Be content, be content,Be content to stay, lady,For ye are my wedded wifeUnto my dying day, lady.
Be content, be content,Be content to stay, lady,For ye are my wedded wifeUnto my dying day, lady.
"My father is Rob Roy called,M'Gregor is his name, lady,In all the country where he dwells,35He does succeed the fame, lady."My father he has cows and ewes,And goats he has eneuch, lady,And you, and twenty thousand merks,Will make me a man complete, lady."40
"My father is Rob Roy called,M'Gregor is his name, lady,In all the country where he dwells,35He does succeed the fame, lady.
"My father he has cows and ewes,And goats he has eneuch, lady,And you, and twenty thousand merks,Will make me a man complete, lady."40
From Maidment'sNorth Countrie Garland, p. 40.
"This ballad is probably much more than a century old, though the circumstances which have given rise to it were fortunately too common to preclude the possibility of its being of a later date. Although evidently founded on fact, the editor has not hitherto discovered the particular circumstances out of which it has originated."
Four and twenty Highland menCame a' from Carrie side,To steal awa' Eppie Morrie,'Cause she would not be a bride.Out it's cam her mother,5It was a moonlight night,She could not see her daughter.The sands they shin'd so bright."Haud far awa' frae me, mother,Haud far awa' frae me;10There's not a man in a' StrathdonShall wedded be with me."They have taken Eppie Morrie,And horseback bound her on,And then awa' to the minister,15As fast as horse could gang.He's taken out a pistol,And set it to the minister's breast;"Marry me, marry me, minister,Or else I'll be your priest."20"Haud far awa' frae me, good sir,Haud far awa' frae me;For there's not a man in a' StrathdonThat shall married be with me.""Haud far awa' frae me, Willie,25Haud far awa' frae me;For I darna avow to marry you,Except she's as willing as ye."They have taken Eppie Morrie,Since better could nae be,30And they're awa' to Carrie side,As fast as horse could flee.Then mass was sung, and bells were rung,And all were bound for bed,Then Willie an' Eppie Morrie35In one bed they were laid."Haud far awa' frae me, Willie,Haud far awa' frae me;Before I'll lose my maidenhead,I'll try my strength with thee."40She took the cap from off her head,And threw it to the way;Said, "Ere I lose my maidenhead,I'll fight with you till day."Then early in the morning,45Before her clothes were on,In came the maiden of Scalletter,Gown and shirt alone."Get up, get up, young woman,And drink the wine wi' me;"50"You might have called me maiden,I'm sure as leal as thee.""Wally fa' you, Willie,That ye could nae prove a man,And taen the lassie's maidenhead;55She would have hired your han'.""Haud far awa' frae me, lady,Haud far awa' frae me;There's not a man in a' Strathdon,The day shall wed wi' me."60Soon in there came Belbordlane,With a pistol on every side;"Come awa' hame, Eppie Morrie,And there you'll be my bride.""Go get to me a horse, Willie,65And get it like a man,And send me back to my mother,A maiden as I cam."The sun shines o'er the westlin hills,By the light lamp of the moon,70Just saddle your horse, young John Forsyth,And whistle, and I'll come soon."
Four and twenty Highland menCame a' from Carrie side,To steal awa' Eppie Morrie,'Cause she would not be a bride.
Out it's cam her mother,5It was a moonlight night,She could not see her daughter.The sands they shin'd so bright.
"Haud far awa' frae me, mother,Haud far awa' frae me;10There's not a man in a' StrathdonShall wedded be with me."
They have taken Eppie Morrie,And horseback bound her on,And then awa' to the minister,15As fast as horse could gang.
He's taken out a pistol,And set it to the minister's breast;"Marry me, marry me, minister,Or else I'll be your priest."20
"Haud far awa' frae me, good sir,Haud far awa' frae me;For there's not a man in a' StrathdonThat shall married be with me."
"Haud far awa' frae me, Willie,25Haud far awa' frae me;For I darna avow to marry you,Except she's as willing as ye."
They have taken Eppie Morrie,Since better could nae be,30And they're awa' to Carrie side,As fast as horse could flee.
Then mass was sung, and bells were rung,And all were bound for bed,Then Willie an' Eppie Morrie35In one bed they were laid.
"Haud far awa' frae me, Willie,Haud far awa' frae me;Before I'll lose my maidenhead,I'll try my strength with thee."40
She took the cap from off her head,And threw it to the way;Said, "Ere I lose my maidenhead,I'll fight with you till day."
Then early in the morning,45Before her clothes were on,In came the maiden of Scalletter,Gown and shirt alone.
"Get up, get up, young woman,And drink the wine wi' me;"50"You might have called me maiden,I'm sure as leal as thee."
"Wally fa' you, Willie,That ye could nae prove a man,And taen the lassie's maidenhead;55She would have hired your han'."
"Haud far awa' frae me, lady,Haud far awa' frae me;There's not a man in a' Strathdon,The day shall wed wi' me."60
Soon in there came Belbordlane,With a pistol on every side;"Come awa' hame, Eppie Morrie,And there you'll be my bride."
"Go get to me a horse, Willie,65And get it like a man,And send me back to my mother,A maiden as I cam.
"The sun shines o'er the westlin hills,By the light lamp of the moon,70Just saddle your horse, young John Forsyth,And whistle, and I'll come soon."
This ballad, worthy of a hangman's pen, was first printed in Herd'sScottish Songs, i. 161. It is found, mutilated and altered, with the title ofMacpherson's Lament, in theThistle of Scotland, p. 52.
The story of Macpherson is given as follows by a writer in theNew Monthly Magazine, vol. i. p. 142, cited by Chambers,Scottish Songs, i. 84.
"James Macpherson was born of a beautiful gipsy, who, at a great wedding, attracted the notice of a half-intoxicated Highland gentleman. He acknowledged the child, and had him reared in his house, until he lost his life in bravely pursuing a hostile clan, to recover a spreach of cattle taken from Badenoch.The gipsy woman, hearing of this disaster, in her rambles the following summer, came and took away her boy; but she often returned with him, to wait upon his relations and clansmen, who never failed to clothe him well, besides giving money to his mother. He grew up to beauty, strength, and stature, rarely equalled. His sword is still preserved at Duff House, a residence of the Earl of Fife, and few men of our day could carry, far less wield it, as a weapon of war; and if it must be owned that his prowess was debased by the exploits of a free-booter, it is certain, no act of cruelty, no robbery of the widow, the fatherless, or distressed, and no murder, were ever perpetrated under his command. He often gave the spoils of the rich to relieve the poor; and all his tribe were restrained from many atrocities of rapine by the awe of his mighty arm. Indeed, it is said that a dispute with an aspiring and savage man of his tribe, who wished to rob a gentleman's house while his wife and two children lay on the bier for interment, was the cause of his being betrayed to the vengeance of the law. The magistrates of Aberdeen were exasperated at Macpherson's escape, and bribed a girl in that city to allure and deliver him into their hands. There is a platform before the jail, at the top of a stair, and a door below. When Macpherson's capture was made known to his comrades by the frantic girl, who had been so credulous as to believe the magistrates only wanted to hear the wonderful performer on the violin, his cousin, Donald Macpherson, a gentleman of Herculean powers, did not disdain to come from Badenoch, and to join a gipsy, Peter Brown, in liberating the prisoner. On a market-day they brought severalassistants; and swift horses were stationed at a convenient distance. Donald Macpherson and Peter Brown forced the jail; and while Peter Brown went to help the heavily-fettered James Macpherson in moving away, Donald Macpherson guarded the jail-door with a drawn sword. Many persons assembled at the market had experienced James Macpherson's humanity, or had shared his bounty; and they crowded round the jail as in mere curiosity, but, in fact, to obstruct the civil authorities in their attempts to prevent a rescue. A butcher, however, was resolved to detain Macpherson, expecting a large recompense from the magistrates; he sprung up the stairs, and leaped from the platform upon Donald Macpherson, whom he dashed to the ground by the force and weight of his body. Donald Macpherson soon recovered, to make a desperate resistance; and the combatants tore off each other's clothes. The butcher got a glimpse of his dog upon the platform, and called him to his aid; but Macpherson, with admirable presence of mind, snatched up his own plaid, which lay near, and threw it over the butcher, thus misleading the instinct of his canine adversary. The dog darted with fury upon the plaid, and terribly lacerated his master's thigh. In the mean time, James Macpherson had been carried out by Peter Brown, and was soon joined by Donald Macpherson, who was quickly covered by some friendly spectator with a hat and great coat. The magistrates ordered webs from the shops to be drawn across the Gallowgate; but Donald Macpherson cut them asunder with his sword, and James, the late prisoner, got off on horseback. He was, some time after, betrayed by a man of his own tribe:and was the last person executed at Banff, previous to the abolition of hereditable jurisdiction. He was an admirable performer on the violin; and his talent for composition is still evidenced by Macpherson's Rant, and Macpherson's Pibroch. He performed these tunes at the foot of the fatal tree; and then asked if he had any friend in the crowd to whom a last gift of his instrument would be acceptable. No man had hardihood to claim friendship with a delinquent, in whose crimes the acknowledgment might implicate an avowed acquaintance. As no friend came forward, Macpherson said, the companion of so many gloomy hours should perish with him; and, breaking the violin over his knees, he threw away the fragments. Donald Macpherson picked up the neck of the violin, which to this day is preserved, as a valuable memento, by the family of Cluny, chieftain of the Macphersons."
Burns's magnificent death-song,McPherson's Farewell, is too well known to require more than an allusion.
I've spent my time in rioting,Debauch'd my health and strength;I've pillag'd, plunder'd, murdered,But now, alas! at length,I'm brought to punishment direct,5Pale death draws near to me;This end I never did project,To hang upon a tree.To hang upon a tree! a tree!That curs'd unhappy death!10Like to a wolf to worried be,And choaked in the breath.My very heart would surely break,When this I think upon,Did not my courage singular15Bid pensive thoughts begone.No man on earth that draweth breath,More courage had than I;I dar'd my foes unto their face,And would not from them fly.20This grandeur stout, I did keep out,Like Hector, manfullie:Then wonder one like me, so stout,Should hang upon a tree!Th' Egyptian band I did command,25With courage more by far,Than ever did a generalHis soldiers in the war.Being fear'd by all, both great and small,I liv'd most joyfullie:30O! curse upon this fate of mine,To hang upon a tree!As for my life, I do not care,If justice would take place,And bring my fellow plunderers35Unto this same disgrace.For Peter Brown, that notour loon,Escap'd and was made free;O! curse upon this fate of mine,To hang upon a tree!40Both law and justice buried are,And fraud and guile succeed;The guilty pass unpunished,If money intercede.The Laird of Grant, that Highland saint,45His mighty majestie,He pleads the cause of Peter Brown,And lets Macpherson die.The destiny of my life, contriv'dBy those whom I oblig'd,50Rewarded me much ill for good,And left me no refuge.For Braco Duff, in rage enough,He first laid hands on me;And if that death would not prevent,55Avenged would I be.As for my life, it is but short,When I shall be no more;To part with life I am content,As any heretofore.60Therefore, good people all, take heed,This warning take by me,According to the lives you lead,Rewarded you shall be.
I've spent my time in rioting,Debauch'd my health and strength;I've pillag'd, plunder'd, murdered,But now, alas! at length,I'm brought to punishment direct,5Pale death draws near to me;This end I never did project,To hang upon a tree.
To hang upon a tree! a tree!That curs'd unhappy death!10Like to a wolf to worried be,And choaked in the breath.My very heart would surely break,When this I think upon,Did not my courage singular15Bid pensive thoughts begone.
No man on earth that draweth breath,More courage had than I;I dar'd my foes unto their face,And would not from them fly.20This grandeur stout, I did keep out,Like Hector, manfullie:Then wonder one like me, so stout,Should hang upon a tree!
Th' Egyptian band I did command,25With courage more by far,Than ever did a generalHis soldiers in the war.Being fear'd by all, both great and small,I liv'd most joyfullie:30O! curse upon this fate of mine,To hang upon a tree!
As for my life, I do not care,If justice would take place,And bring my fellow plunderers35Unto this same disgrace.For Peter Brown, that notour loon,Escap'd and was made free;O! curse upon this fate of mine,To hang upon a tree!40
Both law and justice buried are,And fraud and guile succeed;The guilty pass unpunished,If money intercede.The Laird of Grant, that Highland saint,45His mighty majestie,He pleads the cause of Peter Brown,And lets Macpherson die.
The destiny of my life, contriv'dBy those whom I oblig'd,50Rewarded me much ill for good,And left me no refuge.For Braco Duff, in rage enough,He first laid hands on me;And if that death would not prevent,55Avenged would I be.
As for my life, it is but short,When I shall be no more;To part with life I am content,As any heretofore.60Therefore, good people all, take heed,This warning take by me,According to the lives you lead,Rewarded you shall be.
The Flemings, having abandoned their legitimate sovereign and attached themselves to Philip the Fair, found at last cause to repent. In 1301, two citizens of Bruges, Peter de Koning, a draper, and John Breydel, a butcher, stirred up their townsmen to revolt, and drove out the French garrison. The next year, the Count d'Artois, with a superb army, was defeated by the insurgents at the battle of Courtrai.
This ballad is found in MS. Harl. No. 2253, "of the reign of Edw. II." and has been printed in Ritson'sAncient Songs(i. 51), and in Wright'sPolitical Songs, p. 187. We have adopted the text of the latter.
Lustneth, lordinges, bothe yonge ant olde,Of the Freynsshe men that were so proude ant bolde,Hou the Flemmysshe men bohten hem ant solde,Upon a Wednesday.Betere hem were at home in huere londe,5Then for te seche Flemmysshe by the see stronde,Whare thourh moni Frenshe wyf wryngeth hire honde,Ant singeth weylaway.The Kyng of Fraunce made statuz newe,In the lond of Flaundres among false ant trewe,10That the commun of Bruges ful sore con arewe,Ant seiden amonges hem,"Gedere we us togedere hardilyche at ene,Take we the bailifs bi tuenty ant by tene,Clappe we of the hevedesanoneno the grene,15Ant caste we y the fen."The webbes ant the fullaris assembleden hem alle,Ant makeden huere consail in huere commune halle;Token Peter Conyng huere kyng to calle,Ant beo huere cheventeyn.20Hue nomen huere rouncyns out of the stalle,Ant closeden the toun withinne the walle;Sixti baylies ant ten hue maden adoun falle,Ant moni an other sweyn.Tho wolde the baylies that were come from Fraunce,25Dryve the Flemisshe that made the destaunce;Hue turnden hem ayeynes with suerd ant with launce,Stronge men ant lyht.Y telle ou for sothe, for al huere bobaunce,Ne for the avowerie of the Kyng of Fraunce,30Tuenti score ant fyve haden ther meschaunce,By day ant eke by nyht.Sire Jakes de Seint Poul, yherde hou hit was;Sixtene hundred of horsemen asemblede o the gras;He wende toward Brugespas pur pas,35With swithe gret moundeThe Flemmysshe yherden telle the cas,Agynneth to clynken huere basyns of bras,Ant al hem to-dryven ase ston doth the glas,Ant fellen hem to grounde.40Sixtene hundred of horsmen hede ther here fyn;Hue leyyen y the stretes ystyked ase swyn,Ther hue loren huere stedes ant mony rouncyn,Thourh huere oune prude.Sire Jakes ascapede, by a coynte gyn,45Out at one posterne ther me solde wyn,Out of the fyhte hom to ys yn,In wel muchele drede.Tho the Kyng of Fraunce yherde this, anon,Assemblede he is doussé-pers everuchon,50The proude eorl of Artoys ant other mony on,To come to Paris.The barouns of Fraunce thider conne gon,Into the paleis that paved is with ston,To jugge the Flemmisshe to bernen ant to slon,55Thourh the flour de lis.Thenne seide the Kyng Philip, "Lustneth nou to me;Myn eorles ant my barouns, gentil ant fre:Goth, faccheth me the traytours ybounde to my kne;Hastifliche ant blyve."60Tho suor the Eorl of Seint Poul, "Par la goule dé,We shule facche the rybaus wher thi wille be,Ant drawen hem [with] wilde hors out of the countrè,By thousendes fyve.""Sire Rauf Devel," sayth the Eorl of Boloyne,65"Nus ne lerrum en vie chanoun ne moyne;Wende we forth anon ritht withoute eny assoygne,Ne no lyves man.We shule flo the Conyng, ant make roste is loyne;The word shal springen of him into Coloyne,70So hit shal to Acres ant into Sesoyne,Ant maken him ful wan."Sevene eorls ant fourti barouns y-tolde,Fiftene hundred knyhtes, proude ant swythe bolde,Sixti thousent swyers amonge yunge ant olde,75Flemmisshe to take.The Flemmisshe hardeliche hem come to-yeynes;This proude Freinsshe eorles, huere knyhtes ant huere sweynes,Aquelleden ant slowen, by hulles ant by pleynes,Al for huere kynges sake.80This Frenshe come to Flaundres so liht so the hare;Er hit were mydnyht hit fel hem to care;Hue were laht by the net so bryd is in snare,With rouncin ant with stede.The Flemmisshe hem dabbeth o the het bare;85Hue nolden take for huem raunsoun ne ware;Hue doddeth of huere hevedes, fare so hit fare,Ant thareto haveth hue nede.Thenne seyth the Eorl of Artois, "Y yelde me to the,Peter Conyng, by thi nome, yef thou art hende ant fre,90That y ne have no shame ne no vylté,That y ne be noud ded."Thenne swor a bocher, "By my leauté,Shalt thou ner more the kyng of Fraunce se,Ne in the toun of Bruges in prisone be;95Thou woldest spene bred."Ther hy were knulled y the putfalle,This eorles ant barouns ant huere knyhtes alle;Huere ledies huem mowe abide in boure ant in halleWel longe.100For hem mot huere kyng other knyhtes calle,Other stedes taken out of huere stalle:Ther hi habbeth dronke bittrere then the galle,Upon the drue londe.When the Kyng of Fraunce yherde this tydynge,105He smot doun is heved, is honden gon he wrynge:Thourhout al Fraunce the word bygon to sprynge,Wo wes huem tho!Muche wes the sorewe ant the wepingeThat wes in al Fraunce among olde ant yynge;110The mest part of the lond bygon for te synge"Alas ant weylawo!"Awey, thou yunge pope! whet shal the to rede?Thou hast lore thin cardinals at thi meste nede;114Ne keverest thou hem nevere for nones kunnes mede,For sothe y the telle.Do the forth to Rome, to amende thi misdede;Bide gode halewen, hue lete the betere spede;Bote thou worche wysloker, thou losest lont ant lede,The coroune wel the felle.120Alas, thou seli Fraunce! for the may thunche shome,That ane fewe fullaris maketh ou so tome;Sixti thousent on a day hue maden fot-lome,With eorl ant knyht.Herof habbeth the Flemysshe suithe god game,125Ant suereth by Seint Omer ant eke bi Seint Jame,Yef hy ther more cometh, hit falleth huem to shame,With huem for te fyht.I telle ou for sothe, the bataille thus bigonBituene Fraunce ant Flaundres, hou hue weren fon;130Vor Vrenshe the Eorl of Flaundres in prison heden ydon,With tresoun untrewe.Ye[f] the Prince of Walis his lyf habbé mote,Hit falleth the Kyng of Fraunce bittrore then the sote;Bote he the rathere therof welle do bote,135Wel sore hit shal hym rewe.
Lustneth, lordinges, bothe yonge ant olde,Of the Freynsshe men that were so proude ant bolde,Hou the Flemmysshe men bohten hem ant solde,Upon a Wednesday.Betere hem were at home in huere londe,5Then for te seche Flemmysshe by the see stronde,Whare thourh moni Frenshe wyf wryngeth hire honde,Ant singeth weylaway.
The Kyng of Fraunce made statuz newe,In the lond of Flaundres among false ant trewe,10That the commun of Bruges ful sore con arewe,Ant seiden amonges hem,"Gedere we us togedere hardilyche at ene,Take we the bailifs bi tuenty ant by tene,Clappe we of the hevedesanoneno the grene,15Ant caste we y the fen."
The webbes ant the fullaris assembleden hem alle,Ant makeden huere consail in huere commune halle;Token Peter Conyng huere kyng to calle,Ant beo huere cheventeyn.20Hue nomen huere rouncyns out of the stalle,Ant closeden the toun withinne the walle;Sixti baylies ant ten hue maden adoun falle,Ant moni an other sweyn.
Tho wolde the baylies that were come from Fraunce,25Dryve the Flemisshe that made the destaunce;Hue turnden hem ayeynes with suerd ant with launce,Stronge men ant lyht.Y telle ou for sothe, for al huere bobaunce,Ne for the avowerie of the Kyng of Fraunce,30Tuenti score ant fyve haden ther meschaunce,By day ant eke by nyht.
Sire Jakes de Seint Poul, yherde hou hit was;Sixtene hundred of horsemen asemblede o the gras;He wende toward Brugespas pur pas,35With swithe gret moundeThe Flemmysshe yherden telle the cas,Agynneth to clynken huere basyns of bras,Ant al hem to-dryven ase ston doth the glas,Ant fellen hem to grounde.40
Sixtene hundred of horsmen hede ther here fyn;Hue leyyen y the stretes ystyked ase swyn,Ther hue loren huere stedes ant mony rouncyn,Thourh huere oune prude.Sire Jakes ascapede, by a coynte gyn,45Out at one posterne ther me solde wyn,Out of the fyhte hom to ys yn,In wel muchele drede.
Tho the Kyng of Fraunce yherde this, anon,Assemblede he is doussé-pers everuchon,50The proude eorl of Artoys ant other mony on,To come to Paris.The barouns of Fraunce thider conne gon,Into the paleis that paved is with ston,To jugge the Flemmisshe to bernen ant to slon,55Thourh the flour de lis.
Thenne seide the Kyng Philip, "Lustneth nou to me;Myn eorles ant my barouns, gentil ant fre:Goth, faccheth me the traytours ybounde to my kne;Hastifliche ant blyve."60Tho suor the Eorl of Seint Poul, "Par la goule dé,We shule facche the rybaus wher thi wille be,Ant drawen hem [with] wilde hors out of the countrè,By thousendes fyve."
"Sire Rauf Devel," sayth the Eorl of Boloyne,65"Nus ne lerrum en vie chanoun ne moyne;Wende we forth anon ritht withoute eny assoygne,Ne no lyves man.We shule flo the Conyng, ant make roste is loyne;The word shal springen of him into Coloyne,70So hit shal to Acres ant into Sesoyne,Ant maken him ful wan."
Sevene eorls ant fourti barouns y-tolde,Fiftene hundred knyhtes, proude ant swythe bolde,Sixti thousent swyers amonge yunge ant olde,75Flemmisshe to take.The Flemmisshe hardeliche hem come to-yeynes;This proude Freinsshe eorles, huere knyhtes ant huere sweynes,Aquelleden ant slowen, by hulles ant by pleynes,Al for huere kynges sake.80
This Frenshe come to Flaundres so liht so the hare;Er hit were mydnyht hit fel hem to care;Hue were laht by the net so bryd is in snare,With rouncin ant with stede.The Flemmisshe hem dabbeth o the het bare;85Hue nolden take for huem raunsoun ne ware;Hue doddeth of huere hevedes, fare so hit fare,Ant thareto haveth hue nede.
Thenne seyth the Eorl of Artois, "Y yelde me to the,Peter Conyng, by thi nome, yef thou art hende ant fre,90That y ne have no shame ne no vylté,That y ne be noud ded."Thenne swor a bocher, "By my leauté,Shalt thou ner more the kyng of Fraunce se,Ne in the toun of Bruges in prisone be;95Thou woldest spene bred."
Ther hy were knulled y the putfalle,This eorles ant barouns ant huere knyhtes alle;Huere ledies huem mowe abide in boure ant in halleWel longe.100For hem mot huere kyng other knyhtes calle,Other stedes taken out of huere stalle:Ther hi habbeth dronke bittrere then the galle,Upon the drue londe.
When the Kyng of Fraunce yherde this tydynge,105He smot doun is heved, is honden gon he wrynge:Thourhout al Fraunce the word bygon to sprynge,Wo wes huem tho!Muche wes the sorewe ant the wepingeThat wes in al Fraunce among olde ant yynge;110The mest part of the lond bygon for te synge"Alas ant weylawo!"
Awey, thou yunge pope! whet shal the to rede?Thou hast lore thin cardinals at thi meste nede;114Ne keverest thou hem nevere for nones kunnes mede,For sothe y the telle.Do the forth to Rome, to amende thi misdede;Bide gode halewen, hue lete the betere spede;Bote thou worche wysloker, thou losest lont ant lede,The coroune wel the felle.120
Alas, thou seli Fraunce! for the may thunche shome,That ane fewe fullaris maketh ou so tome;Sixti thousent on a day hue maden fot-lome,With eorl ant knyht.Herof habbeth the Flemysshe suithe god game,125Ant suereth by Seint Omer ant eke bi Seint Jame,Yef hy ther more cometh, hit falleth huem to shame,With huem for te fyht.
I telle ou for sothe, the bataille thus bigonBituene Fraunce ant Flaundres, hou hue weren fon;130Vor Vrenshe the Eorl of Flaundres in prison heden ydon,With tresoun untrewe.Ye[f] the Prince of Walis his lyf habbé mote,Hit falleth the Kyng of Fraunce bittrore then the sote;Bote he the rathere therof welle do bote,135Wel sore hit shal hym rewe.
15. anonen. R. an oven. W.
15. anonen. R. an oven. W.
On the 27th of March, 1306, Robert Bruce was crowned king at Scone. Immediately thereupon, King Edward the First sent the Earl of Pembroke, Aymer de Valence, to Scotland, to suppress what he called the rebellion in that kingdom. Pembroke attacked Bruce in his cantonments at Methven (or Kirkenclif) near Perth, and dispersed his small army, taking several prisoners of great consequence. Among them was Sir Simon Fraser, or Frisel, whose cruel fate is narrated in the following ballad.
This piece has been printed in Ritson'sAncient Songs(i. 28), and in Wright'sPolitical Songs, p. 212, and is extracted from the same MS. as the preceding ballad.
Lystneth, lordynges, a newe song ichulle bigynne,Of the traytours of Scotlond, that take beth wyth gynne;Mon that loveth falsnesse, and nule never blynne,Sore may him drede the lyf that he is ynne,Ich understonde:5Selde wes he gladThat never nes a-sadOf nythe ant of onde.That y sugge by this Scottes that bueth nou to-drawe,The hevedes o Londone-brugge, whosé con y-knawe;10He wenden han buen kynges, ant seiden so in sawe;Betere hem were han y-be barouns, ant libbe in Godes laweWyth love.Whosé hateth soth ant ryht,Lutel he douteth Godes myht,15The heye kyng above.To warny alle the gentilmen that bueth in Scotlonde,The Waleis wes to-drawe, seththe he wes an-honge,Al quic biheveded, ys bowels ybrend,The heved to Londone-brugge wes send,20To abyde.After Simond Frysel,That wes traytour ant fykell,Ant y-cud ful wyde.Sire Edward oure kyng, that ful ys of pieté,25The Waleis quarters sende to is oune contré,On four-half to honge, huere myrour to be,Theropon to thenche, that monie myhten se,Ant drede.Why nolden he be war30Of the bataile of Donbar,Hou evele hem con spede?Bysshopes ant barouns come to the kynges pes,Ase men that weren fals, fykel, ant les,Othes hue him sworen in stude ther he wes,35To buen him hold ant trewe for alles cunnes res,Thrye,That hue ne shulden ayeyn him go,So hue were temed tho;Weht halt hit to lye?40To the kyng Edward hii fasten huere fay;Fals wes here foreward so forst is in May,That sonne from the southward wypeth away;Moni proud Scot therof mene mayTo yere.45Nes never ScotlondWith dunt of monnes hondAllinge aboht so duere.The bisshop of Glascou y chot he wes ylaht,The bisshop of Seint-Andrè, bothe he beth ycaht,50The abbot of Scon with the kyng nis nout saht,Al here purpos ycome hit ys to naht,Thurh ryhte:Hii were unwisWhen hii thohte pris55Ayeyn huere kyng to fyhte.Thourh consail of thes bisshopes ynemned byfore,Sire Robert the Bruytz furst kyng wes ycore;He mai everuche day ys fon him se byfore,Yef hee mowen him hente, i chot he bith forlore,60Sauntz fayle.Soht for te sugge,Duere he shal abuggeThat he bigon batayle.Hii that him crounede proude were ant bolde,65Hii madenkyng of somer, so hii ner ne sholde,Hii setten on ys heved a croune of rede golde,Ant token him a kyneyerde, so me kyng sholde,To deme.Tho he wes set in see,70Lutel god couthe heKyneriche to yeme.Nou kyng Hobbe in the mures yongeth,For te come to toune nout him ne longeth;The barouns of Engelond, myhte hue him grype,75He him wolde techen on Englysshe to pype,Thourh streynthe:Ne be he ner so stout,Yet he bith ysoht outO brede ant o leynthe.80Sire Edward of Carnarvan, (Jhesu him save ant see!)Sire Emer de Valence, gentil knyht ant free,Habbeth ysuore huere oht that,par la grace dée,Hee wolleth ous delyvren of that false contree,Yef hii conne.85Muche hath Scotlond forlore,Whet alast, whet bifore,Ant lutel pris wonne.Nou i chulle fonge ther ich er let,Ant tellen ou of Frisel, ase ich ou byhet.90In the batayle of Kyrkenclyf Frysel wes ytake;Ys continaunce abatede eny bost to makeBiside Strivelyn;Knyhtes ant sweynes,Fremen ant theynes,95Monye with hym.So hii weren byset on everuche halve,Somme slaye were, ant somme dreynte hemselve;Sire Johan of Lyndeseye nolde nout abyde,He wod into the water, his feren him bysyde,100To adrenche.Whi nolden hii be war?Ther nis non ayeyn star:—Why nolden hy hem bythenche?This wes byfore seint Bartholomeus masse,105That Frysel wes ytake, were hit more other lasse;To sire Thomas of Multon, gentil baron ant fre,Ant to sire Johan Jose, bytake tho wes heTo honde:He wes yfetered weel,110Bothe with yrn ant wyth steel,To bringen of Scotlonde.Sone therafter the tydynge to the kyng com;He him sende to Londone, with mony armed grom;He com yn at Newegate, y telle yt ou aplyht,115A gerland of leves on ys hed ydyht,Of grene;For he shulde ben yknowe,Bothe of heye ant of lowe,For treytour, y wene.120Yfetered were ys legges under his horse wombe,Bothe with yrn ant with stel mankled were ys honde,A gerland of peruenke set on his heved;Muche wes the poer that him wes byrevedIn londe:125So god me amende,Lutel he wendeSo be broht in honde.Sire Herbert of Norham, feyr knyht ant bold,For the love of Frysel ys lyf wes ysold;130A wajour he made, so hit wes ytold,Ys heved of to smhyte, yef me him brohte in hold,Wat so bytyde:Sory wes he thenneTho he myhte him kenne135Thourh the toun ryde.Thenne seide ys scwyer a word anon ryht,"Sire, we beth dede, ne helpeth hit no wyht,"(Thomas de Boys the scwyer wes to nome,)"Nou, y chot, our wajour turneth us to grome,140So ybate."Y do ou to wyte,Here heved wes of-smyte,Byfore the Tour-gate.This wes on oure Levedy even, for sothe ych understonde;145The justices seten for the knyhtes of Scotlonde,Sire Thomas of Multone, an hendy knyht ant wys,Ant sire Rauf of Sondwyche, that muchel isholdin prys,Ant sire Johan Abel;Mo y mihte telle by tale,150Bothe of grete ant of smale,Ye knowen suythe wel.Thenne saide the justice, that gentil is ant fre,"Sire Simond Frysel, the kynges traytour hast thou be,In water ant in londe, that monie myhten se.155What sayst thou thareto, hou wolt thou quite the?Do say."So foul he him wiste,Nede waron trusteFor to segge nay.160Ther he wes ydemed, so hit wes londes lawe;For that he wes lordswyk, furst he wes to-drawe;Upon a retheres hude forth he wes ytuht:Sum while in ys time he wes a modi knyht,In huerte.165Wickednesse ant sunne,Hit is lutel wunneThat maketh the body smerte.For al is grete poer, yet he wes ylaht;Falsnesse ant swykedom, al hit geth to naht;170Tho he wes in Scotlond, lutel wes ys thohtOf the harde jugement that him wes bysohtIn stounde.He wes foursithe forsworeTo the kyng ther bifore,175Ant that him brohte to grounde.With feteres ant with gyves i chot he wes to-drowe,From the Tour of Londone, that monie myhte knowe,In a curtel of burel, a selkethe wyse,Ant a gerland on ys heved of the newe guyse,180Thurh Cheepe;Moni mon of EngelondFor to se SymondThideward con lepe.Tho he com to galewes, furst he wes anhonge,185Al quic byheveded, thah him thohte longe;Seththe he wes y-opened, is boweles ybrend,The heved to Londone-brugge wes send,To shonde:So ich ever mote the,190Sumwhile wende heTher lutel to stonde.He rideth thourh the sité, as y telle may,With gomen ant wyth solas, that wes here play;To Londone-brugge hee nome the way,195Moni wes the wyves chil that theron laketh a day,Ant seide, Alas,That he wes ibore,Ant so villiche forlore,So feir mon ase he was!200Nou stont the heved above the tu-brugge,Faste bi Waleis, soth for te sugge;After socour of Scotlond longe he mowe prye,Ant after help of Fraunce, (wet halt hit to lye?)Ich wene.205Betere him were in Scotlond,With is ax in ys hond,To pleyen o the grene.Ant the body hongeth at the galewes faste,With yrnene claspes longe to laste;210For te wyte wel the body, ant Scottysh to garste,Foure ant twenti ther beoth to sothe ate laste,By nyhte:Yef eny were so hardiThe body to remuy,215Al so to dyhte.Were sire Robert the Bruytz ycome to this londe,Antthe erl of Asseles, that harde is an honde,Alle the other pouraille, forsothe ich understonde,Mihten be ful blythe ant thonke godes sonde,220Wyth ryhte;Thenne myhte uch monBothe riden ant gonIn pes withoute vyhte.The traytours of Scotland token hem to rede225The barouns of Engelond to brynge to dede:Charles of Fraunce, so moni mon tolde,With myht ant with streynthe hem helpe wolde,His thonkes.Tprot, Scot, for thi strif!230Hang up thyn hachet ant thi knyf,Whil him lasteth the lyfWith the longe shonkes.
Lystneth, lordynges, a newe song ichulle bigynne,Of the traytours of Scotlond, that take beth wyth gynne;Mon that loveth falsnesse, and nule never blynne,Sore may him drede the lyf that he is ynne,Ich understonde:5Selde wes he gladThat never nes a-sadOf nythe ant of onde.
That y sugge by this Scottes that bueth nou to-drawe,The hevedes o Londone-brugge, whosé con y-knawe;10He wenden han buen kynges, ant seiden so in sawe;Betere hem were han y-be barouns, ant libbe in Godes laweWyth love.Whosé hateth soth ant ryht,Lutel he douteth Godes myht,15The heye kyng above.
To warny alle the gentilmen that bueth in Scotlonde,The Waleis wes to-drawe, seththe he wes an-honge,Al quic biheveded, ys bowels ybrend,The heved to Londone-brugge wes send,20To abyde.After Simond Frysel,That wes traytour ant fykell,Ant y-cud ful wyde.
Sire Edward oure kyng, that ful ys of pieté,25The Waleis quarters sende to is oune contré,On four-half to honge, huere myrour to be,Theropon to thenche, that monie myhten se,Ant drede.Why nolden he be war30Of the bataile of Donbar,Hou evele hem con spede?
Bysshopes ant barouns come to the kynges pes,Ase men that weren fals, fykel, ant les,Othes hue him sworen in stude ther he wes,35To buen him hold ant trewe for alles cunnes res,Thrye,That hue ne shulden ayeyn him go,So hue were temed tho;Weht halt hit to lye?40
To the kyng Edward hii fasten huere fay;Fals wes here foreward so forst is in May,That sonne from the southward wypeth away;Moni proud Scot therof mene mayTo yere.45Nes never ScotlondWith dunt of monnes hondAllinge aboht so duere.
The bisshop of Glascou y chot he wes ylaht,The bisshop of Seint-Andrè, bothe he beth ycaht,50The abbot of Scon with the kyng nis nout saht,Al here purpos ycome hit ys to naht,Thurh ryhte:Hii were unwisWhen hii thohte pris55Ayeyn huere kyng to fyhte.
Thourh consail of thes bisshopes ynemned byfore,Sire Robert the Bruytz furst kyng wes ycore;He mai everuche day ys fon him se byfore,Yef hee mowen him hente, i chot he bith forlore,60Sauntz fayle.Soht for te sugge,Duere he shal abuggeThat he bigon batayle.
Hii that him crounede proude were ant bolde,65Hii madenkyng of somer, so hii ner ne sholde,Hii setten on ys heved a croune of rede golde,Ant token him a kyneyerde, so me kyng sholde,To deme.Tho he wes set in see,70Lutel god couthe heKyneriche to yeme.
Nou kyng Hobbe in the mures yongeth,For te come to toune nout him ne longeth;The barouns of Engelond, myhte hue him grype,75He him wolde techen on Englysshe to pype,Thourh streynthe:Ne be he ner so stout,Yet he bith ysoht outO brede ant o leynthe.80
Sire Edward of Carnarvan, (Jhesu him save ant see!)Sire Emer de Valence, gentil knyht ant free,Habbeth ysuore huere oht that,par la grace dée,Hee wolleth ous delyvren of that false contree,Yef hii conne.85Muche hath Scotlond forlore,Whet alast, whet bifore,Ant lutel pris wonne.
Nou i chulle fonge ther ich er let,Ant tellen ou of Frisel, ase ich ou byhet.90In the batayle of Kyrkenclyf Frysel wes ytake;Ys continaunce abatede eny bost to makeBiside Strivelyn;Knyhtes ant sweynes,Fremen ant theynes,95Monye with hym.
So hii weren byset on everuche halve,Somme slaye were, ant somme dreynte hemselve;Sire Johan of Lyndeseye nolde nout abyde,He wod into the water, his feren him bysyde,100To adrenche.Whi nolden hii be war?Ther nis non ayeyn star:—Why nolden hy hem bythenche?
This wes byfore seint Bartholomeus masse,105That Frysel wes ytake, were hit more other lasse;To sire Thomas of Multon, gentil baron ant fre,Ant to sire Johan Jose, bytake tho wes heTo honde:He wes yfetered weel,110Bothe with yrn ant wyth steel,To bringen of Scotlonde.
Sone therafter the tydynge to the kyng com;He him sende to Londone, with mony armed grom;He com yn at Newegate, y telle yt ou aplyht,115A gerland of leves on ys hed ydyht,Of grene;For he shulde ben yknowe,Bothe of heye ant of lowe,For treytour, y wene.120
Yfetered were ys legges under his horse wombe,Bothe with yrn ant with stel mankled were ys honde,A gerland of peruenke set on his heved;Muche wes the poer that him wes byrevedIn londe:125So god me amende,Lutel he wendeSo be broht in honde.
Sire Herbert of Norham, feyr knyht ant bold,For the love of Frysel ys lyf wes ysold;130A wajour he made, so hit wes ytold,Ys heved of to smhyte, yef me him brohte in hold,Wat so bytyde:Sory wes he thenneTho he myhte him kenne135Thourh the toun ryde.
Thenne seide ys scwyer a word anon ryht,"Sire, we beth dede, ne helpeth hit no wyht,"(Thomas de Boys the scwyer wes to nome,)"Nou, y chot, our wajour turneth us to grome,140So ybate."Y do ou to wyte,Here heved wes of-smyte,Byfore the Tour-gate.
This wes on oure Levedy even, for sothe ych understonde;145The justices seten for the knyhtes of Scotlonde,Sire Thomas of Multone, an hendy knyht ant wys,Ant sire Rauf of Sondwyche, that muchel isholdin prys,Ant sire Johan Abel;Mo y mihte telle by tale,150Bothe of grete ant of smale,Ye knowen suythe wel.
Thenne saide the justice, that gentil is ant fre,"Sire Simond Frysel, the kynges traytour hast thou be,In water ant in londe, that monie myhten se.155What sayst thou thareto, hou wolt thou quite the?Do say."So foul he him wiste,Nede waron trusteFor to segge nay.160
Ther he wes ydemed, so hit wes londes lawe;For that he wes lordswyk, furst he wes to-drawe;Upon a retheres hude forth he wes ytuht:Sum while in ys time he wes a modi knyht,In huerte.165Wickednesse ant sunne,Hit is lutel wunneThat maketh the body smerte.
For al is grete poer, yet he wes ylaht;Falsnesse ant swykedom, al hit geth to naht;170Tho he wes in Scotlond, lutel wes ys thohtOf the harde jugement that him wes bysohtIn stounde.He wes foursithe forsworeTo the kyng ther bifore,175Ant that him brohte to grounde.
With feteres ant with gyves i chot he wes to-drowe,From the Tour of Londone, that monie myhte knowe,In a curtel of burel, a selkethe wyse,Ant a gerland on ys heved of the newe guyse,180Thurh Cheepe;Moni mon of EngelondFor to se SymondThideward con lepe.
Tho he com to galewes, furst he wes anhonge,185Al quic byheveded, thah him thohte longe;Seththe he wes y-opened, is boweles ybrend,The heved to Londone-brugge wes send,To shonde:So ich ever mote the,190Sumwhile wende heTher lutel to stonde.
He rideth thourh the sité, as y telle may,With gomen ant wyth solas, that wes here play;To Londone-brugge hee nome the way,195Moni wes the wyves chil that theron laketh a day,Ant seide, Alas,That he wes ibore,Ant so villiche forlore,So feir mon ase he was!200
Nou stont the heved above the tu-brugge,Faste bi Waleis, soth for te sugge;After socour of Scotlond longe he mowe prye,Ant after help of Fraunce, (wet halt hit to lye?)Ich wene.205Betere him were in Scotlond,With is ax in ys hond,To pleyen o the grene.
Ant the body hongeth at the galewes faste,With yrnene claspes longe to laste;210For te wyte wel the body, ant Scottysh to garste,Foure ant twenti ther beoth to sothe ate laste,By nyhte:Yef eny were so hardiThe body to remuy,215Al so to dyhte.
Were sire Robert the Bruytz ycome to this londe,Antthe erl of Asseles, that harde is an honde,Alle the other pouraille, forsothe ich understonde,Mihten be ful blythe ant thonke godes sonde,220Wyth ryhte;Thenne myhte uch monBothe riden ant gonIn pes withoute vyhte.
The traytours of Scotland token hem to rede225The barouns of Engelond to brynge to dede:Charles of Fraunce, so moni mon tolde,With myht ant with streynthe hem helpe wolde,His thonkes.Tprot, Scot, for thi strif!230Hang up thyn hachet ant thi knyf,Whil him lasteth the lyfWith the longe shonkes.