F
Communicated by Mr J. M. Watson, of Clark’s Island, Plymouth Harbor, Massachusetts, April 10, 1889, as remembered by him from the singing of his father.
1
As I walked out one morning in May,
Just before the break of day,
I heard two brothers a making their moan,
And I listened a while to what they did say.
I heard, etc.
2
‘We have a brother in prison,’ said they,
‘Oh in prison lieth he!
If we had but ten men just like ourselves,
The prisoner we would soon set free.’
3
‘Oh no, no, no!’ Bold Dickie said he,
‘Oh no, no, no, that never can be!
For forty men is full little enough
And I for to ride in their companie.
4
‘Ten to hold the horses in,
Ten to guard the city about,
Ten for to stand at the prison-door,
And ten to fetch poor Archer out.’
5
They mounted their horses, and so rode they,
Who but they so merrilie!
They rode till they came to a broad river’s side,
And there they alighted so manfullie.
6
They mounted their horses, and so swam they,
Who but they so merrilie!
They swam till they came to the other side,
And there they alighted so manfullie.
7
They mounted their horses, and so rode they,
Who but they so merrilie!
They rode till they came to that prison-door,
And then they alighted so manfullie.
8
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
‘For I have forty men in my companie,
And I have come to set you free.’
9
‘Oh no, no, no!’ poor Archer says he,
‘Oh no, no, no, that never can be!
For I have forty pounds of good Spanish iron
Betwixt my ankle and my knee.’
10
Bold Dickie broke lock, Bold Dickie broke key,
Bold Dickie broke everything that he could see;
He took poor Archer under one arm,
And carried him out so manfullie.
11
They mounted their horses, and so rode they,
Who but they so merrilie!
They rode till they came to that broad river’s side,
And there they alighted so manfullie.
12
‘Bold Dickie, Bold Dickie,’ poor Archer says he,
‘Take my love home to my wife and children three;
For my horse grows lame, he cannot swim,
And here I see that I must die.’
13
They shifted their horses, and so swam they,
Who but they so merrilie!
They swam till they came to the other side,
And there they alighted so manfullie.
14
‘Bold Dickie, Bold Dickie,’ poor Archer says he,
‘Look you yonder there and see;
For the high-sheriff he is a coming,
With an hundred men in his companie.’
15
‘Bold Dickie, Bold Dickie,’ High-sheriff said he,
‘You’re the damndest rascal that ever I see!
Go bring me back the iron you’ve stole,
And I will set the prisoner free.’
16
‘Oh no, no, no!’ Bold Dickie said he,
‘Oh no, no, no, that never can be!
For the iron ‘twill do to shoe the horses,
The blacksmith rides in our companie.’
17
‘Bold Dickie, Bold Dickie,’ High-sheriff says he,
‘You’re the damndest rascal that ever I see!’
‘I thank ye for nothing,’ Bold Dickie says he,
‘And you’re a damned fool for following me.’
A.
Written in long lines, without division into stanzas, excepting a few instances.
11. folk I saw went.
132. And cracking, etc.
134. 3.
292. o whips, etc.
423. one water.
424. Xtenty.
431. Perhaps we should read, But throw me, throw me.
B. a.
124. Capeld.
155,6 are 161,2: 161,2 are 163,4: 163,4, 171,2: 171,2, 173,4: 173,4, 181,2: 181–4, 183–6.
b.
11. a-walking.
14. weel to what.
21,2. The youngest to the eldest said, Blythe and merrie how can we be.
23. were.
3–5.
‘An ye wad be merrie, an ye wad be sad,
What the better wad billy Archie be?
Unless I had thirty men to mysell,
And a’to ride in my cumpanie.
‘Ten to hald the horses’ heads,
And other ten the watch to be,
And ten to break up the strong prison
Where billy Archie he does lie.’
Then up and spak him mettled John Hall
(The luve of Teviotdale aye was he);
‘An I had eleven men to mysell,
It’s aye the twalt man I wad be.’
Then up bespak him coarse Ca’field
(I wot and little gude worth was he);
‘Thirty men is few anew,
And a’ to ride in our companie.’
62. on the.
63. the wanting.
64, 184. there for a’.
73. shoon for feet.
74. it’s unkensome.
After 7:
‘There lives a smith on the water-side
Will shoe my little black mare for me,
And I’ve a crown in my pocket,
And every groat of it I wad gie.’
‘The night is mirk, and it’s very mirk,
And by candle-light I canna weel see;
The night is mirk, and it’s very pit mirk,
And there will never a nail ca right for me.’
‘Shame fa you and your trade baith!
Canna beet a good fellow by your mystery;
But leeze me on thee, my little black mare!
Thou’s worth thy weight in gold to me.’
81. a wanting.
82. And there: upon.
84. And they lighted there right speedilie.
91. There’s five.
92. will watchmen be.
93. ye a’.
101. spak him mettled John Hall.
102. of wanting.
11 wanting.
123. and we.
124. Ca’field.
13 wanting.
142. bended low back his knee.
143. that wanting.
144. Loup frae the.
152. stair.
153–6 wanting.
161. The black mare stood ready at.
162. And wanting: I wot a foot neer stirred she.
163. Till wanting.
164. And that was her gold.
172. And wow: speedilie.
173,4 wanting.
181,2. The live-lang night these twelve men rade, And aye till they were right wearie.
184. lighted there right.
191. then Dickie.
193. file the irons frae.
194. For forward, forward.
201. hadna filed.
203. When out and spak.
204. O dinna you see.
212. Wi a.
213,4. This night will be our lyke-wake night, The morn the day we a’ maun die.
221. was mounting, mounting.
223. Annan water.
23, 24.
‘My mare is young and very skeigh,
And in o the weil she will drown me;’
‘But ye’ll take mine, and I’ll take thine,
And sune through the water we sall be.’
Then up and spak him coarse Ca’field
(I wot and little gude worth was he):
‘We had better lose ane than lose a’ the lave;
We’ll lose the prisoner, we’ll gae free.’
‘Shame fa you and your lands baith!
Wad ye een your lands to your born billy?
But hey! bear up, my bonnie black mare,
And yet thro the water we sall be.’
252. And wow.
254. drunkily.
263. there is an ale-house here.
264. thee ae.
27, 28 wanting.
291. irons, quo Lieutenant Gordon.
292. For wanting.
293. The shame a ma, quo mettled John Ha.
303. Yestreen I was.
304. now this morning am I free.
C.
52. Sae that?
D.
Slightly changed by Motherwell in printing.
21, 151, 182. Oh.
E.
The ancient and veritable ballad of ‘Bold Dickie,’ as sung by A. M. Watson, and remembered and rendered by his son, J. M. Watson.