The quare women

by Lucy S. Furman

"Lady Isabel sets in her bower a-sewing,
All as the gowans grow gay,
Then she hears an Elf Knight his horn a-blowing,
The first morning in May."

Enchanted by the magic strains, Lady Isabel makes a wish that she might possess both the horn and its blower. Whereupon the Elf Knight leaps into her window, seizes her, and takes her on his horse far away into the deep greenwood, only to inform her on arriving there that he has already slain seven king's daughters on that spot, and that she shall be the eighth.

She pleads for a moment of happiness first, begging him to sit down and rest his head on her knee for a little while before she dies. He does so; she strokes his head, weaves a spell over him, and lulls him to sleep; then binds him with his sword-belt and plunges a "dag-dirk" into his heart, bidding him lie there and be a husband to the seven slain women.

The next ballad was a many-stanzaed one, "Lord Thomas and Fair Ellender":—

"'O mother, O mother, come riddle my sport,
Come riddle it all as one,
Must I go marry Fair Ellender,
Or bring the Brown Girl home?'
"'The Brown Girl she has houses and lands,
Fair Ellender she has none;
I charge you on my blessing, Lord Thomas,
Go bring the Brown Girl home.'
"'Go saddle up my milk-white steed,
Go saddle him up for me;
I'll go and invite Fair Ellender
My wedding for to see.'
"He rode, he rode, till he came to the Hall;
He tingled all on the ring;
Nobody so ready as Fair Ellender herself
To rise and bid him come in.
"'What news, what news?' Fair Ellender cried;
'What news have you fetched to me?'
'I've come to invite thee to my wedding;
Is that good news for thee?'
"'Bad news, bad news,' Fair Ellender cried,
'Bad news have you fetched to me;
I once did think I would be your bride,
And you my bridegroom would be.'
"'O mother, O mother, come riddle my sport,
Come riddle it all as one;
Must I go to Lord Thomas's wedding,
Or tarry with thee at home?'
"'Oh, enemies, enemies, you have there;
The Brown Girl she has none;
I charge you on my blessing, fair daughter,
To tarry this day at home.'
"'There may be few of my friends, mother,
And many more of my foes;
But if I never return again,
To Lord Thomas's wedding I'll go.'
"She dressed herself in scarlet-red,
Her maidens she dressed in green,
And every town that she rode through
They took her to be some queen.
"She rode, she rode, till she came to the Hall;
She tingled all on the ring;
Nobody so ready as Lord Thomas himself
To rise and bid her come in.
"He took her by the lily-white hand,
He led her through the hall,
And set her down in a golden chair,
Among the ladies all.
"'Is this your bride,' Fair Ellender cried,
'That looks so wonderful brown?
You once could have married as fair a ladie
As ever the sun shone on!'
"'Despise her not, Fair Ellen,' he cried,
'Despise her not to me;
I'd rather have your little finger
Than her whole bodye.'
"The Brown Girl had a little pen-knife,
It was both keen and sharp;
Between the long ribs and the short,
She pierced Fair Ellender's heart.
"'Oh, what is the matter?' Lord Thomas, he cried.
'Oh, are you blind?' said she,
'And don't you see my own heart's blood
Come trinkling down my knee?'
"He seized the Brown Girl by the hand,
And dragged her across the hall;
He took a bright sword and cut off her head
And flung it again' the wall.
"'O mother, O mother, go dig my grave,
Go dig hit both wide and deep,
And lay Fair Ellender in my arms,
And the Brown Girl at my feet.'
"He placed the butt again' the wall,
The p'int again' his heart.
Did you ever see three true-lovers meet
That had so soon to part?"

Then followed many another ancient ballad, passed down through the centuries by word of mouth in England and Scotland; brought across the seas, to be cherished in the rough pioneer days as reminders of the old home; and, later, forgotten in the stress of American life by the more fortunately placed, to become to the mountaineer, in his isolation, the sole outlet for imagination and fancy, the chief source of inspiration and ideals.

The tunes themselves were invariably minor, and weird beyond credence, harking back, most of them, to a time before the development of the present musical scale, when the primitive one then in use possessed only five notes.

All afternoon Isabel sat spellbound, listening to one long-buried tragedy after another, living back into the lives of her remote ancestors, when feeling was less restrained, love more ardent, hate and vengeance more swift and sure; when, also, the world was inhabited by more picturesque beings—lords, ladies, kings and queens.

Often Isabel had sighed for the days of romance and chivalry; believed she had been born out of time into a world prosaic, spiritless, commercial-minded; felt an impatience with the men she knew—Thomas Vance, for instance, who could be content to spend nine or ten hours of every day in his cashier's cage at the bank. She knew now that the old world of the ballads was the one to which she truly belonged.

Many times during the afternoon she glanced at Fult's face, impassive always, save for the smouldering eyes. Only once, when news of the cruel killing of a Douglas is brought to his castle, and his "baby son, on the nourice's knee," miraculously speaks up: "Gin I live to be a man, revenged I'll be," did she see a spasm of feeling pass over it.