Gilderoy was a bonnie boy,Had roses till his shoon,His stockings were of silken soy,Wi' garters hanging doun:It was, I ween, a comely sight,To see sae trim a boy;He was my joy and heart's delight,My winsome Gilderoy.
O sic twa charming e'en he had,A breath as sweet as rose,He never ware a Highland plaid,But costly silken clothes;He gained the love of ladies gay,Nane e'er to him was coy;Ah, wae is me! I mourn this dayFor my dear Gilderoy.
My Gilderoy and I were bornBaith in one toun together,We scant were seven years befornWe 'gan to luve each ither;Our daddies and our mammies theyWere fill'd wi' meikle joy,To think upon the bridal dayOf me and Gilderoy.
For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,Gude faith, I freely boughtA wedding sark of Holland fine,Wi' dainty ruffles wrought;And he gied me a wedding-ring,Which I received wi' joy;Nae lad nor lassie e'er could singLike me and Gilderoy.
Wi' meikle joy we spent our prime,Till we were baith sixteen,And aft we passed the langsam timeAmang the leaves sae green;Aft on the banks we'd sit us there,And sweetly kiss and toy;Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hairMy handsome Gilderoy.
O that he still had been contentWi' me to lead his life!But ah, his manfu' heart was bentTo stir in feats of strife.And he in many a venturous deedHis courage bold wad try;And now this gars my heart to bleedFor my dear Gilderoy.
And when of me his leave he took,The tears they wat mine e'e;I gied him sic a parting look:"My benison gang wi' thee!God speed thee weel, my ain dear heart,For gane is all my joy;My heart is rent sith we maun part,My handsome Gilderoy."
The Queen of Scots possessèd noughtThat my luve let me want;For cow and ewe he to me brought,And e'en when they were scant:All these did honestly possess,He never did annoyWho never failed to pay their cessTo my luve Gilderoy.
My Gilderoy, baith far and near,Was fear'd in every toun,And bauldly bare awa' the gearOf many a lawland loun:For man to man durst meet him nane,He was sae brave a boy;At length with numbers he was ta'en,My winsome Gilderoy.
Wae worth the loun that made the laws,To hang a man for gear;To reive of life for sic a cause,As stealing horse or mare!Had not these laws been made sae strick,I ne'er had lost my joy,Wi' sorrow ne'er had wat my cheek,For my dear Gilderoy.
Gif Gilderoy had done amiss,He might have banished been.Ah, what sair cruelty is this,To hang sic handsome men!To hang the flower o' Scottish land,Sae sweet and fair a boy!Nae lady had so white a handAs thee, my Gilderoy.
Of Gilderoy sae 'fraid they were,They bound him meikle strong,To Edinburgh they took him there,And on a gallows hung:They hung him high aboon the rest,He was sae trim a boy;There died the youth whom I lo'ed best,My handsome Gilderoy.
Sune as he yielded up his breath,I bare his corpse away,Wi' tears that trickled for his death,I wash'd his comely clay;And sicker in a grave sae deepI laid the dear-lo'ed boy;And now forever I maun weepMy winsome Gilderoy.
* * * * *
It was in and about the Martinmas time,When the green leaves were a falling,That Sir John Graeme, in the West Country,Fell in love with Barbara Allan.
He sent his men down through the town,To the place where she was dwelling:"O haste and come to my master dear,Gin ye be Barbara Allan."
O hooly, hooly rose she up,To the place where he was lying,And when she drew the curtain by,"Young man, I think you're dying."
"O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick,And it's a' for Barbara Allan;""O the better for me ye's never be,Tho your heart's blood were a spilling.
"O dinna ye mind, young man," said she,"When ye was in the tavern a drinking,That ye made the healths gae round and round,And slighted Barbara Allan?"
He turned his face unto the wall,And death was with him dealing;"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,And be kind to Barbara Allan."
And slowly, slowly raise she up,And slowly, slowly left him,And sighing said, she could not stay,Since death of life had reft him.
She had not gane a mile but twa,When she heard the dead-bell ringing,And every jow that the dead-bell gied,It cry'd, Woe to Barbara Allan!
"O mother, mother, make my bed!O make it saft and narrow!Since my love died for me to-day,I'll die for him to-morrow."
* * * * *
The gard'ner stands in his bower door,Wi' a primrose in his hand,And by there cam' a leal maiden,As jimp as a willow wand.
"O ladie, can ye fancy me,For to be my bride?Ye'se get a' the flowers in my garden,To be to you a weed.
"The lily white sail be your smock;It becomes your bodie best;Your head sail be buskt wi' gilly-flower,Wi' the primrose in your breast.
"Your goun sall be the sweet-william;Your coat the camovine;Your apron o' the sallads neat,That taste baith sweet and fine.
"Your hose sall be the brade kail-blade,That is baith brade and lang;Narrow, narrow at the cute,And brade, brade at the brawn.
"Your gloves sail be the marigold,All glittering to your hand,Weel spread owre wi' the blue blaewort,That grows amang corn-land."
"O fare ye well, young man," she says,"Fareweil, and I bid adieu;If you can fancy me," she says,"I canna fancy you.
"Sin' ye've provided a weed for meAmang the simmer flowers,It's I'se provide anither for you,Amang the winter-showers:
"The new fawn snaw to be your smock;It becomes your bodie best;Your head sall be wrapt wi' the eastern wind,And the cauld rain on your breast."
* * * * *
Lady Margaret sits in her bower door,Sewing her silken seam;She heard a note in Elmond's wood,And wished she there had been.
She loot the seam fa' frae her side,And the needle to her tae,And she is aff to Elmond's woodAs fast as she could gae.
She hadna pu'd a nut, a nut,Nor broken a branch but ane,Till by there cam' a young hynd chiel,Says, "Lady, lat alane.
"O why pu' ye the nut, the nut,Or why brake ye the tree?For I am forester o' this wood:Ye should spier leave at me."
"I'll spier leave at na living man,Nor yet will I at thee;My father is king o'er a' this realm,This wood belangs to me."
"You're welcome to the wood, Marg'ret,You're welcome here to me;A fairer bower than e'er you saw.I'll bigg this night for thee."
He has bigged a bower beside the thorn,He has fenced it up wi' stane,And there within the Elmond wood,They twa has dwelt their lane.
He kept her in the Elmond wood,For twelve lang years and mair;And seven fair sons to Hynd Etin,Did that gay lady bear.
It fell out ance upon a day,To the hunting he has gane;And he has ta'en his eldest son,To gang alang wi' him.
When they were in the gay greenwood,They heard the mavis sing;When they were up aboon the brae,They heard the kirk bells ring.
"O I wad ask ye something, father,An' ye wadna angry be!""Say on, say on, my bonny boy,Ye'se nae be quarrell'd by me."
"My mither's cheeks are aft-times weet,It's seldom they are dry;What is't that gars my mither greet,And sob sae bitterlie?"
"Nae wonder she suld greet, my boy,Nae wonder she suld pine,For it is twelve lang years and mair,She's seen nor kith nor kin,And it is twelve lang years and mair,Since to the kirk she's been.
"Your mither was an Earl's daughter,And cam' o' high degree,And she might hae wedded the first in the land,Had she nae been stown by me.
"For I was but her father's page,And served him on my knee;And yet my love was great for her,And sae was hers for me."
"I'll shoot the laverock i' the lift,The buntin on the tree,And bring them to my mither hamesSee if she'll merrier be."
It fell upon anither day,This forester thought lang;And he is to the hunting ganeThe forest leaves amang.
Wi' bow and arrow by his side,He took his path alane;And left his seven young childrenTo bide wi' their mither at hame.
"O I wad ask ye something, mither,An ye wadna angry be.""Ask on, ask on, my eldest son;Ask ony thing at me."
"Your cheeks are aft-times weet, mither;You're greetin', as I can see.""Nae wonder, nae wonder, my little son,Nae wonder though I should dee!
"For I was ance an Earl's daughter,Of noble birth and fame;And now I'm the mither o' seven sonsWha ne'er gat christendame."
He's ta'en his mither by the hand,His six brithers also,And they are on through Elmond-woodAs fast as they could go.
They wistna weel wha they were gaen,And weary were their feet;They wistna weel wha they were gaen,Till they stopped at her father's gate.
"I hae nae money in my pocket,But jewel-rings I hae three;I'll gie them to you, my little son,And ye'll enter there for me.
"Ye'll gie the first to the proud porter,And he will lat you in;Ye'll gie the next to the butler-boy,And he will show you ben.
"Ye'll gie the third to the minstrelThat's harping in the ha',And he'll play gude luck to the bonny boyThat comes frae the greenwood shaw."
He gied the first to the proud porter,And he opened and lat him in;He gied the next to the butler-boy,And he has shown him ben;
He gied the third to the minstrelWas harping in the ha',And he played gude luck to the bonny boyThat cam' frae the greenwood shaw.
Now when he cam' before the Earl,He louted on his knee;The Earl he turned him round about,And the saut tear blint his e'e.
"Win up, win up, thou bonny boy,Gang frae my companie;Ye look sae like my dear daughter,My heart will burst in three!"
"If I look like your dear daughter,A wonder it is nane;If I look like your dear daughter,I am her eldest son."
"O tell me soon, ye little wee boy,Where may my Margaret be?""She's e'en now standing at your gates.And my six brithers her wi'."
"O where are a' my porter-boysThat I pay meat and fee,To open my gates baith braid and wide,And let her come in to me?"
When she cam' in before the Earl,She fell doun low on her knee:"Win up, win up, my daughter dear;This day ye'se dine wi' me."
"Ae bit I canna eat, father,Ae drop I canna drink,Till I see Etin, my husband dear;Sae lang for him I think!"
"O where are a' my rangers boldThat I pay meat and fee,To search the forest far and wide,And bring Hynd Etin to me?"
Out it speaks the little wee boy:"Na, na, this maunna be;Without ye grant a free pardon,I hope ye'll na him see!"
"O here I grant a free pardon,Well sealed wi' my ain han';And mak' ye search for Hynd Etin,As sune as ever ye can."
They searched the country braid and wide,The forest far and near,And they found him into Elmond-wood,Tearing his yellow hair.
"Win up, win up now, Hynd Etin,Win up and boun' wi' me;For we are come frae the castle,And the Earl wad fain you see."
"O lat him tak' my head," he says,"Or hang me on a tree;For sin' I've lost my dear lady,My life's nae worth to me!"
"Your head will na be touched, Etin,Nor sall you hang on tree;Your lady's in her father's court,And all he wants is thee."
When he cam' in before the Earl,He louted on his knee:"Win up, win up now, Hynd Etin;This day ye'se dine wi' me."
As they were at their dinner set,The boy he asked a boon:"I wold we were in haly kirk,To get our christendoun.
"For we hae lived in gude greenwoodThese twelve lang years and ane;But a' this time since e'er I mindWas never a kirk within."
"Your asking's na sae great, my boy,But granted it sall be:This day to haly kirk sall ye gang,And your mither sall gang you wi'."
When she cam' to the haly kirk,She at the door did stan';She was sae sunken doun wi' shame,She couldna come farther ben.
Then out it spak' the haly priest,Wi' a kindly word spak' he:"Come ben, come ben, my lily-flower,And bring your babes to me."
* * * * *
It's Lamkin was a mason goodAs ever built wi' stane;He built Lord Wearie's castle,But payment gat he nane.
"O pay me, Lord Wearie,Come, pay me my fee:""I canna pay you, Lamkin,For I maun gang o'er the sea."
"O pay me now, Lord Wearie,Come, pay me out o' hand:""I canna pay you, Lamkin,Unless I sell my land."
"O gin ye winna pay me,I here sall mak' a vow,Before that ye come hame again,Ye sall hae cause to rue."
Lord Wearie got a bonny ship,To sail the saut sea faem;Bade his lady weel the castle keep,Ay till he should come hame.
But the nourice was a fause limmerAs e'er hung on a tree;She laid a plot wi' Lamkin,Whan her lord was o'er the sea.
She laid a plot wi' Lamkin,When the servants were awa',Loot him in at a little shot-window,And brought him to the ha'.
"O where's a' the men o' this house,That ca' me Lamkin?""They're at the barn-well thrashing;'Twill be lang ere they come in."
"And where's the women o' this house,That ca' me Lamkin?""They're at the far well washing;'Twill be lang ere they come in."
"And where's the bairns o' this house,That ca' me Lamkin?""They're at the school reading;'Twill be night or they come hame."
"O where's the lady o' this house,That ca's me Lamkin?""She's up in her bower sewing,But we soon can bring her down."
Then Lamkin's tane a sharp knife,That hang down by his gaire,And he has gi'en the bonny babeA deep wound and a sair.
Then Lamkin he rocked,And the fause nourice she sang,Till frae ilka bore o' the cradleThe red blood out sprang.
Then out it spak' the lady,As she stood on the stair:"What ails my bairn, nourice,That he's greeting sae sair?
"O still my bairn, nourice,O still him wi' the pap!""He winna still, lady,For this nor for that."
"O still my bairn, nourice,O still him wi' the wand!""He winna still, lady,For a' his father's land."
"O still my bairn, nourice,O still him wi' the bell!""He winna still, lady,Till you come down yoursel."
O the firsten step she steppit,She steppit on a stane;But the neisten step she steppit,She met him Lamkin.
"O mercy, mercy, Lamkin,Hae mercy upon me!Though you've ta'en my young son's life,Ye may let mysel be."
"O sall I kill her, nourice,Or sall I lat her be?""O kill her, kill her, Lamkin,For she ne'er was good to me."
"O scour the bason, nourice,And mak' it fair and clean,For to keep this lady's heart's blood,For she's come o' noble kin."
"There need nae bason, Lamkin,Lat it run through the floor;What better is the heart's bloodO' the rich than o' the poor?"
But ere three months were at an end,Lord Wearie cam' again;But dowie, dowie was his heartWhen first he cam' hame.
"O wha's blood is this," he says,"That lies in the chamer?""It is your lady's heart's blood;'Tis as clear as the lamer."
"And wha's blood is this," he says,"That lies in my ha'?""It is your young son's heart's blood;'Tis the clearest ava."
O sweetly sang the black-birdThat sat upon the tree;But sairer grat Lamkin,When he was condemnd to die.
And bonny sang the mavis,Out o' the thorny brake;But sairer grat the nourice,When she was tied to the stake.
* * * * *
Four and twenty bonny boysWere playing at the ba',And up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh,The flower amang them a'.
He kicked the ba' there wi' his foot,And keppit it wi' his knee,Till even in at the Jew's windowHe gart the bonny ba' flee.
"Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid,Cast out that ba' o' mine.""Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter,"Till ye come up an' dine.
"Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,Come up and get the ba'.""I winna come, I mayna come,Without my bonny boys a'."
She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden,Where the grass grew lang and green,She's pu'd an apple red and white,To wyle the bonny boy in.
She's wyled him in through ae chamber,She's wyled him in through twa,She's wyled him into the third chamber,And that was the warst o' a'.
She's tied the little boy, hands and feet,She's pierced him wi' a knife,She's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup,And twinn'd him o' his life.
She row'd him in a cake o' lead,Bade him lie still and sleep,She cast him into a deep draw-well,Was fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,And every bairn went hame,Then ilka lady had her young son,But Lady Helen had nane.
She's row'd her mantle her about,And sair, sair 'gan she weep;And she ran unto the Jew's house,When they were all asleep.
"My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh,I pray thee to me speak!""Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-wellGin ye your son wad seek."
Lady Helen ran to the deep draw-well,And knelt upon her knee:"My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here,I pray thee speak to me!"
"The lead is wondrous heavy, mither,The well is wondrous deep;A keen penknife sticks in my heart,It is hard for me to speak.
"Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,Fetch me my winding-sheet;And at the back o' merry Lincoln,It's there we twa sall meet."
Now Lady Helen she's gane hame,Made him a winding-sheet;And at the back o' merry Lincoln,The dead corpse did her meet.
And a' the bells o' merry LincolnWithout men's hands were rung;And a' the books o' merry LincolnWere read without men's tongue:Never was such a burialSin' Adam's days begun.
* * * * *
Learn to mak' your bed, Annie,And learn to lie your lane;For I am going ayont the sea,A braw bride to bring hame.
"Wi' her I'll get baith gowd and gear,Wi' thee I ne'er gat nane;I got thee as a waif woman,I'll leave thee as the same.
"But wha will bake my bridal bread,And brew my bridal ale,And wha will welcome my bright bride,That I bring owre the dale?"
"It's I will bake your bridal bread,And brew your bridal ale;And I will welcome your bright bride,When she comes owre the dale."
He set his foot into the stirrup,His hand upon the mane;Says, "It will be a year and a day,Ere ye see me again."
Fair Annie stood in her bower door,And looked out o'er the lan',And there she saw her ain gude lordLeading his bride by the han'.
She's drest her sons i' the scarlet red,Hersel i' the dainty green;And tho' her cheek look'd pale and wan,She weel might hae been a queen.
She called upon her eldest son;"Look yonder what ye see,For yonder comes your father dear,Your stepmither him wi'.
"Ye're welcome hame, my ain gude lord,To your halls but and your bowers;Ye're welcome hame, my ain gude lord,To your castles and your towers;Sae is your bright bride you beside,She's fairer than the flowers!"
"I thank ye, I thank ye, fair maiden,That speaks sae courteouslie;If I be lang about this house,Rewarded ye sall be.
"O what'n a maiden's that," she says,"That welcomes you and me?She is sae like my sister Annie,Was stown i' the bower frae me."
O she has served the lang tables,Wi' the white bread and the wine;But ay she drank the wan water,To keep her colour fine.
And as she gaed by the first table,She leugh amang them a';But ere she reach'd the second table,She loot the tears doun fa'.
She's ta'en a napkin lang and white,And hung it on a pin;And it was a' to dry her e'en,As she ga'ed out and in.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,And a' men boun to bed,The bride but and the bonny bridegroom,In ae chamber were laid.
She's ta'en her harp intill her hand,To harp this twa asleep;And ay as she harped and as she sang,Full sairly did she weep.
"O seven full fair sons hae I born,To the gude lord o' this place;And O that they were seven young hares,And them to rin a race,And I mysel a gude greyhound,And I wad gie them chase!
"O seven full fair sons hae I bornTo the gude lord o' this ha';And O that they were seven rattonsTo rin frae wa' to wa',And I mysel a gude grey cat,And I wad worry them a'!"
"My goun is on," said the new-come bride,"My shoon are on my feet;And I will to fair Annie's chamber,And see what gars her greet.
"O wha was't was your father, Annie,And wha was't was your mither?And had ye ony sister, Annie,Or had ye ony brither?"
"The Earl o' Richmond was my father,His lady was my mither,And a' the bairns beside mysel,Was a sister and a brither."
"O weel befa' your sang, Annie,I wat ye hae sung in time;Gin the Earl o' Richmond was your father,I wat sae was he mine.
"O keep your lord, my sister dear,Ye never were wranged by me;I had but ae kiss o' his merry mouth,As we cam' owre the sea.
There were five ships o' gude red goldCam' owre the seas wi' me,It's twa o' them will tak' me home,And three I'll leave wi' thee."
* * * * *
The Laird o' Drum is a-hunting gane,All in a morning early,And he has spied a weel-faur'd May,A-shearing at her barley.
"My bonny May, my weel-faur'd May,O will ye fancy me, O?Wilt gae and be the Leddy o' Drum,And let your shearing a-be, O?"
"It's I winna fancy you, kind sir,Nor let my shearing a-be, O;For I'm ower low to be Leddy Drum,And your light love I'll never be, O."
"Gin ye'll cast aff that goun o' gray,Put on the silk for me, O,I'll mak' a vow, and keep it true,A light love you'll never be, O."
"My father lie is a shepherd mean,Keeps sheep on yonder hill, O,And ye may gae and speer at him,For I am at his will, O."
Drum is to her father gane,Keeping his sheep on yon hill, O:"I am come to marry your ae daughter,If ye'll gie me your good-will, O."
"My dochter can naether read nor write,She ne'er was brocht up at scheel, O;But weel can she milk baith cow and ewe,And mak' a kebbuck weel, O.
"She'll shake your barn, and win your corn,And gang to kiln and mill, O;She'll saddle your steed in time o' need,And draw aff your boots hersell, O."
"I'll learn your lassie to read and write,And I'll put her to the scheel, O;She shall neither need to saddle my steed,Nor draw aff my boots hersell, O.
"But wha will bake my bridal bread,Or brew my bridal ale, O;And wha will welcome my bonnie brideIs mair than I can tell, O."
Four-and-twenty gentlemenGaed in at the yetts of Drum, O:But no a man has lifted his hat,When the Leddy o' Drum cam' in, O.
"Peggy Coutts is a very bonny bride,And Drum is big and gawsy;But he might hae chosen a higher matchThan ony shepherd's lassie!"
Then up bespak his brither John,Says, "Ye've done us meikle wrang, O;Ye've married ane far below our degree,A mock to a' our kin, O."
"Now haud your tongue, my brither John;What needs it thee offend, O?I've married a wife to work and win,And ye've married ane to spend, O.
"The first time that I married a wife,She was far abune my degree, O;She wadna hae walked thro' the yetts o' Drum,But the pearlin' abune her bree, O,And I durstna gang in the room where she was,But my hat below my knee, O!"
He has ta'en her by the milk-white hand,And led her in himsell, O;And in through ha's and in through bowers,—"And ye're welcome, Leddy Drum, O."
When they had eaten and well drunken,And a' men boun for bed, O,The Laird of Drum and his Leddy fair,In ae bed they were laid, O.
"Gin ye had been o' high renown,As ye're o' low degree, O,We might hae baith gane doun the streetAmang gude companie, O."
"I tauld ye weel ere we were wed,Ye were far abune my degree, O;But now I'm married, in your bed laid,And just as gude as ye, O.
"For an I were dead, and ye were dead,And baith in ae grave had lain, O;Ere seven years were come and gane,They'd no ken your dust frae mine, O."
* * * * *
"Will ye gae to the Hielands, Lizie Lindsay,Will ye gae to the Hielands wi' me?Will ye gae to the Hielands, Lizie Lindsay,And dine on fresh curds and green whey?"
Then out it spak' Lizie's mither,An' a gude auld leddy was she:"Gin ye say sic a word to my daughter,I'll gar ye be hangit hie!"
"Keep weel your daughter for me, madam;Keep weel your daughter for me.I care as leetle for your daughterAs ye can care for me!"
Then out spak' Lizie's ain maiden,An' a bonnie young lassie was she;"Now gin I were heir to a kingdom,Awa' wi' young Donald I'd be."
"O say ye sae to me, Nelly?And does my Nelly say sae?Maun I leave my father and mither,Awa' wi' young Donald to gae?"
And Lizie's ta'en till her her stockings,And Lizie's taen till her her shoon,And kilted up her green claithing,And awa' wi' young Donald she's gane.
The road it was lang and was weary;The braes they were ill for to climb;Bonnie Lizie was weary wi' travelling,A fit further couldna she win.
"O are we near hame yet, dear Donald?O are we near hame yet, I pray?""We're naething near hame, bonnie Lizie,Nor yet the half o' the way."
Sair, O sair was she sighing,And the saut tear blindit her e'e:"Gin this be the pleasures o' luving,They never will do wi' me!"
"Now haud your tongue, bonnie Lizie;Ye never sall rue for me;Gie me but your luve for my ain luve,It is a' that your tocher will be.
"O haud your tongue, bonnie Lizie,Altho' that the gait seem lang;And you's hae the wale o' gude livingWhen to Kincaussie we gang.
"My father he is an auld shepherd,My mither she is an auld dey;And we'll sleep on a bed o' green rashes,And dine on fresh curds and green whey."
They cam' to a hamely puir cottage;The auld woman 'gan for to say:"O ye're welcome hame, Sir Donald,It's yoursell has been lang away."
"Ye mustna ca' me Sir Donald,But ca' me young Donald your son;For I hae a bonnie young leddyBehind me, that's coming alang.
"Come in, come in, bonnie Lizie,Come hither, come hither," said he;"Altho' that our cottage be leetle,I hope we'll the better agree.
"O mak' us a supper, dear mither,And mak' it o' curds and green whey;And mak' us a bed o' green rashes,And cover it o'er wi' fresh hay."
She's made them a bed o' green rashes,And covered it o'er wi' fresh hay.Bonnie Lizie was weary wi' travelling,And lay till 'twas lang o' the day.
"The sun looks in o'er the hill-head,An' the laverock is liltin' sae gay;Get up, get up, bonnie Lizie,Ye've lain till it's lang o' the day.
"Ye might hae been out at the shealin',Instead o' sae lang to lie;And up and helping my mitherTo milk her gaits and her kye."
Then sadly spak' out Lizie Lindsay,She spak' it wi' mony a sigh:"The leddies o' Edinbro' cityThey milk neither gaits nor kye."
"Rise up, rise up, bonnie Lizie,Rise up and mak' yoursel' fine;For we maun be at Kincaussie,Before that the clock strikes nine."
But when they cam' to Kincaussie,The porter he loudly doth say,"O ye're welcome hame, Sir Donald;It's yoursell has been lang away!"
It's doun then cam' his auld mither,Wi' a' the keys in her han';Saying, "Tak' ye these, bonnie Lizie,For a' is at your comman'."
* * * * *
There was a may, and a weel-faur'd may.Lived high up in yon glen:Her name was Katharine Janfarie,She was courted by mony men.
Doun cam' the Laird o' Lamington,Doun frae the South Countrie;And he is for this bonny lass,Her bridegroom for to be.
He asked na her father, he asked na her mither,He asked na ane o' her kin;But he whispered the bonny lassie hersel',And did her favor win.
Doun cam' an English gentleman,Doun frae the English border;And he is for this bonnie lass,To keep his house in order.
He asked her father, he asked her mither,And a' the lave o' her kin;But he never asked the lassie hersel'Till on her wedding-e'en.
But she has wrote a lang letter,And sealed it wi' her han';And sent it away to Lamington,To gar him understan'.
The first line o' the letter he read,He was baith fain and glad;But or he has read the letter o'er,He's turned baith wan and sad.
Then he has sent a messenger,To rin through a' his land;And four and twenty armed menWere sune at his command.
But he has left his merry men all,Left them on the lee;And he's awa' to the wedding-house,To see what he could see.
They all rase up to honor him,For he was of high renown;They all rase up to welcome him,And bade him to sit down.
O meikle was the gude red wineIn silver cups did flow;But aye she drank to Lamington,And fain with him wad go.
"O come ye here to fight, young lord?Or come ye here to play?Or come ye here to drink gude wineUpon the wedding-day?"
"I come na here to fight," he said,"I come na here to play;I'll but lead a dance wi' the bonny bride,And mount and go my way."
He's caught her by the milk-white hand,And by the grass-green sleeve;He's mounted her hie behind himsel',At her kinsfolk spier'd na leave.
It's up, it's up the Couden bank,It's doun the Couden brae;And aye they made the trumpet soun,"It's a' fair play!"
Now a' ye lords and gentlemenThat be of England born,Come ye na doun to Scotland thus,For fear ye get the scorn!
They'll feed ye up wi' flattering words,And play ye foul play;They'll dress you frogs instead of fishUpon your wedding-day!
* * * * *
Threescore o' nobles rade to the king's ha',But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a';Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonny black e'e,"Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for me!"
"O haud your tongue, dochter, ye'll get better than he.""O say na sae, mither, for that canna be;Though Drumlie is richer, and greater than he,Yet if I maun lo'e him, I'll certainly dee.
"Where will I get a bonny boy, to win hose and shoon,Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon?""O here am I, a bonny boy, to win hose and shoon,Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon."
When he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas "Wash and go dine,"'Twas "Wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and go dine.""O 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it ne'er shall be mine,To gar a lady's errand wait till I dine.
"But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee."The first line he read, a low smile ga'e he;The next line he read, the tear blindit his e'e;But the last line he read, he gart the table flee.
"Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown;Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae the town;"But lang ere the horse was brought round to the green,O bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane.
When he cam' to Glenfeldy's door, sma' mirth was there;Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair;"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're welcome," said she"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see."
Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie gaed ben,But red rosy grew she whene'er he sat down;She turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e;"O binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee."
* * * * *
It fell about the Martinmas time,And a gay time it was than,That our gudewife had puddings to mak'And she boil'd them in the pan.
The wind blew cauld frae east and north,And blew intil the floor;Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife,"Get up and bar the door."
"My hand is in my hussyskep,Gudeman, as ye may see;An it shou'dna be barr'd this hunder year,It's ne'er be barr'd by me."
They made a paction 'tween them twa,They made it firm and sure,That the first word whaever spak,Should rise and bar the door.
Than by there came twa gentlemen,At twelve o'clock at night,Whan they can see na ither house,And at the door they light.
"Now whether is this a rich man's house,Or whether is it a poor?"But ne'er a word wad ane o' them speak,For barring of the door.
And first they ate the white puddings,And syne they ate the black:Muckle thought the gudewife to hersell,Yet ne'er a word she spak.
Then ane unto the ither said,"Here, man, tak ye my knife;Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard,And I'll kiss the gudewife."
"But there's na water in the house,And what shall we do than?""What ails ye at the pudding breeThat boils into the pan?"
O up then started our gudeman,An angry man was he;"Will ye kiss my wife before my een,And scaud me wi' pudding bree?"
O up then started our gudewife,Gied three skips on the floor;"Gudeman, ye've spak the foremost word;Get up and bar the door."
* * * * *
"The luve that I hae chosen,I'll therewith be content;The saut sea sail be frozenBefore that I repent.Repent it sall I neverUntil the day I dee;But the Lawlands o' HollandHae twinned my luve and me.
"My luve he built a bonny ship,And set her to the main,Wi' twenty-four brave marinersTo sail her out and hame.But the weary wind began to rise,The sea began to rout,And my luve and his bonny shipTurned withershins about.
"There sall nae mantle cross my back,No kaim gae in my hair,Sall neither coal nor candle-lightShine in my bower mair;Nor sall I choose anither luveUntil the day I dee,Sin' the Lawlands o' HollandHae twinned my luve and me."
"Noo haud your tongue, my daughter dear,Be still, and bide content;There are mair lads in Galloway;Ye needna sair lament.""O there is nane in Galloway,There's nane at a' for me.I never lo'ed a lad but ane,And he's drowned i' the sea."
* * * * *
As I was walking all alane,I heard twa corbies making a maen;The tane into the t'ither did say,"Whaur shall we gang and dine the day?"
"O doun beside yon auld fail dyke,I wot there lies a new-slain knight;Nae living kens that he lies there,But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair,
"His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk to fetch the wildfowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet.
"O we'll sit on his white hause bane,And I'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en,Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare.
"Mony a ane for him makes maen,But nane shall ken whaur he is gane;Over his banes when they are bare,The wind shall blaw for evermair."
* * * * *
I wad I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;O that I were where Helen liesOn fair Kirconnell lea!
Curst be the heart that thought the thought,And curst the hand that fired the shot,When in my arms burd Helen dropt,And died to succor me!
O think na but my heart was sairWhen my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!I laid her down wi' meikle careOn fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water-side,Nane but my foe to be my guide,Nane but my foe to be my guide,On fair Kirconnell lea;
I lighted down my sword to draw,I hackéd him in pieces sma',I hackéd him in pieces sma',For her sake that died for me.
O Helen fair, beyond compare!I'll make a garland of thy hairShall bind my heart for evermairUntil the day I dee.
O that I were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;Out of my bed she bids me rise,Says, "Haste and come to me!"
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!If I were with thee, I were blest,Where thou lies low and takes thy restOn fair Kirconnell lea.
I wad my grave were growing green,A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,And I in Helen's arms lying,On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wad I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;And I am weary of the skies,Since my Love died for me.
* * * * *
O waly waly up the bank,And waly waly down the brae,And waly waly yon burn-sideWhere I and my Love wont to gae!I leant my back unto an aik,I thought it was a trusty tree;But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
O waly waly, but love be bonnyA little time while it is new;But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauldAnd fades awa' like morning dew.O wherefore should I busk my head?Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true Love has me forsook,And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;The sheets sall ne'er be prest by me:Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,Since my true Love has forsaken me.Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,And shake the green leaves aff the tree?O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?For of my life I am wearie.
'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.When we came in by Glasgow townWe were a comely sight to see;My Love was clad in black velvet,And I mysell in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kist,That love had been sae ill to win;I had lockt my heart in a case of gowdAnd pinn'd it with a siller pin.And, O! that my young babe were born,And set upon, the nurse's knee,And I mysell were dead and gane,And the green grass growing over me!
* * * * *
"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son,O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?""I hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?""I dined wi' my true-love; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?""I gat eels boil'd in broo'; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son?What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?""O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son!O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!""O yes! I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down."
* * * * *
'Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid,Edward, Edward?Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid,And why sae sad gang yee O?''O I hae killed my hauke sae guid,Mither, mither,O I hae killed my hauke sae guid,And I had nae mair bot hee O.'
'Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,Edward, Edward,Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,My deir son, I tell thee O.''O I hae killed my reid-roan steid,Mither, mither,O I hae killed my reid-roan steid,That erst was sae fair and frie O.'
'Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,Edward, Edward,Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,Sum other dule ye drie O.''O I hae killed my fadir deir,Mither, mither,O I hae killed my fadir deir,Alas, and wae is mee O!'
'And whatten penance wul ye drie for that,Edward, Edward?'And whatten penance wul ye drie for that?My deir son, now tell me O.''He set my feit in yonder boat,Mither, mither,He set my feit in yonder boat,And He fare ovir the sea O.'
'And what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha,Edward, Edward?And what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha,That were sae fair to see O?''Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa,Mither, mither,Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa,For here nevir mair maun I bee O.'
'And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,Edward, Edward?And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,When ye gang ovir the sea O?''The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,Mither, mither,The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,For thame nevir mair wul I see O.'
'And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,Edward, Edward?And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,My deir son, now tell me O.''The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,Mither, mither,The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,Sic counseils ye gave to me O.'
* * * * *
THE WEE WEE MAN. Mainly after Herd. Given also by Motherwell, Buchan, and Kinloch, and in Caw's "Poetical Museum."Shathmont, a six inch measure.Lap, leaped.Jimp, neat.
TAMLANE. Mainly after Aytoun's collated version. Stanzas 16-19, obtained by Scott "from a gentleman residing near Langholm," are too modern in diction to harmonize well with the rest, but are retained here because of their fidelity to the ancient beliefs of the country folk about fairies. Widely varying versions are given in Johnson's "Museum," communicated by Burns, under title ofTam Lin; in the Glenriddell MS. under title ofYoung Tom Line; by Herd, under title ofKertonha, corruption of Carterhaugh; by Motherwell, under titles ofYoung TamlinandTomaline; by Buchan, under titles ofTam-a-lineandTam a-Lin; and in the Campbell MS. under title ofYoung Tam Lane. There are humorous Scottish songs, too, ofTam o Lin,Tam o the Linn,Tom a Lin, andTommy Linn. The ballad is of respectable antiquity, theTayl of the Yong Tamleneand the dance ofThom of Lynbeing noticed in a work as old as the "Complaynt of Scotland" (1548); yet it seems to have no Continental cousins, but to be strictly of Scottish origin. It belongs to Selkirkshire, whose peasants still point out upon the plain of Carterhaugh, about a mile above Selkirk, the fairy rings in the grass.Preen'd, decked.Gars, makes.Bree, brow,Sained, baptized,Snell, keen.Teind, tithe.Borrow, ransom.Cast a compass, draw a circle.Elrish, elvish.Gin, if.Maik, mate.Aske, lizard.Bale, fire.But and, and also.Tree, wood.Coft, bought.
TRUE THOMAS. Mainly after Scott. This is one of the ballads written down from the recital of the "good Mrs. Brown," to whose admirable memory ballad-lovers are so deeply indebted. It is given in the Brown MS. asThomas Rymer and Queen of Elfland; in the Campbell MS. asThomas the Rhymer. Scott obtained his excellent version from "a lady residing not far from Ercildoune." This Thomas the Rhymer, or True Thomas, or Thomas of Ercildoune, was a veritable personage, who dwelt in the village of Ercildoune situate by "Leader's silver tide" some two miles above its junction with the Tweed. Tradition has it that his date was the thirteenth century and his full name Thomas Learmont. He was celebrated as poet and prophet, the rustics believing that his gift of soothsaying was imparted by the Fairy Queen, who kept him with her in Elfland for seven years, permitting him then to return to the upper world for a season and utter his oracles, but presently recalling him to her mysterious court. A fragmentary old poem, showing probable traces, as Jamieson suggests, of the Rhymer's own authorship, tells this famous adventure in language whose antiquated form cannot disguise its sweetness. The melancholy likelihood seems to be that True Thomas was a fibbing Thomas, after all, and invented this story of his sojourn in Elfland to gain credit for his poetical prophecies, which claim to have first proceeded from the mouth of the Fairy Queen, when
"Scho broghte hym agayne to Eldone tree,Vndir nethe that grenewode spraye;In Huntlee bannkes es mery to bee,Whare fowles synges bothe nyght and daye."
Ferlie, wonder.Ilka tett, each lock (of hair).Louted, bowed.Harp and carp, play and talk.Leven, lawn.Stern-light, star-light.Dought, could.
THE ELFIN KNIGHT. After Aytoun's version framed by collation from copies given by Motherwell, Kinloch, and Buchan. These were in the main recovered by recitation, although there is a broadside copy of the ballad in the Pepysian collection at Cambridge. Fragments of the story have been handed down in tavern-songs and nursery-rhymes, and it is to be found, more or less disguised, in the literatures of many countries, European and Asiatic. It is only in our own versions, however, that the outwitted knight is a supernatural being, usually an elf, though sometimes degenerating into "the Deil." Nowhere out of canny Scotland does his ungallantry debar him from the human ranks.Sark, shirt.Gin, if.Tyne, prong.Shear, reap.Bigg, build.Loof, hollow of the hand.But(candle, etc.), without (candle, etc.)
LADY ISOBEL AND THE ELF-KNIGHT. Mainly after Buchan's version entitledThe Water o' Wearie's Well, although it is in another version given by Buchan, under title ofThe Gowans sae Gay, that the name of the lady is disclosed, and the elfin nature of the eccentric lover revealed. In that ballad Lady Isobel falls in love with the elf-knight on hearing him
"blawing his horn, The first morning in May,"
and this more tuneful version retains in the first two stanzas a fading trace of the fairy element and the magic music, the bird, whose song may be supposed to have caused the lady's heartache, being possibly the harper in elfin disguise. In most of the versions, however, the knight is merely a human knave, usually designated as Fause Sir John, and the lady is frequently introduced as May Colven or Colvin or Collin or Collean, though also as Pretty Polly. The story is widely circulated, appearing in the folk-songs of nearly all the nations of northern and southern Europe. It has been suggested that the popular legend may be "a wild shoot from the story of Judith and Holofernes."Dowie, doleful.
TOM THUMBE. After Ritson, with omissions. Ritson prints from a manuscript dated 1630, the oldest copy known to be extant, but the story itself can be traced much further back and was evidently a prime favorite with the English rustics. The plain, often doggerel verse, and the rough, often coarse humor of this ballad make it appear at striking disadvantage among the Scottish folk-songs, essentially poetic as even the rudest of them are. Tom Thumbe, it must be confessed, is but a clumsy sort of elf, and the ballad as a whole can hardly be said to have a fairy atmosphere. Yet it is of value as adding to the data for a comparison between the English and the Scottish peasantry, as throwing light on the fun-loving spirit, the sports and practical joking of Merrie England, as showing the tenacity of the Arthurian tradition, together with the confusion of chivalric memories, as displaying the ignorant credulity of the popular mind toward science no less than toward history, and as illustrating, by giving us in all this bald, sing-song run of verses, here and there a sweet or dainty fancy and at least one stanza of exquisite tenderness and grace, the significant fact that in the genuine old English ballads beauty is not the rule, but the surprise.Counters, coin-shaped pieces of metal, ivory, or wood, used in reckoning.Points, here probably the bits of tin plate used to tag the strands of cotton yarn with which, in lieu of buttons, the common folk fastened their garments. The points worn by the nobles were laces or silken strands ornamented with aiglets of gold or silver.
KEMPION. After Allingham's version collated from copies given by Scott, Buchan, and Motherwell, with a touch or two from the kindred balladThe Laidley Worm of Spindleston Heugh.Buchan and Motherwell make the name of the hero Kemp Owyne. Similar ballads are known in Iceland and Denmark, and the main features of the story appear in both the classic and romantic literatures.Weird, destiny.Dree, suffer.Borrowed, ransomed.Arblast bow, cross-bow.Stythe, place.Louted, bowed.
ALISON GROSS. After Jamieson's version taken from the recitation of Mrs. Brown. Child claims that this tale is a variety ofBeauty and the Beast. Lemman, lover.Gar, make.Toddle, twine.Seely Court, Happy Court or Fairy Court. See English Dictionary for changes of meaning insilly.
THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. After Scott, with a stanza or two from Chambers, both versions being recovered by recitation. Although this is scarcely more than a fragment, it is well-nigh unsurpassed for genuine ballad beauty, the mere touches of narrative suggesting far deeper things than they actually relate.Martinmas, the eleventh of November.Carline wife, old peasant-woman.Fashes, troubles.Birk, birch.Syke, marsh.Sheugh, trench.Channerin', fretting.Gin, if.Byre, cow-house.
A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE. After Scott. This dirge belongs to the north of England and is said to have been chanted, in Yorkshire, over the dead, down to about 1624.Lyke-Wake, dead-watch.Sleete, salt, it being the old peasant custom to place a quantity of this on the breast of the dead.Whinny-muir, Furze-moor. A manuscript found by Ritson in the Cotton Library states: "When any dieth, certaine women sing a song to the dead bodie, recyting the journey that the partye deceased must goe; and they are of beliefe (such is their fondnesse) that once in their lives, it is good to give a pair of new shoes to a poor man, for as much as, after this life, they are to pass barefoote through a great launde, full of thornes and furzen, except by the meryte of the almes aforesaid they have redemed the forfeyte; for, at the edge of the launde, an oulde man shall meet them with the same shoes that were given by the partie when he was lyving; and, after he hath shodde them, dismisseth them to go through thick and thin, without scratch or scalle."Brigg o' Dread, Bridge of Dread. Descriptions of this Bridge of Dread are found in various Scottish poems, the most minute being given in the legend ofSir Owain. Compare the belief of the Mahometan that in his approach to the judgment-seat, he must traverse a bar of red-hot iron, stretched across a bottomless abyss, true believers being upheld by their good works, while the wicked fall headlong into the gulf.
PROUD LADY MARGARET. After Aytoun. The original versions of this ballad, as given by Scott, Buchan, Dixon, and Laing, differ widely. It is known under various titles,The Courteous Knight,The Jolly Hind Squire,The Knicht o Archerdale,Fair Margret, andJolly Janet. Similar ballads are rife in France, although in these it is more frequently the ghost of a dead lady who admonishes her living lover.Wale, choose.Ill-washen feet, etc., in allusion to the custom of washing and dressing the dead for burial.Feckless, worthless.Pirie's chairremains an unsolved riddle of the ballad, editors and commentators not being as good at guessing as the ghost.
THE TWA SISTERS O' BINNORIE. Mainly after Aytoun. There are many versions of this ballad in Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland, varying widely in titles, refrains, and indeed in everything save the main events of the story. A broadside copy appeared as early as 1656. Ballads on the same subject are very popular among the Scandinavian peoples, and traces of the story are found as far away as China and South Africa.Twined, parted.Make, mate.Gar'd, made. Although Lockhart would have the burden pronounced Binnŏrie, a more musical effect is secured by following Jamieson and pronouncing Binnōrie.
THE DEMON LOVER. After Scott. Buchan has a version under title ofJames Herries, the demon being here transformed into a lover who has died abroad and comes in spirit guise to punish his "Jeanie Douglas" for her broken vows. Motherwell gives a graphic fragment.Ilka, every,Drumly, dark.Won, dwell.
RIDDLES WISELY EXPOUNDED. Mainly after Motherwell. There are several broadsides, differing slightly, of this ballad. Riddling folk-songs similar to this in general features have been found among the Germans and Russians and in Gaelic literature.Speird, asked. Unco, uncanny. Gin, if. Pies, magpies. Clootie, see Burus's Address to the Deil.
"O thou! whatever title suit thee,Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie," etc.
SIR PATRICK SPENS. After Scott. There are many versions of
"The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,"
as Coleridge so justly terms it, the fragment in the Reliques being un-surpassed among them all for poetic beauty. Herd's longer copy, like several of the others, runs song-fashion:
"They had not saild upon the seaA league but merely nine, O,When wind and weit and snaw and sleitCam' blawin' them behin', O."
Motherwell gives the ballad in four forms, in one of them the skipper being dubbed Sir Patrick, in another Earl Patrick, in another Young Patrick, and in yet another Sir Andrew Wood. Jamieson's version puts into Sir Patrick's mouth an exclamation that reflects little credit upon his sailor character:
"O wha is this, or wha is that,Has tald the king o' me?For I was never a gude seaman,Nor ever intend to be."
But with a few such trifling exceptions, the tone toward the skipper is universally one of earnest respect and sympathy, the keynote of every ballad being the frank, unconscious heroism of this "gude Sir Patrick Spens." In regard to the foundation for the story, Scott maintains that "the king's daughter of Noroway" was Margaret, known to history as the Maid of Norway, daughter of Eric, king of Norway, and of Margaret, daughter of Alexander III. of Scotland. This last-named monarch died in 1285, the Maid of Norway, his yellow-haired little granddaughter, being the heiress to his crown. The Maid of Norway died, however, before she was of age to assume control of her turbulent Scottish kingdom. Scott surmises, on the authority of the ballad, that Alexander, desiring to have the little princess reared in the country she was to rule, sent this expedition for her during his life-time. No record of such a voyage is extant, although possibly the presence of the king is a bold example of poetic license, and the reference is to an earlier and more disastrous embassy than that finally sent by the Regency of Scotland, after Alexander's death, to their young queen, Sir Michael Scott of wizard fame being at that time one of the ambassadors. Finlay, on the other hand, places this ballad in the days of James III., who married Margaret of Denmark. Here we have historic testimony of the voyage, but none of the shipwreck,—yet against any one of these theories the natural objection is brought that so lamentable a disaster, involving so many nobles of the realm, would hardly be suffered to escape the pen of the chronicler. Motherwell, Maidment, and Aytoun, relying on a corroborative passage in Fordun'sScotichronicon, hold with good appearance of reason that the ballad pictures what is known as an actual shipwreck, on the return from Norway of those Scottish lords who had escorted thither the bride of Eric, the elder Margaret, afterward mother of the little Maid of Norway. The ballad itself well bears out this theory, especially in the taunt flung at the Scottish gallants for lingering too long in nuptial festivities on the inhospitable Norwegian coast. The date of this marriage was 1281.Skeely, skilful.Gane, sufficed.Half-fou, half-bushel.Gurly, stormy.