KING HENRIE.
ANCIENT COPY.
Let never a man a wooing wend,
That lacketh thingis thrie:
A rowth o' gold, an open heart,
And fu' o' courtesey.
And this was seen o' King Henrie,
For he lay burd alane;
And he has ta'en him to a haunted hunt's ha',
Was seven miles frae a toun.
He's chaced the dun deer thro' the wood,
And the roe doun by the den,
Till the fattest buck, in a' the herd,
King Henrie he has slain.
He's ta'en him to his hunting ha',
For to make burly cheir;
When loud the wind was heard to sound,
And an earthquake rocked the floor.
And darkness cover'd a' the hall,
Where they sat at their meat:
The gray dogs, youling, left their food,
And crept to Henrie's feet.
And louder houled the rising wind,
And burst the fast'ned door;
And in there came a griesly ghost,
Stood stamping on the floor.
Her head touched the roof-tree of the house;
Her middle ye weel mot span:
Each frighted huntsman fled the ha',
And left the king alone.
Her teeth were a' like tether stakes,
Her nose like club or mell;
And I ken naething she appeared to be,
But the fiend that wons in hell.
"Sum meat, sum meat, ye King Henrie!
"Sum meat ye gie to me!"
"And what meat's in this house, ladye,
"That ye're na wellcum tee?"[16]
"O ye'se gae kill your berry-brown steed,
"And serve him up to me."
O when he killed his berry-brown steed,
Wow gin his heart was sair!
She eat him a' up, skin and bane,
Left naething but hide and hair.
"Mair meat, mair meat, ye King Henrie!
"Mair meat ye gie to me!"
"And what meat's i' this house, ladye,
"That ye're na wellcum tee?"
"O ye do slay your gude gray houndes,
"And bring them a' to me."
O when he slew his gude gray houndes,
Wow but his heart was sair!
She's ate them a' up, ane by ane,
Left naething but hide and hair.
"Mair meat, mair meat, ye King Henrie!
"Mair meat ye gie to me!"
"And what meat's i' this house, ladye,
"That I hae left to gie?"
"O ye do fell your gay goss-hawks,
"And bring them a' to me."
O when he felled his gay goss-hawks,
Wow but his heart was sair!
She's ate them a' up, bane by bane,
Left naething but feathers bare.
"Some drink, some drink, ye King Henrie!
"Sum drink ye gie to me!"
"And what drink's in this house, ladye,
"That ye're na wellcum tee?"
"O ye sew up your horse's hide,
"And bring in a drink to me."
O he has sewed up the bluidy hide,
And put in a pipe of wine;
She drank it a' up at ae draught,
Left na a drap therein.
"A bed, a bed, ye King Henrie!
"A bed ye mak to me!"
"And what's the bed i' this house, ladye,
"That ye're na wellcum tee?"
"O ye maun pu' the green heather,
"And mak a bed to me."
O pu'd has he the heather green,
And made to her a bed;
And up he has ta'en his gay mantle,
And o'er it he has spread.
"Now swear, now swear, ye King Henrie,
"To take me for your bride!"
"O God forbid," King Henrie said,
"That e'er the like betide!
"That e'er the fiend, that wons in hell,
"Should streak down by my side."
When day was come, and night was gane,
And the sun shone through the ha',
The fairest ladye, that e'er was seen,
Lay atween him and the wa'.
"O weel is me!" King Henrie said,
"How lang will this last wi' me?"
And out and spak that ladye fair,
"E'en till the day ye die.
"For I was witched to a ghastly shape,
"All by my stepdame's skill,
"Till I should meet wi' a courteous knight,
"Wad gie me a' my will."
FOOTNOTES:
[16] Tee, for to, is the Buchanshire and Gallovidian pronunciation.
[ANNAN WATER.]
NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.
The following verses are the original words of the tune of "Allan Water," by which name the song is mentioned in Ramsay's Tea Table Miscellany. The ballad is given from tradition; and it is said, that a bridge, over the Annan, was built in consequence of the melancholy catastrophe which it narrates. Two verses are added in this edition, from another copy of the ballad, in which the conclusion proves fortunate. By the Gatehope Slack, is perhaps meant the Gate Slack, a pass in Annandale. The Annan, and the Frith of Solway, into which it falls, are the frequent scenes of tragical accidents. The editor trusts he will be pardoned for inserting the following awfully impressive account of such an event, contained in a letter from Dr Currie, of Liverpool, by whose correspondence, while in the course of preparing these volumes for the press, he has been alike honoured and instructed. After stating, that he had some recollection of the ballad which follows, the biographer of Burns proceeds thus: "I once in my early days heard (for it was night, and I could not see) a traveller drowning; not in the Annan itself, but in the Frith of Solway, close by the mouth of that river. The influx of the tide had unhorsed him, in the night, as he was passing the sands from Cumberland. The west wind blew a tempest, and, according to the common expression, brought in the water, three foot a-breast. The traveller got upon a standing net, a little way from the shore. There he lashed himself to the post, shouting for half an hour for assistance—till the tide rose over his head! In the darkness of night, and amid the pauses of the hurricane, his voice, heard at intervals, was exquisitely mournful. No one could go to his assistance—no one knew where he was—the sound seemed to proceed from the spirit of the waters. But morning rose—the tide had ebbed—and the poor traveller was found lashed to the pole of the net, and bleaching in the wind."