The Hobbie has sworn a fu' great aith,
By the day that he was gotten and born,
He never had onything o' my lord's,
That either eat him grass or corn.
"Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton!
For I think again I'll ne'er thee see:
I wad ha'e betrayed nae lad nor alive,
For a' the gowd o' Christentie.
"And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale!
Baith the hie land and the law;
Keep ye weel frae the traitor Mains!
For gowd and gear he'll sell ye a'.
"Yet wad I rather be ca'd Hobbie Noble,
In Carlisle where he suffers for his fau't,
Than I'd be ca'd the traitor Mains,
That eats and drinks o' the meal and maut."
Referring the reader to Percy's Reliques for "Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesley," a long and interesting ballad of this period, or somewhat earlier, we conclude this portion of the poetical antiquities of Carlisle by a very beautiful and touching ballad, "the lament of the border widow." It is founded upon the story of Cockburn of Henderland, a noted disturber of the English districts; who did not, however, suffer at Carlisle, though he had ravaged its neighbourhood; nor at the hands of the English, whose laws he had violated. James the Fifth, scandalized at the excesses of these border reivers, made an excursion into their country in 1529, and executed summary justice upon several of the most turbulent and lawless of them, including the famous Johnnie Armstrong, Adam Scot of Tushielaw, and Cockburn of Henderland.
The latter was hanged, by the King's order, over the gate of his own keep, or tower, while his lady fled to the banks of a mountain-stream, called the Henderland burn, and sat down at the foot of a foaming cataract, to drown, amid the sound of the roaring waters, the noise of the drums that announced the close of her husband's existence. The place where she sat is still shown to the stranger. The author of the ballad is unknown. It was taken down from recitation in the Ettrick forest, and is as affecting a ballad as any in the language, abounding with touches of genuine pathos, and most lovely simplicity of sorrow. Exquisite is the whole composition; and many of the passages are worthy of the greatest of poets.
My love, he built me a bonny bower,
And clad it a' wi' lilye flower,
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,
Than my true love he built for me.
There came a man by middle day,
He spied his sport and went away,
And brought the King that very night,
Who brake my bower and slew my knight.
He slew my knight, to me sae dear,
He slew my knight and poined his gear;
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.
I sewed his sheet, making my moan;
I watched the corpse myself alone;
I watched the body night and day,
No living creature came that way.