I
Motherwell’s MS., p. 327, “from the recitation of Robert Sim, weaver, in Paisley, 16 July, 1825. It was a song of his father’s, a great reciter of heroick ballads.”
1
In Bordershellin there did dwell
A comely, handsome may,
And Lochinvar he courted her,
And stole her heart away.
2
She loved him but owre weel,
And his love drew away;
Another man then courted her,
And set the wedding-day,
3
They set the wedding-day so plain,
As plain as it might be;
She sent a letter to her former love,
The wedding to come see.
4
When Lochinvar the letter read,
He sent owre a’ his land
For four and twenty beltit knichts,
To come at his command.
5
They all came to his hand, I say,
Upon that wedding-day;
He set them upon milk-white steeds,
And put them in array.
6
He set them in array, I say,
Most pleasant to be seen,
And he’s awa to the wedding-house,
A single man his lane.
7
And when he was to the wedding-house come,
They were all sitten down;
Baith gentlemen and knichts was there,
And lords of high renown.
8
They saluted him, baith auld and young,
Speired how he had spent the day,
And what young Lankashires was yon
They saw all in array.
9
But he answerd them richt scornfullie,
Upon their wedding-day;
He says, It’s been some Fairy Court
Ye’ve seen all in array.
10
Then rose up the young bridegroom,
And an angry man was he:
‘Lo, art thou come to fight, young man?
Indeed I’ll fight wi thee.’
11
‘O I am not come to fight,’ he sayd,
‘But good fellowship to hae,
And for to drink the wine sae red,
And then I’ll go away.’
12
Then they filld him up a brimming glass,
And drank it between them twa:
‘Now one word of your bonnie bride,
And then I’ll go my wa.’
13
But some were friends, and some were faes,
Yet nane o them was free
To let the bride on her wedding-day
Gang out o their companie.
14
But he took her by the milk-white hand,
And by the grass-green sleeve,
And set her on a milk-white steed,
And at nane o them speerd he leave.
15
Then the blood ran down the Caylin bank,
And owre the Caylin brae;
The auld folks knew something o the sport,
Which gart them cry, Foul play!
16
Ye lusty lads of Limberdale,
Tho ye be English born,
Come nae mair to Scotland to court a maid,
For fear ye get the scorn.
17
For fear that ye do get the scorn
Upon your wedding-day;
Least ye catch frogs instead of fish,
And then ye’ll ca’t foul play.