o' the twine,
And wap them into our ship's side,
And letna the sea come in."
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,
Anither of the twine,
And 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-heel'd shoon!
But lang or a' the play was play'd,
They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather-bed,
That floated o'er the faem;
And mony was the gude lord's son,
That never mair came hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair,
A' for the sake of their true loves;
For them they'll see na mair.
O lang, lang, may the ladyes 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,
Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see na mair.
Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,
It's fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
Old Ballad.
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 bayliffe's 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."
King John and the Abbot of Canterbury
An ancient story I'll tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
And he ruled England with main and with might,
For he did great wrong and maintained little right.
And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;
How for his housekeeping and high renown,
They rode post for him to fair London town.
An hundred men, the King did hear say,
The Abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty gold chains, without any doubt,
In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.
"How now, Father Abbot, I hear it of thee,
Thou keepest a far better house than me;
And for thy housekeeping and high renown,
I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."
"My liege," quo' the Abbot, "I would it were knowne,
I never spend nothing but what is my owne;
And I trust your Grace will not put me in fear,
For spending of my owne true-gotten gear."
"Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault is highe,
And now for the same thou needst must dye;
For except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe.
"And first," quo' the King, "when I'm in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe,
Thou must tell to one penny what I am worthe.
"Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride the whole world about,
And at the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think."
"Oh, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet;
But if you will give me but three weekes space,
Ile do my endeavour to answer your Grace."
"Now three weeks' space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy land and thy livings are forfeit to me."
Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,
And he met his Shepherd a-going to fold:
"How now, my Lord Abbot, you are welcome home;
What news do you bring us from good King John?"
"Sad news, sad news, Shepherd, I must give,
That I have but three days more to live;
I must answer the King his questions three,
Or my head will be smitten from my bodie.
"The first is to tell him, there in that stead,
With his crown of gold so fair on his head,
Among all his liegemen so noble of birth,
To within one penny of what he is worth.
"The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole world about:
And at the third question I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
"Now cheare up, Sire Abbot, did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?
Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
"Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your Lordship, as ever may bee:
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne."
"Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appear 'fore our Father the Pope."
"Now welcome, Sire Abbot," the king he did say,
"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day;
For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
"And first, when thou seest me, here in this stead,
With my crown of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth."
"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told:
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I thinke, thou art one penny worse than he."
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
"I did not think I had been worth so little!
Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
How soon I may ride this whole world about."
"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth again;
And then your Grace need not make any doubt
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
"I did not think it could be gone so soon.
Now from the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what do I think."
"Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry;
You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;
But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."
The King he laughed, and swore by the mass,
"I'll make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place!"
"Nay, nay, my Liege, be not in such speed,
For alack, I can neither write nor read."
"Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me;
And tell the old Abbot, when thou gettest home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."
Lord Beichan and Susie Pye
Lord Beichan was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
But he was ta'en by a savage Moor,
Who treated him right cruellie.
In ilka shoulder was put a bore,
In ilka bore was put a tree;
And heavy loads they made him draw,
Till he was sick, and like to dee.
Then he was cast in a dungeon deep,
Where he cou'd neither hear nor see;
And seven long years they kept him there,
Both cold and hunger sore to dree.
The Moor he had an only daughter,
The damsel's name was Susie Pye;
And ilka day as she took the air,
Lord Beichan's prison she pass'd by.
Young Susie Pye had a tender heart,
Tho' she was come of a cruel kin;
And sore she sigh'd, she knew not why,
For him who lay that dungeon in.
"Oh, were I but the prison keeper,
As I'm a lady of high degree,
I soon wou'd set this youth at large,
And send him to his own countrie."
She gave the keeper a piece of gold,
And many pieces of white monie,
To unlock to her the prison doors,
That she Lord Beichan might go see.
Lord Beichan he did marvel sore,
The Moor's fair daughter there to see;
But took her for some captive maid,
Brought from some land in Christendie.
For when she saw his wretched plight,
Her tears fell fast and bitterlie;
And thus the Moor's fair daughter spake
Unto Lord Beichan tenderlie:
"Oh, have ye any lands," she said,
"Or castles in your own countrie,
That ye cou'd give to a lady fair,
From prison strong to set you free?"
"Oh, I have lands both fair and braid,
And I have castles fair to see;
But I wou'd give them all," he said,
"From prison strong to be set free."
"Plight me the truth of your right hand,
The truth of it here plight to me,
That till seven years are past and gone,
No lady ye will wed but me."
"For seven long years I do make a vow,
And seven long years I'll keep it true,
If you wed with no other man,
No other lady I'll wed but you."
Then she has bribed the prison-keeper,
With store of gold and white monie,
To loose the chain that bound him so,
And set Lord Beichan once more free.
A ring she from her finger broke,
And half of it to him gave she,—
"Keep it, to mind you of the maid
Who out of prison set you free."
She had him put on good shipboard,
That he might safely cross the main;
Then said, "Adieu! my Christian lord,
I fear we ne'er may meet again."
Lord Beichan turn'd him round about,
And lowly, lowly bent his knee;
"Ere seven years are come and gone,
I'll take you to my own countrie."
But Susie Pye cou'd get no rest,
Nor day nor night cou'd happy be;
For something whisper'd in her breast,
"Lord Beichan will prove false to thee."
So she set foot on good shipboard,
Well mann'd and fitted gallantlie;
She bade adieu to her father's towers,
And left behind her own countrie.
Then she sailed west, and she sailed north,
She sailed far o'er the salt sea faem;
And after many weary days,
Unto fair England's shore she came.
Then she went to Lord Beichan's gate,
And she tirl'd gently at the pin,
And ask'd—"Is this Lord Beichan's hall,
And is that noble lord within?"
The porter ready answer made,—
"Oh yes, this is Lord Beichan's hall;
And he is also here within,
With bride and guests assembled all."
"And has he betroth'd another love,
And has he quite forgotten me,
To whom he plighted his love and troth,
When from prison I did him free?
"Bear to your lord, ye proud porter,
This parted ring, the plighted token
Of mutual love, and mutual vows,
By him, alas! now falsely broken.
"And bid him send one bit of bread,
And bid him send one cup of wine,
Unto the maid he hath betray'd,
Tho' she freed him from cruel pine."
The porter hasten'd to his lord,
And fell down on his bended knee:
"My lord, a lady stands at your gate,
The fairest lady I e'er did see.
"On every finger she has a ring,
And on her middle finger three;
With as much gold above her brow
As wou'd buy an earldom to me."
It's out then spake the bride's mother,
Both loud and angry out spake she,—
"Ye might have excepted our bonnie bride,
If not more of this companie."
"My dame, your daughter's fair enough,
Her beauty's not denied by me;
But were she ten times fairer still,
With this lady ne'er compare cou'd she.
"My lord, she asks one bit of bread,
And bids you send one cup of wine;
And to remember the lady's love,
Who freed you out of cruel pine."
Lord Beichan hied him down the stair,—
Of fifteen steps he made but three,
Until he came to Susie Pye,
Whom he did kiss most tenderlie.
He's ta'en her by the lily hand,
And led her to his noble hall,
Where stood his sore-bewilder'd bride,
And wedding guests assembled all.
Fair Susie blushing look'd around,
Upon the lords and ladies gay;
Then with the tear-drops in her eyes,
Unto Lord Beichan she did say:
"Oh, have ye ta'en another bride,
And broke your plighted vows to me?
Then fare thee well, my Christian lord,
I'll try to think no more on thee.
"But sadly I will wend my way,
And sadly I will cross the sea,
And sadly will with grief and shame
Return unto my own countrie."
"Oh, never, never, Susie Pye,
Oh, never more shall you leave me;
This night you'll be my wedded wife,
And lady of my lands so free."
Syne up then spake the bride's mother,
She ne'er before did speak so free,—
"You'll not forsake my dear daughter,
For sake of her from Pagandie."
"Take home, take home your daughter dear,
She's not a pin the worse of me;
She came to me on horseback riding,
But shall go back in a coach and three."
Lord Beichan got ready another wedding,
And sang, with heart brimful of glee,—
"Oh, I'll range no more in foreign lands,
Since Susie Pye has cross'd the sea."
Old Ballad.
The Gay Gos-hawk
"O well is me, my gay gos-hawk,
That you can speak and flee;
For you can carry a love-letter
To my true love frae me."
"O how can I carry a letter to her,
Or how should I her know?
I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spak',
And eyes that ne'er her saw."
"The white o' my love's skin is white
As down o' dove or maw;
The red o' my love's cheek is red
As blood that's spilt on snaw.
"When ye come to the castle,
Light on the tree of ash,
And sit you there and sing our loves
As she comes frae the mass.
"Four and twenty fair ladies
Will to the mass repair;
And weel may ye my lady ken,
The fairest lady there."
When the gos-hawk flew to that castle,
He lighted on the ash;
And there he sat and sang their loves
As she came frae the mass.
"Stay where ye be, my maidens a',
And sip red wine anon,
Till I go to my west window
And hear a birdie's moan."
She's gane unto her west window,
The bolt she fainly drew;
And unto that lady's white, white neck
The bird a letter threw.
"Ye're bidden to send your love a send,
For he has sent you twa;
And tell him where he may see you soon,
Or he cannot live ava."
"I send him the ring from my finger,
The garland off my hair,
I send him the heart that's in my breast;
What would my love have mair?
And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland,
Ye'll bid him wait for me there."
She hied her to her father dear
As fast as gang could she:
"I'm sick at the heart, my father dear;
An asking grant you me!"
"Ask me na for that Scottish lord,
For him ye'll never see!"
"An asking, an asking, dear father!" she says,
"An asking grant you me;
That if I die in fair England,
In Scotland ye'll bury me.
"At the first kirk o' fair Scotland,
You cause the bells be rung;
At the second kirk o' fair Scotland,
You cause the mass be sung;
"At the third kirk o' fair Scotland,
You deal gold for my sake;
At the fourth kirk o' fair Scotland,
O there you'll bury me at!
"This is all my asking, father,
I pray you grant it me!"
"Your asking is but small," he said;
"Weel granted it shall be.
But why do ye talk o' suchlike things?
For ye arena going to dee."
The lady's gane to her chamber,
And a moanfu' woman was she,
As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash,
And were about to dee.
The lady's gane to her chamber
As fast as she could fare;
And she has drunk a sleepy draught,
She mix'd it wi' mickle care.
She's fallen into a heavy trance,
And pale and cold was she;
She seemed to be as surely dead
As ony corpse could be.
Out and spak' an auld witch-wife,
At the fireside sat she:
"Gin she has killed herself for love,
I wot it weel may be:
"But drap the het lead on her cheek,
And drap in on her chin,
And rap it on her bosom white,
And she'll maybe speak again.
'Tis much that a young lady will do
To her true love to win."
They drapped the het lead on her cheek,
They drapped it on her chin,
They drapped it on her bosom white,
But she spake none again.
Her brothers they went to a room,
To make to her a bier;
The boards were a' o' the cedar wood,
The edges o' silver clear.
Her sisters they went to a room,
To make to her a sark;
The cloth was a' o' the satin fine,
And the stitching silken-wark.
"Now well is me, my gay gos-hawk,
That ye can speak and flee!
Come show me any love-tokens
That you have brought to me."
"She sends you the ring frae her white finger,
The garland frae her hair;
She sends you the heart within her breast;
And what would you have mair?
And at the fourth kirk o' fair Scotland,
She bids you wait for her there."
"Come hither, all my merry young men!
And drink the good red wine;
For we must on towards fair England
To free my love frae pine."
The funeral came into fair Scotland,
And they gart the bells be rung;
And when it came to the second kirk,
They gart the mass be sung.
And when it came to the third kirk,
They dealt gold for her sake;
And when it came to the fourth kirk,
Her love was waiting thereat.
At the fourth kirk in fair Scotland
Stood spearmen in a row;
And up and started her ain true love,
The chieftain over them a'.
"Set down, set down the bier," he says,
"Till I look upon the dead;
The last time that I saw her face,
Its color was warm and red."
He stripped the sheet from aff her face
A little below the chin;
The lady then she open'd her eyes,
And lookèd full on him.
"O give me a shive o' your bread, love,
O give me a cup o' your wine!
Long have I fasted for your sake,
And now I fain would dine.
"Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers,
Gae hame and blaw the horn!
And ye may say that ye sought my skaith,
And that I hae gi'en you the scorn.
"I cam' na here to bonny Scotland
To lie down in the clay;
But I cam' here to bonny Scotland
To wear the silks sae gay!
"I cam' na here to bonny Scotland
Amang the dead to rest;
But I cam' here to bonny Scotland
To the man that I lo'e best!"
Earl Mar's Daughter
It was intill a pleasant time,
Upon a simmer's day,
The noble Earl of Mar's daughter
Went forth to sport and play.
And as she played and sported
Below a green aik tree,
There she saw a sprightly doo
Set on a branch sae hie.
"O Coo-my-doo, my love sae true,
If ye'll come doun to me,
Ye'se hae a cage o' gude red goud
Instead o' simple tree.
"I'll tak' ye hame and pet ye weel,
Within my bower and ha';
I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird
As ony o' them a'!"
And she had nae these words weel spoke,
Nor yet these words weel said,
Till Coo-my-doo flew frae the branch,
And lighted on her head.
Then she has brought this pretty bird
Hame to her bower and ha',
And made him shine as fair a bird
As ony o' them a'.
When day was gane, and night was come,
About the evening-tide,
This lady spied a bonny youth
Stand straight up by her side.
"Now whence come ye, young man," she said,
"To put me into fear?
My door was bolted right secure,
And what way cam' ye here?"
"O haud your tongue, my lady fair,
Lat a' your folly be;
Mind ye not o' your turtle-doo
Ye coax'd from aff the tree?"
"O wha are ye, young man?" she said,
"What country come ye frae?"
"I flew across the sea," he said,
"'Twas but this verra day.
"My mither is a queen," he says,
Likewise of magic skill;
'Twas she that turned me in a doo,
To fly where'er I will.
"And it was but this verra day
That I cam' ower the sea:
I loved you at a single look;
With you I'll live and dee."
"O Coo-my-doo, my love sae true,
Nae mair frae me ye'se gae."
"That's never my intent, my love;
As ye said, it shall be sae."
There he has lived in bower wi' her,
For six lang years and ane;
Till sax young sons to him she bare,
And the seventh she's brought hame.
But aye, as soon's a child was born,
He carried them away,
And brought them to his mither's care,
As fast as he could fly.
Thus he has stay'd in bower wi' her
For seven lang years and mair;
Till there cam' a lord o' hie renown
To court that lady fair.
But still his proffer she refused,
And a' his presents too;
Says, "I'm content to live alane
Wi' my bird Coo-my-doo!"
Her father sware an angry oath,
He sware it wi' ill-will:
"To-morrow, ere I eat or drink,
That bird I'll surely kill."
The bird was sitting in his cage,
And heard what he did say;
He jumped upon the window-sill:
"'Tis time I was away."
Then Coo-my-doo took flight and flew
Beyond the raging sea,
And lighted at his mither's castle,
Upon a tower sae hie.
The Queen his mither was walking out,
To see what she could see,
And there she saw her darling son
Set on the tower sae hie.
"Get dancers here to dance," she said,
"And minstrels for to play;
For here's my dear son Florentine
Come back wi' me to stay."
"Get nae dancers to dance, mither,
Nor minstrels for to play;
For the mither o' my seven sons,
The morn's her wedding day."
"Now tell me, dear son Florentine,
O tell, and tell me true;
Tell me this day, without delay,
What sall I do for you?"
"Instead of dancers to dance, mither,
Or minstrels for to play,
Turn four-and-twenty well-wight men,
Like storks, in feathers gray;
"My seven sons in seven swans,
Aboon their heads to flee;
And I myself a gay gos-hawk,
A bird o' high degree."
Then, sighing, said the Queen to hersell,
"That thing's too high for me!"
But she applied to an auld woman,
Who had mair skill than she.
Instead o' dancers to dance a dance,
Or minstrels for to play,
Were four-and-twenty well-wight men
Turn'd birds o' feathers gray;
Her seven sons in seven swans,
Aboon their heads to flee;
And he himsell a gay gos-hawk,
A bird o' high degree.
This flook o' birds took flight and flew
Beyond the raging sea;
They landed near the Earl Mar's castle,
Took shelter in every tree.
They were a flock o' pretty birds,
Right wondrous to be seen;
The weddin'eers they looked at them
Whilst walking on the green.
These birds flew up frae bush and tree,
And, lighted on the ha';
And, when the wedding-train cam' forth,
Flew down amang them a'.
The storks they seized the boldest men,
That they could not fight or flee;
The swans they bound the bridegroom fast
Unto a green aik tree.
They flew around the bride-maidens,
Around the bride's own head;
And, wi' the twinkling o' an ee,
The bride and they were fled.
There's ancient men at weddings been
For eighty years or more;
But siccan a curious wedding-day
They never saw before.
For naething could the company do,
Nor naething could they say;
But they saw a flock o' pretty birds
That took their bride away.
Chevy-Chace
God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all;
A woful hunting once there did
In Chevy-Chace befall.
To drive the deer with hound and horn
Earl Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborn
The hunting of that day.
The stout Earl of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summer days to take,—
The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace
To kill and bear away.
These tidings to Earl Douglas came,
In Scotland where he lay;
Who sent Earl Percy present word
He would prevent his sport.
The English earl, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort
With fifteen hundred bowmen bold,
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well in time of need
To aim their shafts aright.
The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran
To chase the fallow deer;
On Monday they began to hunt
Ere daylight did appear;
And long before high noon they had
A hundred fat bucks slain;
Then having dined, the drovers went
To rouse the deer again.
The bowmen mustered on the hills,
Well able to endure;
And all their rear, with special care,
That day was guarded sure.
The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
The nimble deer to take,
That with their cries the hills and dales
An echo shrill did make.
Lord Percy to the quarry went,
To view the slaughtered deer;
Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promisèd
This day to meet me here;
"But if I thought he would not come,
No longer would I stay;"
With that a brave young gentleman
Thus to the Earl did say:
"Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come,
His men in armor bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears
All marching in our sight;
"All men of pleasant Teviotdale,
Fast by the river Tweed;"
"Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said,
"And take your bows with speed;
"And now with me, my countrymen,
Your courage forth advance;
For never was there champion yet,
In Scotland or in France,
"That ever did on horseback come,
But if my hap it were,
I durst encounter man for man,
With him to break a spear."
Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed,
Most like a baron bold,
Rode foremost of his company,
Whose armor shone like gold.
"Show me," said he, "whose men you be,
That hunt so boldly here,
That, without my consent, do chase
And kill my fallow-deer."
The first man that did answer make,
Was noble Percy he—
Who said, "We list not to declare,
Nor show whose men we be:
"Yet will we spend our dearest blood
Thy chiefest harts to slay."
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,
And thus in rage did say:
"Ere thus I will out-bravèd be,
One of us two shall die;
I know thee well, an earl thou art—
Lord Percy, so am I.
"But trust me, Percy, pity it were,
And great offence, to kill
Any of these our guiltless men,
For they have done no ill.
"Let thou and I the battle try,
And set our men aside."
"Accursed be he," Earl Percy said,
"By whom this is denied."
Then stepped a gallant squire forth,
Witherington was his name,
Who said, "I would not have it told
To Henry, our king, for shame,
"That e'er my captain fought on foot,
And I stood looking on.
You two be earls," said Witherington,
"And I a squire alone;
"I'll do the best that do I may,
While I have power to stand;
While I have power to wield my sword,
I'll fight with heart and hand."
Our English archers bent their bows—
Their hearts were good and true;
At the first flight of arrows sent,
Full fourscore Scots they slew.
Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent,
As Chieftain stout and good;
As valiant Captain, all unmoved,
The shock he firmly stood.
His host he parted had in three,
As leader ware and tried;
And soon his spearmen on their foes
Bore down on every side.
Throughout the English archery
They dealt full many a wound;
But still our valiant Englishmen
All firmly kept their ground.
And throwing straight their bows away,
They grasped their swords so bright;
And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
On shields and helmets light.
They closed full fast on every side—
No slackness there was found;
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.
In truth, it was a grief to see
How each one chose his spear,
And how the blood out of their breasts
Did gush like water clear.
At last these two stout earls did meet;
Like captains of great might,
Like lions wode, they laid on lode,
And made a cruel fight.
They fought until they both did sweat,
With swords of tempered steel,
Until the blood, like drops of rain,
They trickling down did feel.
"Yield thee, Lord Percy," Douglas said;
"In faith I will thee bring
Where thou shalt high advancèd be
By James, our Scottish king.
"Thy ransom I will freely give,
And this report of thee,
Thou art the most courageous knight
That ever I did see."
"No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then,
"Thy proffer I do scorn;
I will not yield to any Scot
That ever yet was born."
With that there came an arrow keen
Out of an English bow,
Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart,
A deep and deadly blow;
Who never spake more words than these:
"Fight on, my merry men all;
For why, my life is at an end;
Lord Percy sees my fall."
Then leaving life, Earl Percy took
The dead man by the hand;
And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life
Would I had lost my land!
"In truth, my very heart doth bleed
With sorrow for thy sake;
For sure a more redoubted knight
Mischance did never take."
A knight amongst the Scots there was
Who saw Earl Douglas die,
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge
Upon the Earl Percy.
Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called,
Who, with a spear full bright,
Well mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the fight;
And past the English archers all,
Without a dread or fear;
And through Earl Percy's body then
He thrust his hateful spear;
With such vehement force and might
He did his body gore,
The staff ran through the other side
A large cloth-yard and more.
So thus did both these nobles die,
Whose courage none could stain.
An English archer then perceived
The noble Earl was slain.
He had a bow bent in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree;
An arrow of a cloth-yard long
To the hard head haled he.
Against Sir Hugh Montgomery
So right the shaft he set,
The gray goose wing that was thereon
In his heart's blood was wet.
This fight did last from break of day
Till setting of the sun:
For when they rung the evening-bell,
The battle scarce was done.
With stout Earl Percy there was slain
Sir John of Egerton,
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
Sir James, that bold baròn.
And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
Both knights of good account,
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain,
Whose prowess did surmount.
For Witherington needs must I wail
As one in doleful dumps;
For when his legs were smitten off,
He fought upon his stumps.
And with Earl Douglas there was slain
Sir Hugh Montgomery,
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field,
One foot would never flee.
Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too—
His sister's son was he;
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,
But saved he could not be.
And the Lord Maxwell in like case
Did with Earl Douglas die:
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears,
Scarce fifty-five did fly.
Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
Went home but fifty-three;
The rest on Chevy-Chace were slain,
Under the greenwood tree.
Next day did many widows come,
Their husbands to bewail;
They washed their wounds in brinish tears,
But all would not prevail.
Their bodies, bathed in purple blood,
They bore with them away;
They kissed them dead a thousand times,
Ere they were clad in clay.
The news was brought to Edinburgh,
Where Scotland's king did reign,
That brave Earl Douglas suddenly
Was with an arrow slain:
"Oh heavy news," King James did say;
"Scotland can witness be
I have not any captain more
Of such account as he."
Like tidings to King Henry came
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland
Was slain in Chevy-Chace:
"Now God be with him," said our king,
"Since 'twill no better be;
I trust I have within my realm
Five hundred as good as he:
"Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say
But I will vengeance take:
I'll be revenged on them all,
For brave Earl Percy's sake."
This vow full well the king performed
After at Humbledown;
In one day fifty knights were slain,
With lords of high renown;
And of the rest, of small account,
Did many hundreds die:
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,
Made by the Earl Percy.
God save the king, and bless this land,
With plenty, joy and peace;
And grant, henceforth, that foul debate
'Twixt noblemen may cease!
Old Ballad.
Hynde Horn
"Oh, it's Hynde Horn fair, and it's Hynde Horn free;
Oh, where were you born, and in what countrie?"
"In a far distant countrie I was born;
But of home and friends I am quite forlorn."
Oh, it's seven long years he served the king,
But wages from him he ne'er got a thing:
Oh, it's seven long years he served, I ween,
And all for love of the king's daughter Jean.
Oh, he gave to his love a silver wand,
Her sceptre of rule over fair Scotland;
With three singing laverocks set thereon,
For to mind her of him when he was gone.
And his love gave to him a gay gold ring,
With three shining diamonds set therein;
Oh, his love gave to him this gay gold ring,
Of virtue and value above all thing;
Saying—"While the diamonds do keep their hue,
You will know that my love holds fast and true;
But when the diamonds grow pale and wan,
I'll be dead, or wed to another man."
Then the sails were spread, and away sail'd he;
Oh, he sail'd away to a far countrie;
And when he had been seven years to sea,
Hynde Horn look'd to see how his ring might be.
But when Hynde Horn look'd the diamonds upon,
Oh, he saw that they were both pale and wan;
And at once he knew, from their alter'd hue,
That his love was dead or had proved untrue.
Oh, the sails were spread, and away sail'd he
Back over the sea to his own countrie;
Then he left the ship when it came to land,
And he met an auld beggar upon the strand.
"What news, thou auld beggar man?" said he;
"For full seven years I've been over the sea."
Then the auld man said—"The strangest of all
Is the curious wedding in our king's hall.
"For there's a king's daughter, came frae the wast,
Has been married to him these nine days past;
But unto him a wife the bride winna be,
For love of Hynde Horn, far over the sea."
"Now, auld man, give to me your begging weed,
And I will give to thee my riding steed;
And, auld man, give to me your staff of tree,
And my scarlet cloak I will give to thee.
"And you must teach me the auld beggar's role,
As he goes his rounds, and receives his dole."
The auld man he did as young Hynde Horn said,
And taught him the way to beg for his bread.
Then Hynde Horn bent him to his staff of tree,
And to the king's palace away hobbled he;
And when he arrived at the king's palace gate,
To the porter he thus his petition did state:
"Good porter, I pray, for Saints Peter and Paul,
And for sake of the Saviour who died for us all,
For one cup of wine, and one bit of bread,
To an auld man with travel and hunger bestead.
"And ask the fair bride, for the sake of Hynde Horn,
To hand them to one so sadly forlorn."
Then the porter for pity the message convey'd,
And told the fair bride all the beggar man said.
And when she did hear it, she tripp'd down the stair,
And in her fair hands did lovingly bear
A cup of red wine, and a farle of cake,
To give the old man, for loved Hynde Horn's sake.
And when she came to where Hynde Horn did stand,
With joy he did take the cup from her hand;
Then pledged the fair bride, the cup out did drain,
Dropp'd in it the ring, and return'd it again.
"Oh, found you that ring by sea or on land,
Or got you that ring off a dead man's hand?"
"Oh, I found not that ring by sea or on land,
But I got that ring from a fair lady's hand.
"As a pledge of true love she gave it to me,
Full seven years ago, as I sail'd o'er the sea;
But now that the diamonds are chang'd in their hue,
I know that my love has to me proved untrue."
"Oh, I will cast off my gay costly gown,
And follow thee on from town unto town,
And I will take the gold combs from my hair,
And follow my true love for ever mair."
"You need not cast off your gay costly gown,
To follow me on from town unto town;
You need not take the gold combs from your hair,
For Hynde Horn has gold enough, and to spare."
He stood up erect, let his beggar weed fall,
And shone there the foremost and noblest of all;
Then the bridegrooms were chang'd, and the lady re-wed,
To Hynde Horn thus come back, like one from the dead.
Old Ballad.
Glenlogie
There was monie a braw noble
Came to our Queen's ha';
But the bonnie Glenlogie
Was the flower of them a'.
And the young Ladye Jeanie,
Sae gude and sae fair,
She fancied Glenlogie
Aboon a' that were there.
She speired at his footman,
That ran by his side,
His name, and his sirname,
And where he did bide.
"He bides at Glenlogie,
When he is at hame;
He's of the gay Gordons,
And George is his name."
She wrote to Glenlogie,
To tell him her mind:
"My love is laid on you,
Oh, will you prove kind?"
He turn'd about lightly,
As the Gordons do a':
"I thank you, fair Ladye,
But I'm promis'd awa."
She call'd on her maidens
Her jewels to take,
And to lay her in bed,
For her heart it did break.
"Glenlogie! Glenlogie!
"Glenlogie!" said she;
"If I getna Glenlogie,
I'm sure I will dee."
"Oh, hold your tongue, daughter,
And weep na sae sair;
For you'll get Drumfindlay,
His father's young heir."
"Oh, hold your tongue, father,
And let me alane;
If I getna Glenlogie,
I'll never wed ane."
Then her father's old chaplain—
A man of great skill—
He wrote to Glenlogie,
The cause of this ill;
And her father, he sent off
This letter with speed,
By a trusty retainer,
Who rode his best steed.
The first line that he read,
A light laugh gave he;
The next line that he read,
The tear fill'd each e'e:
"Oh, what a man am I,
That a leal heart should break?
Or that sic a fair maid
Should die for my sake?
"Go, saddle my horse,
Go, saddle him soon,
Go, saddle the swiftest
E'er rode frae the toun."
But ere it was saddled,
And brought to the door,
Glenlogie was on the road
Three miles or more.
When he came to her father's,
Great grief there was there;
There was weepin' and wailin',
And sabbin' full sair.
Oh, pale and wan was she
When Glenlogie gaed in;
But she grew red and rosy
When Glenlogie gaed ben.
Then out spake her father,
With tears in each e'e:
"You're welcome, Glenlogie,
You're welcome to me."
And out spake her mother:
"You're welcome," said she;
"You're welcome, Glenlogie,
Your Jeanie to see."
"Oh, turn, Ladye Jeanie,
Turn round to this side,
And I'll be the bridegroom,
And you'll be the bride."
Oh, it was a blythe wedding,
As ever was seen;
And bonnie Jeanie Melville
Was scarcely sixteen.
Old Ballad.