Then he 's ta'en out a little dart,Hung low down by his gore,He thrust it through and through his heart,And words spak never more.
jimp] trim. kame] comb. haw bayberry] ?a corruption for 'braw ivory': or bayberry may=laurel-wood. cramoisie] crimson. reiver] robber. dow] can. gore] skirt, waist.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
370. The Dowie Houms of Yarrow
LATE at een, drinkin' the wine,And ere they paid the lawin',They set a combat them between,To fight it in the dawin'.
'O stay at hame, my noble lord!O stay at hame, my marrow!My cruel brother will you betray,On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'
'O fare ye weel, my lady gay!O fare ye weel, my Sarah!For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er returnFrae the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair,As she had done before, O;She belted on his noble brand,An' he 's awa to Yarrow.
O he 's gane up yon high, high hill—I wat he gaed wi' sorrow—An' in a den spied nine arm'd men,I' the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
'O are ye come to drink the wine,As ye hae doon before, O?Or are ye come to wield the brand,On the dowie banks o' Yarrow?'
'I am no come to drink the wine,As I hae don before, O,But I am come to wield the brand,On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'
Four he hurt, an' five he slew,On the dowie houms o' Yarrow,Till that stubborn knight came him behind,An' ran his body thorrow.
'Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,An' tell your sister SarahTo come an' lift her noble lord,Who 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow.'
'Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream;I ken'd there wad be sorrow;I dream'd I pu'd the heather green,On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
She gaed up yon high, high hill—I wat she gaed wi' sorrow—An' in a den spied nine dead men,On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair,As oft she did before, O;She drank the red blood frae him ran,On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
'O haud your tongue, my douchter dear,For what needs a' this sorrow?I'll wed you on a better lordThan him you lost on Yarrow.'
'O haud your tongue, my father dear,An' dinna grieve your Sarah;A better lord was never bornThan him I lost on Yarrow.
'Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye,For they hae bred our sorrow;I wiss that they had a' gane madWhen they cam first to Yarrow.'
lawin'] reckoning. marrow] mate, husband or wife. dowie] doleful. houms] water-meads.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
371. Clerk Saunders
CLERK SAUNDERS and may MargaretWalk'd owre yon garden green;And deep and heavy was the loveThat fell thir twa between.
'A bed, a bed,' Clerk Saunders said,'A bed for you and me!''Fye na, fye na,' said may Margaret,'Till anes we married be!'
'Then I'll take the sword frae my scabbardAnd slowly lift the pin;And you may swear, and save your aith,Ye ne'er let Clerk Saunders in.
'Take you a napkin in your hand,And tie up baith your bonnie e'en,And you may swear, and save your aith,Ye saw me na since late yestreen.'
It was about the midnight hour,When they asleep were laid,When in and came her seven brothers,Wi' torches burning red:
When in and came her seven brothers,Wi' torches burning bright:They said, 'We hae but one sister,And behold her lying with a knight!'
Then out and spake the first o' them,'I bear the sword shall gar him die.'And out and spake the second o' them,'His father has nae mair but he.'
And out and spake the third o' them,'I wot that they are lovers dear.'And out and spake the fourth o' them,'They hae been in love this mony a year.'
Then out and spake the fifth o' them,'It were great sin true love to twain.'And out and spake the sixth o' them,'It were shame to slay a sleeping man.'
Then up and gat the seventh o' them,And never a word spake he;But he has striped his bright brown brandOut through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye.
Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'dInto his arms as asleep she lay;And sad and silent was the nightThat was atween thir twae.
And they lay still and sleepit soundUntil the day began to daw';And kindly she to him did say,'It is time, true love, you were awa'.'
But he lay still, and sleepit sound,Albeit the sun began to sheen;She look'd atween her and the wa',And dull and drowsie were his e'en.
Then in and came her father dear;Said, 'Let a' your mourning be;I'll carry the dead corse to the clay,And I'll come back and comfort thee.'
'Comfort weel your seven sons,For comforted I will never be:I ween 'twas neither knave nor loonWas in the bower last night wi' me.'
The clinking bell gaed through the town,To carry the dead corse to the clay;And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window,I wot, an hour before the day.
'Are ye sleeping, Marg'ret?' he says,'Or are ye waking presentlie?Give me my faith and troth again,I wot, true love, I gied to thee.'
'Your faith and troth ye sall never get,Nor our true love sall never twin,Until ye come within my bower,And kiss me cheik and chin.'
'My mouth it is full cold, Marg'ret;It has the smell, now, of the ground;And if I kiss thy comely mouth,Thy days of life will not be lang.
'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight;I wot the wild fowls are boding day;Give me my faith and troth again,And let me fare me on my way.'
'Thy faith and troth thou sallna get,And our true love sall never twin,Until ye tell what comes o' women,I wot, who die in strong traivelling?'
'Their beds are made in the heavens high,Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee,Weel set about wi' gillyflowers;I wot, sweet company for to see.
'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight;I wot the wild fowls are boding day;The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,And I, ere now, will be miss'd away.'
Then she has taken a crystal wand,And she has stroken her troth thereon;She has given it him out at the shot-window,Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.
'I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg'ret;And ay I thank ye heartilie;Gin ever the dead come for the quick,Be sure, Marg'ret, I'll come for thee.'
It 's hosen and shoon, and gown alone,She climb'd the wall, and follow'd him,Until she came to the green forest,And there she lost the sight o' him.
'Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?Is there ony room at your feet?Or ony room at your side, Saunders,Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?'
'There 's nae room at my head, Marg'ret,There 's nae room at my feet;My bed it is fu' lowly now,Amang the hungry worms I sleep.
'Cauld mould is my covering now,But and my winding-sheet;The dew it falls nae sooner downThan my resting-place is weet.
'But plait a wand o' bonny birk,And lay it on my breast;And shed a tear upon my grave,And wish my saul gude rest.'
Then up and crew the red, red cock,And up and crew the gray:''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg'ret,That you were going away.
'And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret,And Marg'ret o' veritie,Gin e'er ye love another man,Ne'er love him as ye did me.'
striped] thrust. twin] part in two.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
372. Fair Annie
THE reivers they stole Fair Annie,As she walk'd by the sea;But a noble knight was her ransom soon,Wi' gowd and white monie.
She bided in strangers' land wi' him,And none knew whence she cam;She lived in the castle wi' her love,But never told her name.
'It 's narrow, narrow, mak your bed,And learn to lie your lane;For I'm gaun owre the sea, Fair Annie,A braw Bride to bring hame.Wi' her I will get gowd and gear,Wi' you I ne'er gat nane.
'But wha will bake my bridal bread,Or 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,That you bring owre the dale.'
'But she that welcomes my bright BrideMaun gang like maiden fair;She maun lace on her robe sae jimp,And comely braid her hair.
'Bind up, bind up your yellow hair,And tie it on your neck;And see you look as maiden-likeAs the day that first we met.'
'O how can I gang maiden-like,When maiden I am nane?Have I not borne six sons to thee,And am wi' child again?'
'I'll put cooks into my kitchen,And stewards in my hall,And I'll have bakers for my bread,And brewers for my ale;But you're to welcome my bright Bride,That I bring owre the dale.'
Three months and a day were gane and past,Fair Annie she gat wordThat her love's ship was come at last,Wi' his bright young Bride aboard.
She 's ta'en her young son in her arms,Anither in her hand;And she 's gane up to the highest tower,Looks over sea and land.
'Come doun, come doun, my mother dear,Come aff the castle wa'!I fear if langer ye stand there,Ye'll let yoursell doun fa'.'
She 's ta'en a cake o' the best bread,A stoup o' the best wine,And a' the keys upon her arm,And to the yett is gane.
'O ye're welcome hame, my ain gude lord,To your castles and your towers;Ye're welcome hame, my ain gude lord,To your ha's, but and your bowers.And welcome to your hame, fair lady!For a' that 's here is yours.'
'O whatna lady 's that, my lord,That welcomes you and me?Gin I be lang about this place,Her friend I mean to be.'
Fair Annie served the lang tablesWi' the white bread and the wine;But ay she drank the wan waterTo keep her colour fine.
And she gaed by the first table,And smiled upon them a';But ere she reach'd the second table,The tears began to fa'.
She took a napkin lang and white,And hung it on a pin;It was to wipe away the tears,As she gaed out and in.
When bells were rung and mass was sung,And a' men bound for bed,The bridegroom and the bonny BrideIn ae chamber were laid.
Fair Annie's ta'en a harp in her hand,To harp thir twa asleep;But ay, as she harpit and she sang,Fu' sairly did she weep.
'O gin my sons were seven rats,Rinnin' on the castle wa',And I mysell a great grey cat,I soon wad worry them a'!
'O gin my sons were seven hares,Rinnin' owre yon lily lea,And I mysell a good greyhound,Soon worried they a' should be!'
Then out and spak the bonny young Bride,In bride-bed where she lay:'That 's like my sister Annie,' she says;'Wha is it doth sing and play?
'I'll put on my gown,' said the new-come Bride,'And my shoes upon my feet;I will see wha doth sae sadly sing,And what is it gars her greet.
'What ails you, what ails you, my housekeeper,That ye mak sic a mane?Has ony wine-barrel cast its girds,Or is a' your white bread gane?'
'It isna because my wine is spilt,Or that my white bread's gane;But because I've lost my true love's love,And he 's wed to anither ane.'
'Noo tell me wha was your father?' she says,'Noo tell me wha was your mother?And had ye ony sister?' she says,'And had ye ever a brother?'
'The Earl of Wemyss was my father,The Countess of Wemyss my mother,Young Elinor she was my sister dear,And Lord John he was my brother.'
'If the Earl of Wemyss was your father,I wot sae was he mine;And it 's O my sister Annie!Your love ye sallna tyne.
'Tak your husband, my sister dear;You ne'er were wrang'd for me,Beyond a kiss o' his merry mouthAs we cam owre the sea.
'Seven ships, loaded weel,Cam owre the sea wi' me;Ane o' them will tak me hame,And six I'll gie to thee.'
jimp] trim. yett] gate. tyne] lose.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
373. Edward, Edward
'WHY does your brand sae drop wi' blude,Edward, Edward?Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude,And why sae sad gang ye, O?''O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,Mither, mither;O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,And I had nae mair but he, O.'
'Your hawk's blude was never sae red,Edward, Edward;Your hawk's blude was never sae red,My dear son, I tell thee, O.''O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,Mither, mither;O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,That erst was sae fair and free, O.'
'Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,Edward, Edward;Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;Some other dule ye dree, O.''O I hae kill'd my father dear,Mither, mither;O I hae kill'd my father dear,Alas, and wae is me, O!'
'And whatten penance will ye dree for that,Edward, Edward?Whatten penance will ye dree for that?My dear son, now tell me, O.''I'll set my feet in yonder boat,Mither, mither;I'll set my feet in yonder boat,And I'll fare over the sea, O.'
'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',Edward, Edward?And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',That were sae fair to see, O?''I'll let them stand till they doun fa',Mither, mither;I'll let them stand till they doun fa',For here never mair maun I be, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,Edward, Edward?And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,When ye gang owre the sea, O?''The warld's room: let them beg through life,Mither, mither;The warld's room: let them beg through life;For them never mair will I see, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,Edward, Edward?And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,My dear son, now tell me, O?'
'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,Mither, mither;The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!'
dule ye dree] grief you suffer.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
374. Edom o' Gordon
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 what a hauld sall we draw to,My merry men and me?We will gae to the house o' the Rodes,To see that fair ladye.'
The lady stood on her castle wa',Beheld baith dale and down;There she was ware of a host of menCam 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 wha they be.'
She ween'd it had been her lovely lord,As he cam riding hame;It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon,Wha reck'd nae sin nor shame.
She had nae sooner buskit hersell,And putten on her gown,But Edom o' Gordon an' his menWere round about the town.
They had nae sooner supper set,Nae sooner said the grace,But Edom o' Gordon an' his menWere lighted about the place.
The lady ran up to her tower-head,Sae fast as she could hie,To see if by her fair speechesShe could wi' him agree.
'Come doun to me, ye lady gay,Come doun, come doun to me;This night sall ye lig within mine arms,To-morrow my bride sall be.'
'I winna come down, ye fals Gordon,I winna come down to thee;I winna forsake my ain dear lord,That is sae far frae me.'
'Gie owre your house, ye lady fair,Gie owre your house to me;Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,But and your babies three.'
'I winna gie owre, ye fals Gordon,To nae sic traitor as yee;And if ye brenn my ain dear babes,My lord sall mak ye dree.
'Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man,And charge ye weel my gun;For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,My babes, we been undone!'
She stood upon her castle wa',And let twa bullets flee:She miss'd that bluidy butcher's heart,And only razed his knee.
'Set fire to the house!' quo' fals Gordon,All wud wi' dule and ire:'Fals lady, ye sall rue this deidAs ye brenn 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 the grund-wa' stane,To me lets in the fire?'
'Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye,Ye paid me weel my fee:But now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man—Maun either do or die.'
O then bespake her little son,Sat on the nurse's knee:Says, 'Mither dear, gie owre this house,For the reek it smithers me.'
'I wad gie a' my gowd, my bairn,Sae wad I a' my fee,For ae blast o' the western wind,To blaw the reek frae thee.'
O then bespake her dochter dear—She was baith jimp and sma':'O row me in a pair o' sheets,And tow me owre the wa'!'
They row'd her in a pair o' sheets,And tow'd 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 cheiks,And clear, clear was her yellow hair,Whereon the red blood dreips.
Then wi' his spear he turn'd her owre;O gin her face was wane!He said, 'Ye are the first that e'erI wish'd alive again.'
He turn'd her owre and owre again;O gin her skin was white!'I might hae spared that bonnie faceTo hae been some man's delight.
'Busk and boun, my merry men a',For ill dooms I do guess;I canna look in that bonnie faceAs it lies on the grass.'
'Wha looks to freits, my master dear,It 's freits will follow them;Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' GordonWas daunted 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'!This house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame;I hauld it time to ga'.'
And this way lookit her ain dear lord,As he cam owre the lea;He saw his castle a' in a lowe,As far as he could see.
The sair, O sair, his mind misgave,And all his heart was wae:'Put on, put on, my wighty men,Sae fast as ye can gae.
'Put on, put on, my wighty men,Sae fast as ye can drie!For he that 's hindmost o' the thrangSall ne'er get good o' me.'
Then some they rade, and some they ran,Out-owre the grass and bent;But ere the foremost could win up,Baith lady and babes were brent.
And after the Gordon he is gane,Sae fast as he might drie;And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's bludeHe 's wroken his dear ladye.
town] stead. buskit] attired. wud] mad. grund-wa'] ground-wall. jimp] slender, trim. row] roll, wrap. Busk and boun] trim up and prepare to go. freits] ill omens. lowe] flame. wighty] stout, doughty.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
375. The Queen's Marie
MARIE HAMILTON 's to the kirk gane,Wi' ribbons in her hair;The King thought mair o' Marie HamiltonThan ony that were there.
Marie Hamilton 's to the kirk ganeWi' ribbons on her breast;The King thought mair o' Marie HamiltonThan he listen'd to the priest.
Marie Hamilton 's to the kirk gane,Wi' gloves upon her hands;The King thought mair o' Marie HamiltonThan the Queen and a' her lands.
She hadna been about the King's courtA month, but barely one,Till she was beloved by a' the King's courtAnd the King the only man.
She hadna been about the King's courtA month, but barely three,Till frae the King's court Marie Hamilton,Marie Hamilton durstna be.
The King is to the Abbey gane,To pu' the Abbey tree,To scale the babe frae Marie's heart;But the thing it wadna be.
O she has row'd it in her apron,And set it on the sea—'Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe,Ye'se get nae mair o' me.'
Word is to the kitchen gane,And word is to the ha',And word is to the noble roomAmang the ladies a',That Marie Hamilton 's brought to bed,And the bonny babe 's miss'd and awa'.
Scarcely had she lain down again,And scarcely fa'en asleep,When up and started our gude QueenJust at her bed-feet;Saying—'Marie Hamilton, where 's your babe?For I am sure I heard it greet.'
'O no, O no, my noble Queen!Think no sic thing to be;'Twas but a stitch into my side,And sair it troubles me!'
'Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton:Get up and follow me;For I am going to Edinburgh town,A rich wedding for to see.'
O slowly, slowly rase she up,And slowly put she on;And slowly rade she out the wayWi' mony a weary groan.
The Queen was clad in scarlet,Her merry maids all in green;And every town that they cam to,They took Marie for the Queen.
'Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen,Ride hooly now wi' me!For never, I am sure, a wearier burdRade in your companie.'—
But little wist Marie Hamilton,When she rade on the brown,That she was gaen to Edinburgh town,And a' to be put down.
'Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives,Why look ye so on me?O I am going to Edinburgh town,A rich wedding to see.'
When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs,The corks frae her heels did flee;And lang or e'er she cam down again,She was condemn'd to die.
When she cam to the Netherbow port,She laugh'd loud laughters three;But when she came to the gallows footThe tears blinded her e'e.
'Yestreen the Queen had four Maries,The night she'll hae but three;There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton,And Marie Carmichael, and me.
'O often have I dress'd my QueenAnd put gowd upon her hair;But now I've gotten for my rewardThe gallows to be my share.
'Often have I dress'd my QueenAnd often made her bed;But now I've gotten for my rewardThe gallows tree to tread.
'I charge ye all, ye mariners,When ye sail owre the faem,Let neither my father nor mother get witBut that I'm coming hame.
'I charge ye all, ye mariners,That sail upon the sea,That neither my father nor mother get witThe dog's death I'm to die.
'For if my father and mother got wit,And my bold brethren three,O mickle wad be the gude red bludeThis day wad be spilt for me!
'O little did my mother ken,The day she cradled me,The lands I was to travel inOr the death I was to die!
wroken] avenged. row'd] rolled, wrapped. greet] cry. hooly] gently.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
376. Binnorie
THERE were twa sisters sat in a bour;Binnorie, O Binnorie!There cam a knight to be their wooer,By the bonnie milldams o' Binnorie.
He courted the eldest with glove and ring,But he lo'ed the youngest abune a thing.
The eldest she was vexed sair,And sair envìed her sister fair.
Upon a morning fair and clear,She cried upon her sister dear:
'O sister, sister tak my hand,And let 's go down to the river-strand.'
She 's ta'en her by the lily hand,And led her down to the river-strand.
The youngest stood upon a stane,The eldest cam and push'd her in.
'O sister, sister reach your hand!And ye sall be heir o' half my land:
'O sister, reach me but your glove!And sweet William sall be your love.'
Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam,Until she cam to the miller's dam.
Out then cam the miller's son,And saw the fair maid soummin' in.
'O father, father draw your dam!There 's either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.'
The miller hasted and drew his dam,And there he found a drown'd women.
You couldna see her middle sma',Her gowden girdle was sae braw.
You couldna see her lily feet,Her gowden fringes were sae deep.
All amang her yellow hairA string o' pearls was twisted rare.
You couldna see her fingers sma',Wi' diamond rings they were cover'd a'.
And by there cam a harper fine,That harpit to the king at dine.
And when he look'd that lady on,He sigh'd and made a heavy moan.
He 's made a harp of her breast-bane,Whose sound wad melt a heart of stane.
He 's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair,And wi' them strung his harp sae rare.
He went into her father's hall,And there was the court assembled all.
He laid his harp upon a stane,And straight it began to play by lane.
'O yonder sits my father, the King,And yonder sits my mother, the Queen;
'And yonder stands my brother Hugh,And by him my William, sweet and true.'
But the last tune that the harp play'd then—Binnorie, O Binnorie!Was, 'Woe to my sister, false Helen!'By the bonnie milldams o' Binnorie.
soummin'] swimming.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
377. The Bonnie House o' Airlie
IT fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day,When green grew aits and barley,That there fell out a great disputeBetween Argyll and Airlie.
Argyll has raised an hunder men,An hunder harness'd rarely,And he 's awa' by the back of Dunkell,To plunder the castle of Airlie.
Lady Ogilvie looks o'er her bower-window,And O but she looks warely!And there she spied the great Argyll,Come to plunder the bonnie house of Airlie.
'Come down, come down, my Lady Ogilvie,Come down and kiss me fairly:''O I winna kiss the fause Argyll,If he shouldna leave a standing stane in Airlie.'
He hath taken her by the left shoulder,Says, 'Dame, where lies thy dowry?''O it 's east and west yon wan water side,And it 's down by the banks of the Airlie.'
They hae sought it up, they hae sought it down,They hae sought it maist severely,Till they fand it in the fair plum-treeThat shines on the bowling-green of Airlie.
He hath taken her by the middle sae small,And O but she grat sairly!And laid her down by the bonnie burn-side,Til they plunder'd the castle of Airlie.
'Gif my gude lord war here this night,As he is with King Charlie,Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish lord,Durst avow to the plundering of Airlie.
'Gif my gude lord war now at hame,As he is with his king,There durst nae a Campbell in a' ArgyllSet fit on Airlie green.
'Then bonnie sons I have borne unto him,The eleventh ne'er saw his daddy;But though I had an hunder mair,I'd gie them a' to King Charlie!'
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
378. The Wife of Usher's Well
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 came to the carline wifeThat her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely three,When word came to the carline wifeThat 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 came 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' ParadiseThat birk grew fair eneugh.
'Blow up the fire, my maidens!Bring water from the well!For a' my house shall feast this night,Since my three sons are well.'
And she has made to them a bed,She 's made it large and wide;And she 's ta'en her mantle her about,Sat down at the bedside.
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 he hadna craw'd but once,And clapp'd his wings at a',When the youngest to the eldest said,'Brother, we must awa'.
'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 but 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.'
'Fare ye weel, my mother dear!Fareweel to barn and byre!And fare ye weel, the bonny lassThat kindles my mother's fire!'
fashes] troubles. syke] marsh. sheugh] trench. channerin'] fretting.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
379. The Three Ravens
THERE were three ravens sat on a tree,They were as black as they might be.
The one of them said to his make,'Where shall we our breakfast take?'
'Down in yonder greene fieldThere lies a knight slain under his shield;
'His hounds they lie down at his feet,So well they can their master keep;
'His hawks they flie so eagerly,There 's no fowl dare come him nigh.'
Down there comes a fallow doeAs great with young as she might goe.
She lift up his bloudy headAnd kist his wounds that were so red.
She gat him up upon her backAnd carried him to earthen lake.
She buried him before the prime,She was dead herself ere evensong time.
God send every gentlemanSuch hounds, such hawks, and such a leman.
make] mate.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
380. The Twa Corbies (SCOTTISH VERSION)
AS I was walking all alaneI heard twa corbies making a mane:The tane unto the tither did say,'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'
'—In behint yon auld fail dykeI wot there lies a new-slain knight;And naebody kens that he lies thereBut his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.
'His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady 's ta'en anither mate,So we may mak our dinner sweet.
'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en:Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hairWe'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
'Mony a one for him maks mane,But nane sall ken whar he is gane:O'er his white banes, when they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
corbies] ravens. fail] turf. hause] neck. theek] thatch.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
381. A Lyke-Wake Dirge
THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,—Every nighte and alle,Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thy saule.
When thou from hence away art past,—Every nighte and alle,To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last;And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,—Every nighte and alle,Sit thee down and put them on;And Christe receive thy saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane—Every nighte and alle,The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;And Christe receive thy saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pass,—Every nighte and alle,To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last;And Christe receive thy saule.
From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,—Every nighte and alle,To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last;And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink,—Every nighte and alle,The fire sall never make thee shrink;And Christe receive thy saule.
If meat or drink thou ne'er gav'st nane,—Every nighte and alle,The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;And Christe receive thy saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,—Every nighte and alle,Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thy saule.
fleet] house-room.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
382. The Seven Virgins. A CAROL
ALL under the leaves and the leaves of lifeI met with virgins seven,And one of them was Mary mild,Our Lord's mother of Heaven.
'O what are you seeking, you seven fair maids,All under the leaves of life?Come tell, come tell, what seek youAll under the leaves of life?'
'We're seeking for no leaves, Thomas,But for a friend of thine;We're seeking for sweet Jesus Christ,To be our guide and thine.'
'Go down, go down, to yonder town,And sit in the gallery,And there you'll see sweet Jesus ChristNail'd to a big yew-tree.'
So down they went to yonder townAs fast as foot could fall,And many a grievous bitter tearFrom the virgins' eyes did fall.
'O peace, Mother, O peace, Mother,Your weeping doth me grieve:I must suffer this,' He said,'For Adam and for Eve.
'O Mother, take you John EvangelistAll for to be your son,And he will comfort you sometimes,Mother, as I have done.'
'O come, thou John Evangelist,Thou'rt welcome unto me;But more welcome my own dear Son,Whom I nursed on my knee.'
Then He laid His head on His right shoulder,Seeing death it struck Him nigh—'The Holy Ghost be with your soul,I die, Mother dear, I die.'
O the rose, the gentle rose,And the fennel that grows so green!God give us grace in every placeTo pray for our king and queen.
Furthermore for our enemies allOur prayers they should be strong:Amen, good Lord; your charityIs the ending of my song.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
383. Two Rivers
SAYS Tweed to Till—'What gars ye rin sae still?'Says Till to Tweed—'Though ye rin with speedAnd I rin slaw,For ae man that ye droonI droon twa.'
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
384. Cradle Song
O MY deir hert, young Jesus sweit,Prepare thy creddil in my spreit,And I sall rock thee in my hertAnd never mair from thee depart.
But I sall praise thee evermoirWith sangis sweit unto thy gloir;The knees of my hert sall I bow,And sing that richt Balulalow!
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
385. The Call
MY blood so redFor thee was shed,Come home again, come home again;My own sweet heart, come home again!You've gone astrayOut of your way,Come home again, come home again!
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
386. The Bonny Earl of Murray
YE Highlands and ye Lawlands,O where hae ye been?They hae slain the Earl of Murray,And hae laid him on the green.
Now wae be to thee, Huntley!And whairfore did ye sae!I bade you bring him wi' you,But forbade you him to slay.
He was a braw gallant,And he rid at the ring;Ana the bonny Earl of Murray,O he might hae been a king!
He was a braw gallant,And he play'd at the ba';And the bonny Earl of MurrayWas the flower amang them a'!
He was a braw gallant,And he play'd at the gluve;And the bonny Earl of Murray,O he was the Queen's luve!
O lang will his LadyLook owre the Castle Downe,Ere she see the Earl of MurrayCome sounding through the town!
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
387. Helen of Kirconnell
I WISH I were where Helen lies,Night and day on me she cries;O that I were where Helen lies,On 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 succour me!
O think na ye my heart was sair,When my Love dropp'd and spak nae mair!There did she swoon wi' meikle care,On fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide,On fair Kirconnell lea;
I lighted down my sword to draw,I hacked him in pieces sma',I hacked him in pieces sma',For her sake that died for me.
O Helen fair, beyond compare!I'll mak a garland o' thy hair,Shall bind my heart for evermair,Until the day I die!
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'd be blest,Where thou lies low and taks thy rest,On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish my grave were growing green,A winding-sheet drawn owre my e'en,And I in Helen's arms lying,On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish I were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;And I am weary of the skies,For her sake that died for me.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
388. Waly, Waly
O WALY, waly, up the bank,And waly, waly, doun the brae,And waly, waly, yon burn-side,Where I and my Love wont to gae!I lean'd my back unto an aik,I thocht it was a trustie tree;But first it bow'd and syne it brak—Sae my true love did lichtlie me.
O waly, waly, gin love be bonnieA little time while it is new!But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld,And fades awa' like morning dew.O wherefore should I busk my heid,Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true Love has me forsook,And says he'll never lo'e me mair.
Now Arthur's Seat sall be my bed,The sheets sall ne'er be 'filed 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 wearìe.
'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 cam in by Glasgow toun,We were a comely sicht to see;My Love was clad in the black velvet,And I mysel in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kist,That love had been sae ill to win,I had lock'd my heart in a case o' gowd,And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.And O! if my young babe were born,And set upon the nurse's knee;And I mysel were dead and gane,And the green grass growing over me!
cramasie] crimson.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
389. Barbara Allen's Cruelty
IN Scarlet town, where I was born,There was a fair maid dwellin',Made every youth cry Well-a-way!Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merry month of May,When green buds they were swellin',Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man in to her then,To the town where she was dwellin','O haste and come to my master dear,If your name be Barbara Allen.'
So slowly, slowly rase she up,And slowly she came nigh him,And when she drew the curtain by—'Young man, I think you're dyin'.'
'O it 's I am sick and very very sick,And it 's all for Barbara Allen.''O the better for me ye'se never be,Tho' your heart's blood were a-spillin'!
'O dinna ye mind, young man,' says she,'When the red wine ye were fillin',That ye made the healths go round and round,And slighted Barbara Allen?'
He turn'd his face unto the wall,And death was with him dealin':'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,And be kind to Barbara Allen!'
As she was walking o'er the fields,She heard the dead-bell knellin';And every jow the dead-bell gaveCried 'Woe to Barbara Allen.'
'O mother, mother, make my bed,O make it saft and narrow:My love has died for me to-day,I'll die for him to-morrow.
'Farewell,' she said, 'ye virgins all,And shun the fault I fell in:Henceforth take warning by the fallOf cruel Barbara Allen.'
jow] beat, toll.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
390. Pipe and Can
THE Indian weed withered quite;Green at morn, cut down at night;Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay:Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high,Think thou behold'st the vanityOf worldly stuff, gone with a puff:Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
But when the pipe grows foul within,Think of thy soul defiled with sin,And that the fire doth it require:Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
The ashes, that are left behind,May serve to put thee still in mindThat unto dust return thou must:Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
WHEN as the chill Charokko blows,And Winter tells a heavy tale;When pyes and daws and rooks and crowsSit cursing of the frosts and snows;Then give me ale.
Ale in a Saxon rumkin then,Such as will make grimalkin prate;Bids valour burgeon in tall men,Quickens the poet's wit and pen,Despises fate.
Ale, that the absent battle fights,And frames the march of Swedish drum,Disputes with princes, laws, and rights,What 's done and past tells mortal wights,And what 's to come.
Ale, that the plowman's heart up-keepsAnd equals it with tyrants' thrones,That wipes the eye that over-weeps,And lulls in sure and dainty sleepsTh' o'er-wearied bones.
Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus' daughter,Wine's emulous neighbour, though but stale,Ennobling all the nymphs of water,And filling each man's heart with laughter—Ha! give me ale!
Charokko] Scirocco.
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
391. Love will find out the Way
OVER the mountainsAnd over the waves,Under the fountainsAnd under the graves;Under floods that are deepest,Which Neptune obey,Over rocks that are steepest,Love will find out the way.
When there is no placeFor the glow-worm to lie,When there is no spaceFor receipt of a fly;When the midge dares not ventureLest herself fast she lay,If Love come, he will enterAnd will find out the way.
You may esteem himA child for his might;Or you may deem himA coward for his flight;But if she whom Love doth honourBe conceal'd from the day—Set a thousand guards upon her,Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose himBy having him confined;And some do suppose him,Poor heart! to be blind;But if ne'er so close ye wall him,Do the best that ye may,Blind Love, if so ye call him,He will find out his way.
You may train the eagleTo stoop to your fist;Or you may inveigleThe Phoenix of the east;The lioness, you may move herTo give over her prey;But you'll ne'er stop a lover—He will find out the way.
If the earth it should part him,He would gallop it o'er;If the seas should o'erthwart him,He would swim to the shore;Should his Love become a swallow,Through the air to stray,Love will lend wings to follow,And will find out the way.
There is no strivingTo cross his intent;There is no contrivingHis plots to prevent;But if once the message greet himThat his True Love doth stay,If Death should come and meet him,Love will find out the way!
Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.
392. Phillada flouts Me
O WHAT a plague is love!How shall I bear it?She will inconstant prove,I greatly fear it.She so torments my mindThat my strength faileth,And wavers with the windAs a ship saileth.Please her the best I may,She loves still to gainsay;Alack and well-a-day!Phillada flouts me.
At the fair yesterdayShe did pass by me;She look'd another wayAnd would not spy me:I woo'd her for to dine,But could not get her;Will had her to the wine—He might entreat her.With Daniel she did dance,On me she look'd askance:O thrice unhappy chance!Phillada flouts me.
Fair maid, be not so coy,Do not disdain me!I am my mother's joy:Sweet, entertain me!She'll give me, when she dies,All that is fitting:Her poultry and her bees,And her goose sitting,A pair of mattrass beds,And a bag full of shreds;And yet, for all this guedes,Phillada flouts me!
She hath a clout of mineWrought with blue coventry,Which she keeps for a signOf my fidelity:But i' faith, if she flinchShe shall not wear it;To Tib, my t'other wench,I mean to bear it.And yet it grieves my heartSo soon from her to part:Death strike me with his dart!Phillada flouts me.
Thou shalt eat crudded creamAll the year lasting,And drink the crystal streamPleasant in tasting;Whig and whey whilst thou lust,And bramble-berries,Pie-lid and pastry-crust,Pears, plums, and cherries.Thy raiment shall be thin,Made of a weevil's skin—Yet all 's not worth a pin!Phillada flouts me.
In the last month of MayI made her posies;I heard her often sayThat she loved roses.Cowslips and gillyflowersAnd the white lilyI brought to deck the bowersFor my sweet Philly.But she did all disdain,And threw them back again;Therefore 'tis flat and plainPhillada flouts me.
Fair maiden, have a care,And in time take me;I can have those as fairIf you forsake me:For Doll the dairy-maidLaugh'd at me lately,And wanton WinifredFavours me greatly.One throws milk on my clothes,T'other plays with my nose;What wanting signs are those?Phillada flouts me.
I cannot work nor sleepAt all in season:Love wounds my heart so deepWithout all reason.I 'gin to pine awayIn my love's shadow,Like as a fat beast may,Penn'd in a meadow.I shall be dead, I fear,Within this thousand year:And all for that my dearPhillada flouts me.
guedes] goods, property of any kind.
William Strode. 1602-1645
393. Chloris in the Snow
I SAW fair Chloris walk alone,When feather'd rain came softly down,As Jove descending from his TowerTo court her in a silver shower:The wanton snow flew to her breast,Like pretty birds into their nest,But, overcome with whiteness there,For grief it thaw'd into a tear:Thence falling on her garments' hem,To deck her, froze into a gem.
Thomas Stanley. 1625-1678
394. The Relapse
O TURN away those cruel eyes,The stars of my undoing!Or death, in such a bright disguise,May tempt a second wooing.
Punish their blind and impious pride,Who dare contemn thy glory;It was my fall that deifiedThy name, and seal'd thy story.
Yet no new sufferings can prepareA higher praise to crown thee;Though my first death proclaim thee fair,My second will unthrone thee.
Lovers will doubt thou canst enticeNo other for thy fuel,And if thou burn one victim twice,Both think thee poor and cruel.
Thomas D'Urfey. 1653-1723
395. Chloe Divine
CHLOE 's a Nymph in flowery groves,A Nereid in the streams;Saint-like she in the temple moves,A woman in my dreams.
Love steals artillery from her eyes,The Graces point her charms;Orpheus is rivall'd in her voice,And Venus in her arms.
Never so happily in oneDid heaven and earth combine:And yet 'tis flesh and blood aloneThat makes her so divine.
Charles Cotton. 1630-1687
396. To Coelia
WHEN, Coelia, must my old day set,And my young morning riseIn beams of joy so bright as yetNe'er bless'd a lover's eyes?My state is more advanced than whenI first attempted thee:I sued to be a servant then,But now to be made free.
I've served my time faithful and true,Expecting to be placedIn happy freedom, as my due,To all the joys thou hast:Ill husbandry in love is suchA scandal to love's power,We ought not to misspend so muchAs one poor short-lived hour.
Yet think not, sweet! I'm weary grown,That I pretend such haste;Since none to surfeit e'er was knownBefore he had a taste:My infant love could humbly waitWhen, young, it scarce knew howTo plead; but grown to man's estate,He is impatient now.
Katherine Philips ('Orinda'). 1631-1664
397. To One persuading a Lady to Marriage
FORBEAR, bold youth; all 's heaven here,And what you do averTo others courtship may appear,'Tis sacrilege to her.She is a public deity;And were 't not very oddShe should dispose herself to beA petty household god?
First make the sun in private shineAnd bid the world adieu,That so he may his beams confineIn compliment to you:But if of that you do despair,Think how you did amissTo strive to fix her beams which areMore bright and large than his.
John Dryden. 1631-1700
398. OdeTo the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady,Mrs. Anne Killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of Poesy andPainting
THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,Made in the last promotion of the blest;Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,In spreading branches more sublimely rise,Rich with immortal green above the rest:Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race,Or, in procession fixt and regular,Mov'd with the heaven's majestic pace;Or, call'd to more superior bliss,Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:Whatever happy region is thy place,Cease thy celestial song a little space;Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,In no ignoble verse;But such as thy own voice did practise here,When thy first-fruits of Poesy were given,To make thyself a welcome inmate there;While yet a young probationer,And candidate of heaven.
If by traduction came thy mind,Our wonder is the less, to findA soul so charming from a stock so good;Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood:So wert thou born into the tuneful strain,An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.But if thy pre-existing soulWas form'd at first with myriads more,It did through all the mighty poets rollWho Greek or Latin laurels wore,And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find,Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.
May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth?For sure the milder planets did combineOn thy auspicious horoscope to shine,And even the most malicious were in trine.Thy brother-angels at thy birthStrung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,That all the people of the skyMight know a poetess was born on earth;And then, if ever, mortal earsHad heard the music of the spheres.And if no clust'ring swarm of beesOn thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew,'Twas that such vulgar miraclesHeaven had not leisure to renew:For all the blest fraternity of loveSolemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.
O gracious God! how far have weProfan'd thy heavenly gift of Poesy!Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,Debas'd to each obscene and impious use,Whose harmony was first ordain'd above,For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!O wretched we! why were we hurried downThis lubrique and adulterate age(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own),To increase the streaming ordures of the stage?What can we say to excuse our second fall?Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all!Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd,Unmixt with foreign filth, and undefil'd;Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.