BLANCHEFLOUR AND JELLYFLORICE
PART I
There was a maid, richly arrayd,
In robes were rare to see,
For seven years and something mair
She servd a gay ladie.
But being fond o a higher place,
In service she thought lang;
She took her mantle her about,
Her coffer by the band.
And as she walkd by the shore-side,
As blythe’s a bird on tree,
Yet still she gaz’d her round about,
To see what she could see.
At last she spied a little castle,
That stood near by the sea;
She spied it far and drew it near,
To that castle went she.
And when she came to that castle
She tirled at the pin,
And ready stood a little wee boy
To lat this fair maid in.
“O who’s the owner of this place,
O porter-boy, tell me;”
“This place belongs unto a queen
O birth and high degree.”
She put her hand in her pocket,
And gae him shillings three:
“O porter, bear my message well
Unto the queen frae me.”
The porter’s gane before the queen,
Fell low down on his knee:
“Win up, win up, my porter-boy,
What makes this courtesie?”
“I hae been porter at your yetts,
My dame, these years full three,
But see a ladie at your yetts
The fairest my eyes did see.”
“Cast up my yetts baith wide and braid,
Lat her come in to me,
And I’ll know by her courtesie
Lord’s daughter if she be.”
When she came in before the queen,
Fell low down on her knee:
“Service frae you, my dame the queen,
I pray you grant it me.”
“If that service ye now do want,
What station will ye be?
Can ye card wool, or spin, fair maid,
Or milk the cows to me?”
“No, I can neither card nor spin,
Nor cows I canno milk,
But sit into a lady’s bower
And sew the seams o silk.”
“What is your name, ye comely dame?
Pray tell this unto me:”
“O Blancheflour, that is my name,
Born in a strange countrie.”
“O keep ye well frae Jellyflorice—
My ain dear son is he—
When other ladies get a gift,
O that ye shall get three.”
PART II
It wasna tald into the bower
Till it went thro the ha,
That Jellyflorice and Blancheflour
Were grown ower great witha.
When the queen’s maids their visits paid,
Upo the gude Yule-day,
When other ladies got horse to ride,
She boud take foot and gae.
The queen she calld her stable-groom,
To come to her right seen;
Says, “Ye’ll take out yon wild waith steed
And bring him to the green.
“Ye’ll take the bridle frae his head,
The lighters frae his een;
Ere she ride three times roun the cross,
Her weel-days will be dune.”
Jellyflorice his true-love spy’d
As she rade roun the cross,
And thrice he kissd her lovely lips,
And took her frae her horse.
“Gang to your bower, my lily-flower,
For a’ my mother’s spite;
There’s nae other amang her maids,
In whom I take delight.
“Ye are my jewel, and only are,
Nane’s do you injury;
For ere this-day-month come and gang
My wedded wife ye’se be.”
GLENARA
Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
’Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear,
And her sire and the people are called to her bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud.
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence,—they looked on the ground.
In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
“Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn;
Why speak ye no word?”—said Glenara the stern.
“And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?”
So spake the rude chieftain:—no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding a dagger displayed.
“I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,”
Cried a voice from the kinsmen all, wrathful and loud:
“And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!”
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,—
’Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn,—
“I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief;
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous Chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!”
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground;
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne,—
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
Thomas Campbell
THE BEGGAR-MAID
Her arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the Beggar-maid
Before the King Cophetua.
In robe and crown the King stept down,
To meet and greet her on her way;
“It is no wonder,” said the Lords,
“She is more beautiful than day.”
As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen;
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been.
Cophetua sware a royal oath:
“This Beggar-maid shall be my Queen!”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
LOCHINVAR
Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the West;
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was Knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all,
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,
—For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word—
“Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now am I come with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine,
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
The bride kissed the goblet; the Knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up tosigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
“Now tread we a measure,” said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, “’T were better by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, andscaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Sir Walter Scott