O Alison Gross, that lives in yon tower,The ugliest witch in the north countrie,Has trysted me ae day up till her bower,And mony fair speech she made to me.
She straiked my head, and she kaim'd my hair,And she set me down saftly on her knee;Says, "Gin ye will be my lemman sae true,Sae mony braw things as I wad you gie."
She shaw'd me a mantle o' red scarlet,Wi' gowden flowers and fringes fine;Says, "Gin ye will be my lemman sae true,This gudely gift it sall be thine."
"Awa', awa', ye ugly witch!Haud far awa', and lat me be;I never will be your lemman sae true,And I wish I were out o' your companie."
She neist brocht a sark o' the saftest silk,Weel wrought wi' pearls about the band;Says, "Gin ye will be my ain true-love,This gudely gift ye sall command."
She shaw'd me a cup o' the gude red gowd,Weel set wi' jewels sae fair to see;Says, "Gin ye will be my lemman sae true,This gudely gift I will you gie."
"Awa', awa', ye ugly witch!Haud far awa', and lat me be;For I wadna ance kiss your ugly mouthFor a' the gifts that you could gie."
She's turn'd her richt and round about,And thrice she blew on a grass-green horn;And she sware by the moon, and the starsThat she'd gar me rue the day I was born.
Then out she has ta'en a silver wand,And she's turn'd her three times round and round;She's muttered sic words, that my strength it fail'd,And I fell down senseless on the ground.
She's turned me into an ugly worm,And gar'd me toddle about the tree;And ay, on ilka Saturday's night,Auld Alison Gross, she cam' to me,
Wi' silver basin, and silver kaim,To kaim my headie upon her knee;But or I had kiss'd her ugly mouth,I'd rather hae toddled about the tree.
But as it fell out on last Hallowe'en,When the Seely Court was ridin' by,The Queen lighted down on a gowan bank,Nae far frae the tree where I wont to lye.
She took me up in her milk-white hand,And she straiked me three times o'er her knee;She changed me again to my ain proper shape,And I nae mair maun toddle about the tree.
* * * * *
There lived a wife at Usher's Well,And a wealthy wife was she;She had three stout and stalwart sons,And sent them o'er the sea.
They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely ane,When word cam' to the carline wife,That her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely three,When word cam' to the carline wife,That her sons she'd never see.
"I wish the wind may never cease,Nor fashes in the flood,Till my three sons come hame to me,In earthly flesh and blood!"
It fell about the Martinmas,When nights are lang and mirk,The carline wife's three sons cam' hame,And their hats were o' the birk.
It neither grew in syke nor ditch,Nor yet in ony sheugh;But at the gates o' Paradise,That birk grew fair eneugh.
"Blow up the fire, now, maidens mine,Bring water from the well!For a' my house shall feast this night,Sin' my three sons are well."
And she has made to them a bed,She's made it large and wide;And she's happed her mantle them about,Sat down at the bed-side.
Up then crew the red red cock,And up and crew the gray;The eldest to the youngest said,"'Tis time we were away."
"The cock doth, craw, the day doth daw,The channerin' worm doth chide;Gin we be miss'd out o' our place,A sair pain we maun bide."
"Lie still, lie still a little wee while,Lie still but if we may;Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes,She'll go mad ere it be day."
O it's they've ta'en up their mother's mantle,And they've hangd it on the pin:"O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantle,Ere ye hap us again!
'Fare-ye-weel, my mother dear!Fareweel to barn and byre!And fare-ye-weel, the bonny lass,That kindles my mother's fire."
* * * * *
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,Everie nighte and alle,Fire, and sleete, and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thye saule.
When thou from hence away art paste,Everie nighte and alle,To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste,And Christe receive thye saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,Everie nighte and alle,Sit thee down and put them on,And Christe receive thye saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane,Everie nighte and alle,The whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane,And Christe receive thye saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,Everie nighte and alle,To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at last,And Christe receive thye saule.
From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe,Everie nighte and alle,To Purgatory Fire thou comest at last,And Christe receive thye saule.
If ever thou gavest meate or drinke,Everie nighte and alle,The fire shall never make thee shrinke,And Christe receive thye saule.
If meate or drinke thou ne'er gav'st nane,Everie nighte and alle,The fire will burne thee to the bare bane,And Christe receive thye saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,Everie nighte and alle,Fire, and sleete, and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thye saule.
* * * * *
'Twas on a night, an evening bright,When the dew began to fa',Lady Margaret was walkin' up and doun,Looking ower the castle wa'.
She lookit east, she lookit west,To see what she could spy,When a gallant knight cam' in her sight,And to the gate drew nigh.
"God mak' you safe and free, fair maid,God mak' you safe and free!""O sae fa' you, ye stranger knight,What is your will wi' me?"
"It's I am come to this castle,To seek the love o' thee;And if ye grant me not your loveAll for your sake I'll die."
"If ye should die for me, young man,There's few for ye will maen;For mony a better has died for me,Whose graves are growing green."
"O winna ye pity me, fair maid,O winna ye pity me?Hae pity for a courteous knight,Whose love is laid on thee."
"Ye say ye are a courteous knight,But I misdoubt ye sair;I think ye're but a miller lad,By the white clothes ye wear.
"But ye maun read my riddle," she said,"And answer me questions three;And but ye read them richt," she said,"Gae stretch ye out and die.
"What is the fairest flower, tell me,That grows on muir or dale?And what is the bird, the bonnie bird,Sings next the nightingale?And what is the finest thing," she says,"That king or queen can wale?"
"The primrose is the fairest flower,That springs on muir or dale;
The mavis is the sweetest birdNext to the nightingale;And yellow gowd's the finest thing,That king or queen can wale."
"But what is the little coin," she said,"Wad buy my castle boun'?And what's the little boat," she said,"Can sail the warld all roun'?"
"O hey, how mony small penniesMak' thrice three thousand poun'?O hey, how mony small fishesSwim a' the saut sea roun'?"
"I think ye are my match," she said,"My match, an' something mair;Ye are the first ere got the grantOf love frae my father's heir.
"My father was lord o' nine castles,My mither lady o' three;My father was lord o' nine castles,And there's nane to heir but me,Unless it be Willie, my ae brither,But he's far ayont the sea."
"If your father's lord o' nine castles,Your mither lady o' three;It's I am Willie, your ae brither,Was far ayont the sea."
"If ye be my brither Willie," she said,"As I doubt sair ye be,This nicht I'll neither eat nor drink,But gae alang wi' thee."
"Ye've owre ill-washen feet, Margaret,And owre ill-washen hands,And owre coarse robes on your body,Alang wi' me to gang.
"The worms they are my bedfellows,And the cauld clay my sheet,And the higher that the wind does blaw,The sounder do I sleep.
"My body's buried in Dunfermline,Sae far ayont the sea:But day nor night nae rest can I get,A' for the pride of thee.
"Leave aff your pride, Margaret," he says;"Use it not ony mair,Or, when ye come where I hae been,Ye will repent it sair.
"Cast aff, cast aff, sister," he says,"The gowd band frae your croun;For if ye gang where I hae been,Ye'll wear it laigher doun.
"When ye are in the gude kirk set,The gowd pins in your hair,Ye tak' mair delight in your feckless dress,Than in your mornin' prayer.
"And when ye walk in the kirkyard,And in your dress are seen,There is nae lady that spies your face,But wishes your grave were green.
"Ye're straight and tall, handsome withal,But your pride owergangs your wit;If ye do not your ways refrain,In Pirie's chair ye'll sit.
"In Pirie's chair ye'll sit, I say,The lowest seat in hell;If ye do not amend your ways,It's there that ye maun dwell!"
Wi' that he vanished frae her sight,In the twinking of an eye;And naething mair the lady sawBut the gloomy clouds and sky.
* * * * *
There were twa sisters lived in a bower;Binnorie, O Binnorie;The youngest o' them, O she was a flower,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
There cam' a squire frae the west,Binnorie, O Binnorie;He lo'ed them baith, but the youngest best,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He courted the eldest wi' glove and ring,Binnorie, O Binnorie;But he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The eldest she was vexed sair,Binnorie, O Binnorie;And sore envied her sister fair,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The eldest said to the youngest ane,Binnorie, O Binnorie;"Will ye see our father's ships come in?"By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
She's ta'en her by the lily hand;Binnorie, O Binnorie;And led her down to the river strand,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The youngest stood upon a stane;Binnorie, O Binnorie;The eldest cam' and pushed her in,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
"O sister, sister, reach your hand,Binnorie, O Binnorie;And ye shall be heir of half my land,"By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
"O sister, I'll not reach my hand,Binnorie, O Binnorie;And I'll be the heir of all your land;By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
"Shame fa' the hand that I should take,Binnorie, O Binnorie;It has twined me and my world's make;"By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
"O sister, sister, reach your glove,Binnorie, O Binnorie;And sweet William shall be your love;"By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
"Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove,Binnorie, O Binnorie;And sweet William shall be mair my love,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
"Your cherry cheeks, and your yellow hair,Binnorie, O Binnorie;Had gar'd me gang maiden ever mair,"By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Sometimes she sank, and sometimes she swam,Binnorie, O Binnorie;Until she cam' to the miller's dam;By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The miller's daughter was baking bread,Binnorie, O Binnorie;And gaed for water as she had need,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
"O father, father, draw your dam!Binnorie, O Binnorie;For there is a lady or milk-white swan,"By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The miller hasted and drew his dam,Binnorie, O Binnorie;And there he found a drown'd woman,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Ye couldna see her yellow hair,Birmorie, O Binnorie;For gowd and pearls that were sae rare;By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Ye couldna see her middle sma',Binnorie, O Binnorie;Her gowden girdle was sae braw,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Ye couldna see her lilie feet,Binnorie, O Binnorie;Her gowden fringes were sae deep,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
"Sair will they be, whae'er they be,Binnorie, O Binnorie;The hearts that live to weep for thee!"By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
There cam' a harper passing by,Binnorie, O Binnorie;The sweet pale face he chanced to spy,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And when he looked that lady on,Binnorie, O Binnorie;He sighed and made a heavy moan,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He has ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair,Binnorie, O Binnorie;And wi' them strung his harp sae rare,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He brought the harp to her father's hall;Binnorie, O Binnorie;And there was the court assembled all;By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He set the harp upon a stane,Binnorie, O Binnorie;And it began to play alane,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And sune the harp sang loud and clear,Binnorie, O Binnorie!"Farewell, my father and mither dear!"By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And neist when the harp began to sing,Binnorie, O Binnorie!'Twas "Farewell, sweetheart!" said the string,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And then as plain as plain could be,Binnorie, O Binnorie!"There sits my sister wha drowned me!"By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.
* * * * *
"O, where hae ye been, my lang-lost love,This lang seven years an' more?""O, I'm come to seek my former vowsYe granted me before."
"O, haud your tongue o' your former vows,For they'll breed bitter strife;O, haud your tongue o' your former vows,For I am become a wife."
He turned him right an' round about,And the tear blinded his e'e;"I wad never hae trodden on Irish groundIf it hadna been for thee.
"I might hae had a king's daughterFar, far ayont the sea,I might hae had a king's daughter,Had it nae been for love o' thee."
"If ye might hae had a king's daughter,Yoursel' ye hae to blame;Ye might hae taken the king's daughter,For ye kenn'd that I was nane."
"O fause be the vows o' womankind,But fair is their fause bodie;I wad never hae trodden on Irish groundHad it nae been for love o' thee."
"If I was to leave my husband dear,And my twa babes also,O where is it ye would tak' me to,If I with thee should go?"
"I hae seven ships upon the sea,The eighth brouct me to land,Wi' four-and-twenty bold mariners,And music of ilka hand."
She has taken up her twa little babes,Kiss'd them baith cheek and chin;"O fare ye weel, my ain twa babes,For I'll never see you again."
She set her foot upon the ship,No mariners could she behold;But the sails were o' the taffetie,And the masts o' the beaten gold.
"O how do you love the ship?" he said,"O how do you love the sea?And how do you love the bold marinersThat wait upon thee and me?"
"O I do love the ship," she said,"And I do love the sea;But wae to the dim marinersThat naewhere I can see!"
They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When dismal grew his countenance,And drumly grew his e'e.
The masts that were like the beaten gold,Bent not on the heaving seas;The sails that were o' the taffetieFill'd not in the east land breeze.
They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,Until she espied his cloven hoof,And she wept right bitterlie.
"O haud your tongue o' your weeping," he says:"O' your weeping now let me be;I will show you how the lilies growOn the banks of Italy."
"O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,That the sun shines sweetly on?""O yon are the hills o' heaven," he said"Where you will never won."
"O what'n a mountain's yon," she said,"Sae dreary wi' frost an' snow?""O yon is the mountain o' hell," he cried,"Where you and I maun go!"
And aye when she turn'd her round about,Aye taller he seemed for to be;Until that the tops o' that gallant shipNae taller were than he.
He strack the tapmast wi' his hand,The foremast wi' his knee;And he brak that gallant ship in twain,And sank her i' the sea.
* * * * *
There was a knicht riding frae the east,Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree.Who had been wooing at monie a place,As the dew flies ower the mulberry tree.
He cam' unto a widow's door,And speird whare her three dochters were.
The auldest ane's to a washing gane,The second's to a baking gane.
The youngest ane's to a wedding gane,And it will be nicht or she be hame.
He sat him doun upon a stane,Till thir three lasses cam' tripping hame.
The auldest ane she let him in,And pin'd the door wi' a siller pin.
The second ane she made his bed,And laid saft pillows unto his head.
The youngest ane was bauld and bricht,And she tarried for words wi' this unco knicht.
"Gin ye will answer me questions ten,The morn ye sall be made my ain.
"O what is heigher nor the tree?And what is deeper nor the sea?
"Or what is heavier nor the lead?And what is better nor the breid?
"O what is whiter nor the milk?Or what is safter nor the silk?
"Or what is sharper nor a thorn?Or what is louder nor a horn?
"Or what is greener nor the grass?Or what is waur nor a woman was?"
"O heaven is higher nor the tree,And hell is deeper nor the sea.
"O sin is heavier nor the lead,The blessing's better nor the breid.
"The snaw is whiter nor the milk,And the down is safter nor the silk.
"Hunger is sharper nor a thorn,And shame is louder nor a horn.
"The pies are greener nor the grass,And Clootie's waur nor a woman was."
As sune as she the fiend did name,Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree,He flew awa in a blazing flame,As the dew files ower the mulberry tree.
* * * * *
The King sits in Dunfermline toun,Drinking the blude-red wine;"O whaur shall I get a skeely skipper,To sail this gude ship of mine?"
Then up an' spake an eldern knight,Sat at the King's right knee;"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sailed the sea."
The King has written a braid letter,And seal'd it wi' his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick SpensWas walking on the sand.
"To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The King's daughter to Noroway,It's thou maun tak' her hame."
The first line that Sir Patrick read,A loud laugh laughed he,The neist line that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his e'e.
"O wha is this hae dune this deed,And tauld the King o' me,To send us out at this time o' the yearTo sail upon the sea?
"Be it wind or weet, be it hail or sleet,Our ship maun sail the faem,The King's daughter to Noroway,'Tis we maun tak' her hame."
They hoisted their sails on Monday morn,Wi' a' the speed they may;And they hae landed in NorowayUpon the Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway but twae,When that the lords o' NorowayBegan aloud to say—
"Ye Scotsmen spend a' our King's gowd,And a' our Queenis fee.""Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,Sae loud's I hear ye lie!
"For I brouct as mickle white monie,As gane my men and me,And a half-fou o' the gude red gold,Out owre the sea wi' me.
"Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a',Our gude ship sails the morn.""Now ever alack, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.
"I saw the new moon late yestreen,Wi' the auld moon in her arm;And I fear, I fear, my master dear,That we sall come to harm!"
They hadna sail'd a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.
The ropes they brak, and the top-masts lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves cam' o'er the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn.
"O whaur will I get a gude sailorWill tak' the helm in hand,Until I win to the tall top-mast,And see if I spy the land?"
"It's here am I, a sailor gude,Will tak' the helm in hand,Till ye win to the tall top-mast,But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bolt flew out of the gude ship's side,And the saut sea it cam' in.
"Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith,Anither o' the twine,And wap them into the gude ship's side,And let na the sea come in."
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Anither o' the twine,And they wapp'd them into that gude ship's side,But aye the sea cam' in.
O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cock-heeled shoon,But lang ere a' the play was o'erThey wat their hats abune.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their milk-white hands,But lang ere a' the play was playedThey wat their gouden bands.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit,Wi' their fans into their hand,Or ever they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the maidens sit,Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves,For them they'll see nae mair.
Half owre, half owre to Aberdour,It's fifty fathom deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
* * * * *
It fell about the Lammas tide,When muirmen win their hay,That the doughty Earl of Douglas radeInto England to fetch a prey.
And he has ta'en the Lindsays light,With them the Gordons gay;But the Jardines wad not with him ride,And they rue it to this day.
Then they hae harried the dales o' Tyne,And half o' Bambrough-shire,And the Otter-dale they burned it haill,And set it a' on fire.
Then he cam' up to New Castel,And rade it round about:"O who is the lord of this castel,Or who is the lady o't?"
But up and spake Lord Percy then,And O but he spake hie:"It's I am the lord of this castel,My wife is the lady gay."
"If thou'rt the lord of this castel,Sae weel it pleases me!For ere I cross the Border fell,The tane of us shall dee."—
He took a lang spear in his hand,Shod with the metal free;And forth to meet the Douglas then,He rade richt furiouslie.
But O how pale his lady lookedFrae aff the castle wa',As doun before the Scottish spearShe saw proud Percy fa'!
"Had we twa been upon the green,And never an eye to see,I wad hae had you, flesh and fell,But your sword shall gae wi' me."
"Now gae up to the Otterburne,And bide there dayis three,And gin I come not ere they end,A fause knight ca' ye me!"
"The Otterburne is a bonnie burn,'Tis pleasant there to be;But there is nought at OtterburneTo feed my men and me.
"The deer rins wild on hill and dale,The birds fly wild frae tree to tree;But there is neither bread nor kale,To fend my men and me.
"Yet I will stay at the Otterburne,Where you shall welcome be;And, if ye come not at three dayis end,A fause lord I'll ca' thee."
"Thither will I come," Earl Percy said,By the might of our Ladye!""There will I bide thee," said the Douglas,"My troth I plight to thee!"
They lichted high on Otterburne,Upon the bent sae broun;They lichted high on Otterburne,And pitched their pallions doun.
And he that had a bonnie boy,He sent his horse to grass;And he that had not a bonnie boy,His ain servant he was.
Then up and spake a little boy,Was near of Douglas' kin—"Methinks I see an English hostCome branking us upon!
"Nine wargangs beiring braid and wide,Seven banners beiring high;It wad do any living gude,To see their colours fly!"
"If this be true, my little boy,That thou tells unto me,The brawest bower o' the OtterburneSall be thy morning fee.
"But I hae dreamed a dreary dream,Ayont the Isle o' Skye,—I saw a deid man win a fight,And I think that man was I."
He belted on his gude braid-sword,And to the field he ran;But he forgot the hewmont strong,That should have kept his brain.
When Percy wi' the Douglas met,I wot he was fu' fain:They swakkit swords, and they twa swat,Till the blude ran down like rain.
But Percy wi' his gude braid-sword,That could sae sharply wound,Has wounded Douglas on the brow,That he fell to the ground.
And then he called his little foot-page,And said—"Run speedilie,And fetch my ae dear sister's son,Sir Hugh Montgomerie.
"My nephew gude!" the Douglas said,"What recks the death of ane?Last night I dreamed a dreary dream,And ken the day's thy ain!
"My wound is deep; I fain wad sleep!Tak' thou the vanguard o' the three,And bury me by the bracken bush,That grows on yonder lily lea.
"O bury me by the bracken bush,Beneath the blumin' brier;Let never living mortal kenThat a kindly Scot lies here!"
He lifted up that noble lord,Wi' the saut tear in his e'e;And he hid him by the bracken bush,That his merry men might not see.
The moon was clear, the day drew near,The spears in flinders flew;And many a gallant EnglishmanEre day the Scotsmen slew.
The Gordons gay, in English bludeThey wat their hose and shoon;The Lindsays flew like fire about,Till a' the fray was dune.
The Percy and Montgomery met,That either of other was fain;They swakkit swords, and sair they swat,And the blude ran down between.
"Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy!" he said,Or else I will lay thee low!""To whom maun I yield," Earl Percy said,"Since I see that it maun be so?"
"Thou shalt not yield to lord or loun,Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;But yield thee to the bracken-bushThat grows on yonder lily lea!"
This deed was done at the OtterburneAbout the breaking o' the day;Earl Douglas was buried at the bracken bush,And the Percy led captive away.
* * * * *
The Persè owt off Northombarlande,And a vowe to God mayd he,That he wold hunte in the mountaynsOff Chyviat within days thre,In the mauger of doughtè Dogles,And all that ever with him be.
The fattiste hartes in all CheviatHe sayd he wold kill, and cary them away:"Be my feth," sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn,"I wyll let that hontyng, yf that I may."
Then the Persè owt of Banborowe cam,With him a myghtye meany;With fifteen hondrith archares bold;The wear chosen owt of shyars thre.
This begane on a monday at morn,In Cheviat the hillys so he;The chyld may rue that ys un-born,It was the mor pittè.
The dryvars thorowe the woodès went,For to reas the dear;Bomen byckarte uppone the bentWith ther browd aras cleare.
Then the wyld thorowe the woodès went,On every sydè shear;Grea-hondes thorowe the grevis glent,For to kyll thear dear.
The begane in Chyviat the hyls above,Yerly on a monnynday;Be that it drewe to the oware off none,A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.
The blewe a mort uppone the bent,The semblyd on sydis shear;To the quyrry then the Persè wentTo se the bryttlynge off the deare.
He sayd, "It was the Duglas promysThis day to meet me hear;But I wyste he wold faylle, verament:"A gret oth the Persè swear.
At the laste a squyar of NorthombelondeLokyde at his hand full ny;He was war ath the doughetie Doglas comynge,With him a myghtè meany;
Both with spear, byll, and brande;Yt was a myghti sight to se;Hardyar men both off hart nar handeWear not in Christiantè.
The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good,Withowtè any fayle;The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde,Yth bowndes of Tividale.
"Leave off the brytlyng of the dear," he sayde,"And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed;For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borneHad ye never so mickle need."
The dougheti Dogglas on a stedeHe rode aft his men beforne;His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;A bolder barne was never born.
"Tell me what men ye ar," he says,"Or whos men that ye be:Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays,In the spyt of me?"
The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,Yt was the good lord Persè:We wyll not tell the what men we ar," he says,"Nor whos men that we be;But we wyll hount hear in this chays,In the spyt of thyne and of the.
"The fattiste hartes in all ChyviatWe have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way:"Be my troth," sayd the doughtè Dogglas agayn,"Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day."
Then sayd the doughtè DoglasUnto the lord Persè:"To kyll all thes giltles men,Alas, it were great pitte!
"But, Persè, thowe art a lord of lande,I am a yerle callyd within my contrè;Let all our men uppone a parti stande,And do the battell off the and of me."
"Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne," sayd the lord Persè,"Whosoever ther-to says nay;Be my troth, doughtè Doglas," he says,"Thow shalt never se that day.
"Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,Nor for no man of a woman born,But, and fortune be my chance,I dar met him, on man for on."
Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde,Richard Wytharynton was him nam;"It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde," he says,"To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.
"I wat youe byn great lordes twaw,I am a poor squyar of lande;I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,And stande myselffe, and looke on,But whyll I may my weppone welde,I wyll not ffayll both hart and hande."
That day, that day, that dredfull day!The first fit here I fynde;And youe wyll here any mor a' the hountyng a'the Chyviat,Yet ys ther mor behynd.
The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,Ther hartes were good yenoughe;The first off arros that the shote off,Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.
Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent,A captayne good yenoughe,And that was sene verament,For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.
The Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre,Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde,With suar speares off myghttè tre,The cum in on every syde:
Thrughe our Yngglishe archeryGave many a wounde full wyde;Many a doughete the garde to dy,Which ganyde them no pryde.
The Yngglyshe men let thear bowys be,And pulde owt brandes that wer bright;It was a hevy syght to seBryght swordes on basnites lyght.
Throrowe ryche male and myneyeple,Many sterne the stroke downe streght;Many a freyke, that was full fre,Ther undar foot dyd lyght.
At last the Duglas and the Persè met,Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;The swapte togethar tyll the both swat,With swordes that wear of fyn myllàn,
Thes worthè freckys for to fyght,Ther-to the wear full fayne,Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,As ever dyd heal or rayne.
"Holde the, Persè," sayd the Doglas,"And i' feth I shall the bryngeWher thowe shalte have a yerls wagisOf Jamy our Scottish kynge.
"Thoue shalte have thy ranson fre,I hight the hear this thinge,For the manfullyste man yet art thowe,That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng."
"Nay," sayd the lord Persè,"I tolde it the beforne,That I wolde never yeldyde beTo no man of woman born."
With that ther cam an arrowe hastelyForthe off a myghtte wane;Hit hathe strekene the yerle DuglasIn at the brest bane.
Thoroue lyvar and longs batheThe sharp arrowe ys gane,That never after in all his lyffe-days,He spayke mo wordes but ane:That was, "Fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may,For my lyff-days ben gan."
The Persè leanyde on his brande,And sawe the Duglas de;He tooke the dede man be the hande,And sayd, "Wo ys me for the!
"To have savyde thy lyffe I wolde have pertyde withMy landes for years thre,For a better man, of hart nare of hande,Was not in all the north contrè."
Off all that se a Skottishe knyght,Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry;He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght,He spendyd a spear, a trust! tre:—
He rod uppon a corsiareThroughe a hondrith archery:He never styntyde, nar never blane,Tyll he cam to the good lord Persè.
He set uppone the lord PersèA dynte that was full soare;With a suar spear of a myghttè treClean thorow the body he the Persè bore,
A' the tother syde that a man myght seA large cloth yard and mare:Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Christiantè,Then that day slain wear ther.
An archar off NorthomberlondeSay slean was the lord Persè;He bar a bende-bowe in his hande,Was made off trusti tre.
An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang,To th' hard stele halyde he;A dynt that was both sad and soar,He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry.
The dynt yt was both sad and sar,That he on Mongonberry sete;The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar,With his hart-blood the wear wete.
Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle,But still in stour dyd stand,Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre,With many a balful brande.
This battell begane in ChyviatAn owar befor the none,And when even-song bell was rang,The battell was nat half done.
The tooke on ethar handBe the lyght off the mone;Many hade no strenght for to stande,In Chyviat the hillys aboun.
Of fifteen hondrith archars of YonglondeWent away but fifti and thre;Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,But even five and fifti:
But all wear slayne Cheviat within;The hade no strengthe to stand on hie;The chylde may rue that ys unborne,It was the mor pittè.
Thear was slayne with the lord PersèSir John of Agerstone,Sir Rogar the hinde Hartly,Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.
Sir Jorg the worthè Lovele,A knyght of great renowen,Sir Raff the ryche Rugbè,With dyntes wear beaten dowene.
For Wetharryngton my harte was wo,That ever he slayne shulde be;For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,Yet he knyled and fought on hys kne.
Ther was slayne with the dougheti Douglas,Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry,Sir Davye Lwdale, that worthè was,His sistars son was he:
His Charls a Murrè in that place,That never a foot wolde fle;Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was,With the Duglas dyd he dey.
So on the morrowe the mayde them byearsOff birch and hasell so gray;Many wedous with wepyng tearsCam to fach ther makys away.
Tivydale may carpe off care,Northombarlond may mayk grat mon,For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear,On the march perti shall never be non.
Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe,To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches,He lay slean Chyviot with-in.
His handdes dyd he weal and wryng,He sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me!"Such an othar captayn Skotland within,"He sayd, "y-feth shall never be."
Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone,Till the fourth Harry our kyng,That lord Persè, lyffe-tennante of the Merchis,He lay slayne Chyviat within.
"God have merci on his soil," sayd kyng Harry,"Good lord, yf thy will it be!I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd,"As good as ever was hee:But Persè, and I brook my lyffe,Thy deth well quyte shall be."
As our noble kyng mayd his a-vowe,Lyke a noble prince of renowen,For the deth of the lord PersèHe dyde the battell of Hombyll-down:
Wher syx and thrittè Skottishe knyghtesOn a day wear beaten down;Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght,Over castill, towar, and town.
This was the Hontynge off the Cheviat;That tear begane this spurn:Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe,Call it the Battell of Otterburn.
At Otterburn began this spurneUppon a monnynday:Ther was the dougghtè Doglas slean,The Persè never went away.
Ther was never a tym on the March partesSen the Doglas and the Persè met,But yt was marvele, and the redde blude ronne not,As the reane doys in the stret.
Jhesue Christ our balys bete,And to the blys us brynge!Thus was the Hountynge of the Chevyat:God send us all good endyng.
* * * * *
It fell about the Martinmas,When the wind blew shrill and cauld,Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,"We maun draw to a hauld.
"And whatna hauld sall we draw to,My merry men and me?We will gae to the house o' the Rodes,To see that fair ladie."
The ladie stude on her castle wa',Beheld baith dale and down,There she was ware of a host of menWere riding towards the town.
"O see ye not, my merry men a',O see ye not what I see?Methinks I see a host of men—I marvel what they be."
She ween'd it had been ner ain dear lordAs he cam' riding hame;It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon,Wha recked nor sin nor shame.
She had nae suner buskit hersell,Nor putten on her goun,Till Edom o' Gordon and his menWere round about the toun.
They had nae suner supper set,Nor suner said the grace,Till Edom o' Gordon and his menWere light about the place.
The ladie ran to her tower head,As fast as she could hie,To see if, by her fair speeches,She could with him agree.
"Come doun to me, ye ladye gay,Come doun, come doun to me;This nicht sall ye lie within my arms,The morn my bride sall be."
"I winna come doun, ye fause Gordon,I winna come doun to thee;I winna forsake my ain dear lord,That is sae far frae me."
"Gie owre your house, ye ladie fair,Gie owre your house to me;Or I sail burn yoursell therein,But and your babies three."
"I winna gie owre, ye false Gordon,To nae sic traitor as thee;And if ye burn my ain dear babes,My lord sall mak' ye dree!
"But reach my pistol, Glaud, my man,And charge ye weel my gun;For, but an I pierce that bludy butcher,We a' sall be undone."
She stude upon the castle wa',And let twa bullets flee;She miss'd that bludy butcher's heart,And only razed his knee.
"Set fire to the house!" quo' the false Gordon,All wude wi' dule and ire;"False ladie! ye sail rue that shot,As ye burn in the fire."
"Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man!I paid ye weel your fee;Why pu' ye out the grund-wa-stane,Lets in the reek to me?
"And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man!I paid ye weel your hire;Why pu' ye out my grund-wa-stane,To me lets in the fire?"
"Ye paid me weel my hire, lady,Ye paid me weel my fee;But now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man,Maun either do or die."
O then bespake her youngest son,Sat on the nourice' knee;Says, "Mither dear, gie owre this house,For the reek it smothers me."
"I wad gie a' my gowd, my bairn,Sae wad I a' my fee,For ae blast o' the westlin' wind,To blaw the reek frae thee!"
O then bespake her daughter dear—She was baith jimp and sma'—"O row me in a pair o' sheets,And tow me owre the wa'."
They rowed her in a pair o' sheets,And towed her owre the wa';But on the point o' Gordon's spearShe gat a deadly fa'.
O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,And cherry were her cheeks;And clear, clear was her yellow hair,Whereon the red blude dreeps.
Then wi' his spear he turned her owre,O gin her face was wan!He said, "You are the first that e'erI wish'd alive again."
He turned her owre and owre again,O gin her skin was white!"I might hae spared that bonnie face,To hae been some man's delight.
"Busk and boun, my merry men a',For ill dooms I do guess;I canna look on that bonnie face,As it lies on the grass!"
"Wha looks to freits, my master deir,It's freits will follow them;Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' GordonWas dauntit by a dame."
But when the lady saw the fireCome flaming owre her head,She wept, and kiss'd her children twain,Says, "Bairns, we been but dead."
The Gordon then his bugle blew,And said, "Awa', awa';The house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame,I hold it time to ga'."
O then bespied her ain dear lord,As he came owre the lee;He saw his castle all in a lowe,Sae far as he could see.
"Put on, put on, my wichty men,As fast as ye can dri'e;For he that is hindmost of the thrang,Shall ne'er get gude o' me!"
Then some they rade, and some they ran,Fu' fast out-owre the bent;But ere the foremost could win up,Baith lady and babes were brent.
He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,And wept in teenfu' mood;"Ah, traitors! for this cruel deed,Ye shall weep tears of blude."
And after the Gordon he has gane,Sae fast as he might dri'e,And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blude,He's wroken his fair ladie.
* * * * *
O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde?O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope?How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie,On Haribee to hang him up?
Had Willie had but twenty men,But twenty men as stout as he,Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en,Wi' eight score in his companie.
They band his legs beneath the steed,They tied his hands behind his back;They guarded him, fivesome on each side,And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.
They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,And also thro' the Carlisle sands;They brought him on to Carlisle castle,To be at my Lord Scroope's commands.
"My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,And wha will dare this deed avow?Or answer by the Border law?Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?"
"Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!There's never a Scot shall set thee free:Before ye cross my castle yateI trow ye shall take farewell o' me."
"Fear ye na that, my lord," quo' Willie:"By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope," he said,"I never yet lodged in a hostelrie,But I paid my lawing before I gaed."
Now word is gane to the bauld keeper,In Branksome Ha', where that he lay,That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie,Between the hours of night and day.
He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,He garr'd the red wine spring on hie,"Now a curse upon my head," he said,"But avengèd of Lord Scroope I'll be!
"O is my basnet a widow's curch?Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?Or my arm a lady's lily hand,That an English lord should lightly me?
"And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,Against the truce of Border tide,And forgotten that the bauld BuccleuchIs Keeper here on the Scottish side?
"And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,Withouten either dread or fear,And forgotten that the bauld BuccleuchCan back a steed, or shake a spear?
"O were there war between the lands,As well I wot that there is nane,I would slight Carlisle castle high,Though it were builded of marble stane.
"I would set that castle in a low,And sloken it with English blood!There's never a man in CumberlandShould ken where Carlisle castle stood.
"But since nae war's between the lands,And there is peace, and peace should be,I'll neither harm English lad or lass,And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!"
He has called him forty Marchmen bauld,I trow they were of his ain name,Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calledThe Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.
He has called him forty Marchmen bauld,Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch;With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,And gluves of green, and feathers blue.
There were five and five before them a',Wi' hunting horns and bugles bright:And five and five cam' wi' Buccleuch,Like warden's men, arrayed for fight.
And five and five, like masons gang,That carried the ladders lang and hie;And five and five like broken men;And so they reached the Woodhouselee.
And as we crossed the 'Bateable Land,When to the English side we held,The first o' men that we met wi',Wha sould it be but fause Sakelde?
"Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?"Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!""We go to hunt an English stag,Has trespassed on the Scots countrie."
"Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?"Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell me true!""We go to catch a rank reiver,Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch."
"Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,Wi' a' your ladders lang and hie?""We gang to herry a corbie's nest,That wons not far frae Woodhouselee."
"Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?"Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!"Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,And the nevir a word of lear had he.
"Why trespass ye on the English side?Row-footed outlaws, stand!" quo' he;The nevir a word had Dickie to say,Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie.
Then on we held for Carlisle toun,And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we crossed,The water was great and meikle of spait,But the never a horse nor man we lost.
And when we reached the Staneshaw-bank,The wind was rising loud and hie;And there the Laird garr'd leave our steeds,For fear that they should stamp and neigh.
And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,The wind began full loud to blaw;But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,When we cam' beneath the castle wa'.
We crept on knees, and held our breath,Till we placed the ladders agin the wa';And sae ready was Buccleuch himsellTo mount the first before us a'.
He has ta'en the watchman by the throat,He flung him down upon the lead:"Had there not been peace between our lands,Upon the other side thou hadst gaed!
"Now sound out, trumpets!" quo' Buccleuch;"Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!"Then loud the warden's trumpet blew—O wha, dare meddle wi' me?
Then speedilie to wark we gaed,And raised the slogan ane and a',And cut a hole through a sheet of lead,And so we wan to the castle ha'.
They thought King James and a' his menHad won the house wi' bow and spear;It was but twenty Scots and ten,That put a thousand in sic a stear!
Wi' coulters, and wi' forehammers,We garr'd the bars bang merrilie,Until we cam' to the inner prison,Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie.
And when we cam' to the lower prison,Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie,—"O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,Upon the morn that thou's to die?"
"O I sleep saft, and I wake aft;It's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me;Gie my service back to my wife and bairns,And a' gude fellows that spier for me."
Then Red Rowan has hente him up,The starkest man in Teviotdale,—"Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,Till of my Lord Scroope I tak' farewell.
"Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!" he cried:"I'll pay you for my lodging maill,When first we meet on the Border side."
Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,We bore him doun the ladder lang;At every stride Red Rowan made,I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang
"O mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie,"I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;But a rougher beast than Red RowanI ween my legs have ne'er bestrode.
"And mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie,I've pricked a horse out oure the furs;But since the day I backed a steed,I never wore sic cumbrous spurs."
We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,And a thousand men on horse and footCam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.
Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water,Even where it flowed frae bank to brim,And he has plunged in wi' a' his band,And safely swam them through the stream.
He turned him on the other side,And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he:"If ye like na my visit in merry England,In fair Scotland come visit me!"
All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,He stood as still as rock of stane;He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,When through the water they had gane.
"He is either himsell a devil frae hell,Or else his mither a witch maun be;I wadna hae ridden that wan waterFor a' the gowd in Christentie."
* * * * *
An ancient story Ile tell you anonOf a notable prince, that was called King John;He ruled over England with maine and with might,For he did great wrong, and mainteined little right.
And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;How for his housekeeping and high renowne,They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
A hundred men, for the king did hear say,The abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
"How now, father abbot? I heare it of thee,Thou keepest a farre better house than mee;And for thy housekeeping and high renowne,I feare thou work'st treason against my crown."
"My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne,I never spend nothing but what is my owne;And I trust your grace will doe me no deere,For spending of my owne true-gotten geere."
"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy faulte it is highe,And now for the same thou needest must dye;And except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead,With my crown of golde so faire on my head,Among all my liegemen so noble of birthe,Thou must tell to one penny what I am worthe.
"Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride the whole world about;And at the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly, what I do think?"
"O, these are deep questions for my shallow witt,Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:But if you will give me but three weekes space,I'll do my endeavor to answer your grace."
"Now three weekes space to thee will I give,And that is the longest thou hast to live;For unless thou answer my questions three,Thy life and thy lands are forfeit to mee."
Away rode the abbot all sad at this word;And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:"How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;What newes do you bring us from good king John?"
"Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;That I have but three days more to live;For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie.
"The first is to tell him, there in that stead,With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,Among all his liege men so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth.
"The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,How soone he may ride this whole world about;And at the third question I must not shrinke,But tell him there trulye what he does thinke."
"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,And Ile ride to London to answers your quarrel.