Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of Death,Rode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!" he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismayed?Not though the soldier knewSome one had blundered;Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why,Theirs but to do and die;—Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well;Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.Flashed all their sabres bare,Flashed as they turned in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wondered:Plunged in the battery smoke,Right through the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReeled from the sabre-strokeShattered and sundered.Then they rode back, but not—Not the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolleyed and thundered.Stormed at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,Those that had fought so wellCame through the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.When can their glory fade?Oh, the wild charge they made!All the world wondered.Honor the charge they made!Honor the Light Brigade!Noble six hundred!Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of Death,Rode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!" he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismayed?Not though the soldier knewSome one had blundered;Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why,Theirs but to do and die;—Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolleyed and thundered;Stormed at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well;Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,Flashed as they turned in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wondered:Plunged in the battery smoke,Right through the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReeled from the sabre-strokeShattered and sundered.Then they rode back, but not—Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolleyed and thundered.Stormed at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,Those that had fought so wellCame through the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?Oh, the wild charge they made!All the world wondered.Honor the charge they made!Honor the Light Brigade!Noble six hundred!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,Welcome to your gory bedOr to victorie!Now's the day, and now's the hour;See the front o' battle lower;See approach proud Edward's power—Chains and slaverie!Wha will be a traitor knave?Wha can fill a coward's grave?Wha sae base as be a slave?Let him turn and flee!Wha for Scotland's king and lawFreedom's sword will strongly draw,Freeman stand, or freeman fa',Let him follow me!By oppression's woes and pains!By your sons in servile chains!We will drain our dearest veins,But they shall be free!Lay the proud usurpers low!Tyrants fall in every foe!Liberty's in every blow!—Let us do or die!Robert Burns.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,Welcome to your gory bedOr to victorie!
Now's the day, and now's the hour;See the front o' battle lower;See approach proud Edward's power—Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?Wha can fill a coward's grave?Wha sae base as be a slave?Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and lawFreedom's sword will strongly draw,Freeman stand, or freeman fa',Let him follow me!
By oppression's woes and pains!By your sons in servile chains!We will drain our dearest veins,But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!Tyrants fall in every foe!Liberty's in every blow!—Let us do or die!
Robert Burns.
There was a sound of revelry by night.And Belgium's capital had gather'd thenHer Beauty and her Chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!*     *     *     *Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering with white lips—"The foe!They come! they come!"Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms—the dayBattle's magnificently stern array!The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rentThe earth is cover'd thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,Rider and horse—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!George Gordon, Lord Byron.From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
There was a sound of revelry by night.And Belgium's capital had gather'd thenHer Beauty and her Chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!
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Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering with white lips—"The foe!They come! they come!"Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms—the dayBattle's magnificently stern array!The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rentThe earth is cover'd thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,Rider and horse—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!
George Gordon, Lord Byron.
From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
On Linden when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sightWhen the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast array'dEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh'd,To join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heavenFar flash'd the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainéd snow,And darker yet shall be the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye Brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few, shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.Thomas Campbell.
On Linden when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sightWhen the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'dEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neigh'd,To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heavenFar flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainéd snow,And darker yet shall be the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye Brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Thomas Campbell.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused, "My plansThat soar, to earth may fallLet once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,"—Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through,)You looked twice e'er you saw his breast,Was all but shot in two."Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The marshal's in the market-place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him." The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes:"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said;"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.Robert Browning.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plansThat soar, to earth may fallLet once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,"—Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through,)You looked twice e'er you saw his breast,Was all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The marshal's in the market-place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him." The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes:"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said;"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside,Smiling, the boy fell dead.
Robert Browning.
At midnight, in his guarded tent,The Turk was dreaming of the hourWhen Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,Should tremble at his power;In dreams, through camp and court he boreThe trophies of a conqueror;In dreams, his song of triumph heard;Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;Then press'd that monarch's throne—a king:As wild his thoughts, as gay of wing,As Eden's garden bird.At midnight in the forest shades,Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,True as the steel of their tried blades,Heroes in heart and hand.There had the Persian's thousands stood,There had the glad earth drunk their blood,On old Platæa's day;And now there breathed that haunted airThe sons of sires who conquer'd there,With arm to strike, and soul to dare,As quick, as far, as they.An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:That bright dream was his last.He woke to hear his sentries shriek,"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke,And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,And death-shots falling thick and fastAs lightnings from the mountain cloud,And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,Bozzaris cheer his band:"Strike!—till the last arm'd foe expires;Strike!—for your altars and your fires;Strike!—for the green graves of your sires;God, and your native land!"They fought like brave men, long and well;They piled that ground with Moslem slain;They conquer'd;—but Bozzaris fell,Bleeding at every vein.His few surviving comrades sawHis smile when rang their loud hurrah,And the red field was won;Then saw in death his eyelids close,Calmly as to a night's repose,—Like flowers at set of sun.*     *     *     *Bozzaris! with the storied braveGreece nurtured in her glory's time,Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,Even in her own proud clime.She wore no funeral weeds for thee,Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,The heartless luxury of the tomb;But she remembers thee as oneLong loved, and for a season gone;For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed;Her marble wrought, her music breathed;For thee she rings the birthday bells;Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;For thee her evening prayer is saidAt palace-couch and cottage-bed;Her soldier, closing with the foe,Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;His plighted maiden, when she fearsFor him, the joy of her young years,Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;And she, the mother of thy boys,Though in her eye and faded cheekIs read the grief she will not speak,The memory of her buried joys,—And even she who gave thee birthWill, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,Talk of thy doom without a sigh;For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,One of the few, th' immortal namesThat were not born to die.Fitz-Greene Halleck.
At midnight, in his guarded tent,The Turk was dreaming of the hourWhen Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,Should tremble at his power;In dreams, through camp and court he boreThe trophies of a conqueror;In dreams, his song of triumph heard;Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;Then press'd that monarch's throne—a king:As wild his thoughts, as gay of wing,As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight in the forest shades,Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,True as the steel of their tried blades,Heroes in heart and hand.There had the Persian's thousands stood,There had the glad earth drunk their blood,On old Platæa's day;And now there breathed that haunted airThe sons of sires who conquer'd there,With arm to strike, and soul to dare,As quick, as far, as they.
An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:That bright dream was his last.He woke to hear his sentries shriek,"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke,And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,And death-shots falling thick and fastAs lightnings from the mountain cloud,And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,Bozzaris cheer his band:"Strike!—till the last arm'd foe expires;Strike!—for your altars and your fires;Strike!—for the green graves of your sires;God, and your native land!"
They fought like brave men, long and well;They piled that ground with Moslem slain;They conquer'd;—but Bozzaris fell,Bleeding at every vein.His few surviving comrades sawHis smile when rang their loud hurrah,And the red field was won;Then saw in death his eyelids close,Calmly as to a night's repose,—Like flowers at set of sun.
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Bozzaris! with the storied braveGreece nurtured in her glory's time,Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,Even in her own proud clime.She wore no funeral weeds for thee,Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,The heartless luxury of the tomb;But she remembers thee as oneLong loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed;Her marble wrought, her music breathed;For thee she rings the birthday bells;Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;For thee her evening prayer is saidAt palace-couch and cottage-bed;Her soldier, closing with the foe,Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;His plighted maiden, when she fearsFor him, the joy of her young years,Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;And she, the mother of thy boys,Though in her eye and faded cheekIs read the grief she will not speak,The memory of her buried joys,—And even she who gave thee birthWill, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,Talk of thy doom without a sigh;For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,One of the few, th' immortal namesThat were not born to die.
Fitz-Greene Halleck.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal!And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!George Gordon, Lord Byron.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal!And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
George Gordon, Lord Byron.
These ancient ballads have come down to us from the long ago, having been told, like the old nursery tales, from generation to generation, altered, abbreviated, patched, and added to, as they passed from mouth to mouth of poet, high harper, gleeman, wandering minstrel, ballad-monger, and camp-follower. Some of them were repeated by the humble stroller who paid for a corner in the chimney-nook by the practice of his rude art; others were sung by minstrels of the court; most of them were chanted to a tune which served for a score of similar songs, while the verses were frequently interrupted by refrains of one sort or another, as, for instance, in "Hynde Horn," which is sometimes printed as follows:
"Near the King's Court was a young child bornWith a hey lillalu and a how lo lan;And his name it was called Young Hynde HornAnd the birk and the broom blooms bonnie."
"Near the King's Court was a young child bornWith a hey lillalu and a how lo lan;And his name it was called Young Hynde HornAnd the birk and the broom blooms bonnie."
Many of the ballads are gloomy and tragic stories, but told simply and with right feeling; others are gay tales of true love ending happily. Some, like "Sir Patrick Spens" and "Chevy Chace," are built upon historical foundations, and others, while not following history, have a real personage for hero or heroine. Lord Beichan, for instance, is supposed to be Gilbert Becket, father of the famous Saint Thomas of Canterbury, while Glenlogie is Sir George, one of the "gay Gordons," but whoever they are, wise abbots, jolly friars, or noble outlaws, they are always bold fellows, true lovers, and merry men.
Inconsequent, fascinating, high-handed, impossible, picturesque, these old ballads have come to us from the childhood of the world, and still speak to the child-heart in us all.
The king sits in Dunfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine;"O whare will I get a skeely skipper,To sail this new ship o' mine!"O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the king's right knee,—"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,That ever sail'd the sea."The king has written a braid letter,And seal'd it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand."To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis thou maun bring her hame."The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud, loud laughèd he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his e'e."O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o' me,To send us out, at this time of the year,To sail upon the sea?Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis we must fetch her hame."They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,Wi' a' the speed they may;They hae landed in Noroway,Upon a Wodensday.They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway, but twae,When that the lords o' NorowayBegan aloud to say,—"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,And a' our queenis fee.""Ye lee, ye lee, ye liars loud!Fu' loud I hear ye lee."For I brought as much white monie,As gane my men and me,And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud,Out o'er the sea wi' me."Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'!Our gude ship sails the morn.""Now, ever alake, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,Wi' the auld moon in her arm;And, if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm."They had not sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves cam o'er the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn."O where will I get a gude sailor,To tak' my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall top-mast,To see if I can spy land?""O here am I, a sailor gude,To take the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall top-mast;But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bout flew out o' our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in."Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,Anither o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And letna the sea come in."They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Anither of the twine,And wapped them round that gude ship's side,But still the sea cam' in.O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heel'd shoon!But lang or a' the play was play'd,They wat their hats aboon.And mony was the feather-bed,That floated o'er the faem;And mony was the gude lord's son,That never mair came hame.The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A' for the sake of their true loves;For them they'll see na mair.O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit,Wi' their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they'll see na mair.Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,It's fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.Old Ballad.
The king sits in Dunfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine;"O whare will I get a skeely skipper,To sail this new ship o' mine!"
O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the king's right knee,—"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,That ever sail'd the sea."
The king has written a braid letter,And seal'd it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.
"To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o'er the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis thou maun bring her hame."
The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud, loud laughèd he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his e'e.
"O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o' me,To send us out, at this time of the year,To sail upon the sea?
Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'Tis we must fetch her hame."
They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,Wi' a' the speed they may;They hae landed in Noroway,Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway, but twae,When that the lords o' NorowayBegan aloud to say,—
"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,And a' our queenis fee.""Ye lee, ye lee, ye liars loud!Fu' loud I hear ye lee.
"For I brought as much white monie,As gane my men and me,And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud,Out o'er the sea wi' me.
"Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'!Our gude ship sails the morn.""Now, ever alake, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!
"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,Wi' the auld moon in her arm;And, if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm."
They had not sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves cam o'er the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn.
"O where will I get a gude sailor,To tak' my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall top-mast,To see if I can spy land?"
"O here am I, a sailor gude,To take the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall top-mast;But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bout flew out o' our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.
"Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,Anither o' the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And letna the sea come in."
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,Anither of the twine,And wapped them round that gude ship's side,But still the sea cam' in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heel'd shoon!But lang or a' the play was play'd,They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather-bed,That floated o'er the faem;And mony was the gude lord's son,That never mair came hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A' for the sake of their true loves;For them they'll see na mair.
O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit,Wi' their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they'll see na mair.
Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,It's fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
Old Ballad.
There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,And he was a squire's son;He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare,That lived in Islington.Yet she was coye, and would not believeThat he did love her soe,Noe nor at any time would sheAny countenance to him showe.But when his friendes did understandHis fond and foolish minde,They sent him up to faire London,An apprentice for to binde.And when he had been seven long yeares,And never his love could see,—"Many a teare have I shed for her sake,When she little thought of mee."Then all the maids of IslingtonWent forth to sport and playe,All but the bayliffe's daughter deare;She secretly stole awaye.She pulled off her gowne of greene,And put on ragged attire,And to faire London she would goHer true love to enquire.And as she went along the high road,The weather being hot and drye,She sat her downe upon a green bank,And her true love came riding bye.She started up, with a colour soe redd,Catching hold of his bridle-reine;"One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd,"Will ease me of much paine.""Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,Praye tell me where you were borne.""At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee,"Where I have had many a scorne.""I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,O tell me, whether you knoweThe bayliffe's daughter of Islington.""She is dead, sir, long agoe.""If she be dead, then take my horse,My saddle and bridle also;For I will into some farr countrye,Where noe man shall me knowe.""O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,She standeth by thy side;She is here alive, she is not dead,And readye to be thy bride.""O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,Ten thousand times therefore;For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,Whom I thought I should never see more."Old Ballad.
There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,And he was a squire's son;He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare,That lived in Islington.
Yet she was coye, and would not believeThat he did love her soe,Noe nor at any time would sheAny countenance to him showe.
But when his friendes did understandHis fond and foolish minde,They sent him up to faire London,An apprentice for to binde.
And when he had been seven long yeares,And never his love could see,—"Many a teare have I shed for her sake,When she little thought of mee."
Then all the maids of IslingtonWent forth to sport and playe,All but the bayliffe's daughter deare;She secretly stole awaye.
She pulled off her gowne of greene,And put on ragged attire,And to faire London she would goHer true love to enquire.
And as she went along the high road,The weather being hot and drye,She sat her downe upon a green bank,And her true love came riding bye.
She started up, with a colour soe redd,Catching hold of his bridle-reine;"One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd,"Will ease me of much paine."
"Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,Praye tell me where you were borne.""At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee,"Where I have had many a scorne."
"I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,O tell me, whether you knoweThe bayliffe's daughter of Islington.""She is dead, sir, long agoe."
"If she be dead, then take my horse,My saddle and bridle also;For I will into some farr countrye,Where noe man shall me knowe."
"O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,She standeth by thy side;She is here alive, she is not dead,And readye to be thy bride."
"O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,Ten thousand times therefore;For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,Whom I thought I should never see more."
Old Ballad.
An ancient story I'll tell you anonOf a notable prince, that was called King John;And he ruled England with main and with might,For he did great wrong and maintained little right.And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;How for his housekeeping and high renown,They rode post for him to fair London town.An hundred men, the King did hear say,The Abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty gold chains, without any doubt,In velvet coats waited the Abbot about."How now, Father Abbot, I hear it of thee,Thou keepest a far better house than me;And for thy housekeeping and high renown,I fear thou work'st treason against my crown.""My liege," quo' the Abbot, "I would it were knowne,I never spend nothing but what is my owne;And I trust your Grace will not put me in fear,For spending of my owne true-gotten gear.""Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault is highe,And now for the same thou needst must dye;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe."And first," quo' the King, "when I'm in this stead,With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe,Thou must tell to one penny what I am worthe."Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,How soone I may ride the whole world about,And at the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.""Oh, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet;But if you will give me but three weekes space,Ile do my endeavour to answer your Grace.""Now three weeks' space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy land and thy livings are forfeit to me."Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,And he met his Shepherd a-going to fold:"How now, my Lord Abbot, you are welcome home;What news do you bring us from good King John?""Sad news, sad news, Shepherd, I must give,That I have but three days more to live;I must answer the King his questions three,Or my head will be smitten from my bodie."The first is to tell him, there in that stead,With his crown of gold so fair on his head,Among all his liegemen so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth."The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,How soone he may ride this whole world about:And at the third question I must not shrinke,But tell him there truly what he does thinke.""Now cheare up, Sire Abbot, did you never hear yet,That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel."Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,I am like your Lordship, as ever may bee:And if you will but lend me your gowne,There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne.""Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appear 'fore our Father the Pope.""Now welcome, Sire Abbot," the king he did say,"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day;For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee."And first, when thou seest me, here in this stead,With my crown of golde so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,Tell me to one penny what I am worth.""For thirty pence our Saviour was soldAmong the false Jewes, as I have bin told:And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I thinke, thou art one penny worse than he."The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,"I did not think I had been worth so little!Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride this whole world about.""You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,Until the next morning he riseth again;And then your Grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,"I did not think it could be gone so soon.Now from the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what do I think.""Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry;You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."The King he laughed, and swore by the mass,"I'll make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place!""Nay, nay, my Liege, be not in such speed,For alack, I can neither write nor read.""Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me;And tell the old Abbot, when thou gettest home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."Old Ballad.
An ancient story I'll tell you anonOf a notable prince, that was called King John;And he ruled England with main and with might,For he did great wrong and maintained little right.
And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;How for his housekeeping and high renown,They rode post for him to fair London town.
An hundred men, the King did hear say,The Abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty gold chains, without any doubt,In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.
"How now, Father Abbot, I hear it of thee,Thou keepest a far better house than me;And for thy housekeeping and high renown,I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."
"My liege," quo' the Abbot, "I would it were knowne,I never spend nothing but what is my owne;And I trust your Grace will not put me in fear,For spending of my owne true-gotten gear."
"Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault is highe,And now for the same thou needst must dye;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe.
"And first," quo' the King, "when I'm in this stead,With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe,Thou must tell to one penny what I am worthe.
"Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,How soone I may ride the whole world about,And at the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think."
"Oh, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet;But if you will give me but three weekes space,Ile do my endeavour to answer your Grace."
"Now three weeks' space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy land and thy livings are forfeit to me."
Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,And he met his Shepherd a-going to fold:"How now, my Lord Abbot, you are welcome home;What news do you bring us from good King John?"
"Sad news, sad news, Shepherd, I must give,That I have but three days more to live;I must answer the King his questions three,Or my head will be smitten from my bodie.
"The first is to tell him, there in that stead,With his crown of gold so fair on his head,Among all his liegemen so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth.
"The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,How soone he may ride this whole world about:And at the third question I must not shrinke,But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
"Now cheare up, Sire Abbot, did you never hear yet,That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
"Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,I am like your Lordship, as ever may bee:And if you will but lend me your gowne,There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne."
"Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appear 'fore our Father the Pope."
"Now welcome, Sire Abbot," the king he did say,"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day;For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
"And first, when thou seest me, here in this stead,With my crown of golde so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,Tell me to one penny what I am worth."
"For thirty pence our Saviour was soldAmong the false Jewes, as I have bin told:And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I thinke, thou art one penny worse than he."
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,"I did not think I had been worth so little!Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride this whole world about."
"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,Until the next morning he riseth again;And then your Grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,"I did not think it could be gone so soon.Now from the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what do I think."
"Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry;You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."
The King he laughed, and swore by the mass,"I'll make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place!""Nay, nay, my Liege, be not in such speed,For alack, I can neither write nor read."
"Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me;And tell the old Abbot, when thou gettest home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."
Old Ballad.
Lord Beichan was a noble lord,A noble lord of high degree;But he was ta'en by a savage Moor,Who treated him right cruellie.In ilka shoulder was put a bore,In ilka bore was put a tree;And heavy loads they made him draw,Till he was sick, and like to dee.Then he was cast in a dungeon deep,Where he cou'd neither hear nor see;And seven long years they kept him there,Both cold and hunger sore to dree.The Moor he had an only daughter,The damsel's name was Susie Pye;And ilka day as she took the air,Lord Beichan's prison she pass'd by.Young Susie Pye had a tender heart,Tho' she was come of a cruel kin;And sore she sigh'd, she knew not why,For him who lay that dungeon in."Oh, were I but the prison keeper,As I'm a lady of high degree,I soon wou'd set this youth at large,And send him to his own countrie."She gave the keeper a piece of gold,And many pieces of white monie,To unlock to her the prison doors,That she Lord Beichan might go see.Lord Beichan he did marvel sore,The Moor's fair daughter there to see;But took her for some captive maid,Brought from some land in Christendie.For when she saw his wretched plight,Her tears fell fast and bitterlie;And thus the Moor's fair daughter spakeUnto Lord Beichan tenderlie:"Oh, have ye any lands," she said,"Or castles in your own countrie,That ye cou'd give to a lady fair,From prison strong to set you free?""Oh, I have lands both fair and braid,And I have castles fair to see;But I wou'd give them all," he said,"From prison strong to be set free.""Plight me the truth of your right hand,The truth of it here plight to me,That till seven years are past and gone,No lady ye will wed but me.""For seven long years I do make a vow,And seven long years I'll keep it true,If you wed with no other man,No other lady I'll wed but you."Then she has bribed the prison-keeper,With store of gold and white monie,To loose the chain that bound him so,And set Lord Beichan once more free.A ring she from her finger broke,And half of it to him gave she,—"Keep it, to mind you of the maidWho out of prison set you free."She had him put on good shipboard,That he might safely cross the main;Then said, "Adieu! my Christian lord,I fear we ne'er may meet again."Lord Beichan turn'd him round about,And lowly, lowly bent his knee;"Ere seven years are come and gone,I'll take you to my own countrie."But Susie Pye cou'd get no rest,Nor day nor night cou'd happy be;For something whisper'd in her breast,"Lord Beichan will prove false to thee."So she set foot on good shipboard,Well mann'd and fitted gallantlie;She bade adieu to her father's towers,And left behind her own countrie.Then she sailed west, and she sailed north,She sailed far o'er the salt sea faem;And after many weary days,Unto fair England's shore she came.Then she went to Lord Beichan's gate,And she tirl'd gently at the pin,And ask'd—"Is this Lord Beichan's hall,And is that noble lord within?"The porter ready answer made,—"Oh yes, this is Lord Beichan's hall;And he is also here within,With bride and guests assembled all.""And has he betroth'd another love,And has he quite forgotten me,To whom he plighted his love and troth,When from prison I did him free?"Bear to your lord, ye proud porter,This parted ring, the plighted tokenOf mutual love, and mutual vows,By him, alas! now falsely broken."And bid him send one bit of bread,And bid him send one cup of wine,Unto the maid he hath betray'd,Tho' she freed him from cruel pine."The porter hasten'd to his lord,And fell down on his bended knee:"My lord, a lady stands at your gate,The fairest lady I e'er did see."On every finger she has a ring,And on her middle finger three;With as much gold above her browAs wou'd buy an earldom to me."It's out then spake the bride's mother,Both loud and angry out spake she,—"Ye might have excepted our bonnie bride,If not more of this companie.""My dame, your daughter's fair enough,Her beauty's not denied by me;But were she ten times fairer still,With this lady ne'er compare cou'd she."My lord, she asks one bit of bread,And bids you send one cup of wine;And to remember the lady's love,Who freed you out of cruel pine."Lord Beichan hied him down the stair,—Of fifteen steps he made but three,Until he came to Susie Pye,Whom he did kiss most tenderlie.He's ta'en her by the lily hand,And led her to his noble hall,Where stood his sore-bewilder'd bride,And wedding guests assembled all.Fair Susie blushing look'd around,Upon the lords and ladies gay;Then with the tear-drops in her eyes,Unto Lord Beichan she did say:"Oh, have ye ta'en another bride,And broke your plighted vows to me?Then fare thee well, my Christian lord,I'll try to think no more on thee."But sadly I will wend my way,And sadly I will cross the sea,And sadly will with grief and shameReturn unto my own countrie.""Oh, never, never, Susie Pye,Oh, never more shall you leave me;This night you'll be my wedded wife,And lady of my lands so free."Syne up then spake the bride's mother,She ne'er before did speak so free,—"You'll not forsake my dear daughter,For sake of her from Pagandie.""Take home, take home your daughter dear,She's not a pin the worse of me;She came to me on horseback riding,But shall go back in a coach and three."Lord Beichan got ready another wedding,And sang, with heart brimful of glee,—"Oh, I'll range no more in foreign lands,Since Susie Pye has cross'd the sea."Old Ballad.
Lord Beichan was a noble lord,A noble lord of high degree;But he was ta'en by a savage Moor,Who treated him right cruellie.
In ilka shoulder was put a bore,In ilka bore was put a tree;And heavy loads they made him draw,Till he was sick, and like to dee.
Then he was cast in a dungeon deep,Where he cou'd neither hear nor see;And seven long years they kept him there,Both cold and hunger sore to dree.
The Moor he had an only daughter,The damsel's name was Susie Pye;And ilka day as she took the air,Lord Beichan's prison she pass'd by.
Young Susie Pye had a tender heart,Tho' she was come of a cruel kin;And sore she sigh'd, she knew not why,For him who lay that dungeon in.
"Oh, were I but the prison keeper,As I'm a lady of high degree,I soon wou'd set this youth at large,And send him to his own countrie."
She gave the keeper a piece of gold,And many pieces of white monie,To unlock to her the prison doors,That she Lord Beichan might go see.
Lord Beichan he did marvel sore,The Moor's fair daughter there to see;But took her for some captive maid,Brought from some land in Christendie.
For when she saw his wretched plight,Her tears fell fast and bitterlie;And thus the Moor's fair daughter spakeUnto Lord Beichan tenderlie:
"Oh, have ye any lands," she said,"Or castles in your own countrie,That ye cou'd give to a lady fair,From prison strong to set you free?"
"Oh, I have lands both fair and braid,And I have castles fair to see;But I wou'd give them all," he said,"From prison strong to be set free."
"Plight me the truth of your right hand,The truth of it here plight to me,That till seven years are past and gone,No lady ye will wed but me."
"For seven long years I do make a vow,And seven long years I'll keep it true,If you wed with no other man,No other lady I'll wed but you."
Then she has bribed the prison-keeper,With store of gold and white monie,To loose the chain that bound him so,And set Lord Beichan once more free.
A ring she from her finger broke,And half of it to him gave she,—"Keep it, to mind you of the maidWho out of prison set you free."
She had him put on good shipboard,That he might safely cross the main;Then said, "Adieu! my Christian lord,I fear we ne'er may meet again."
Lord Beichan turn'd him round about,And lowly, lowly bent his knee;"Ere seven years are come and gone,I'll take you to my own countrie."
But Susie Pye cou'd get no rest,Nor day nor night cou'd happy be;For something whisper'd in her breast,"Lord Beichan will prove false to thee."
So she set foot on good shipboard,Well mann'd and fitted gallantlie;She bade adieu to her father's towers,And left behind her own countrie.
Then she sailed west, and she sailed north,She sailed far o'er the salt sea faem;And after many weary days,Unto fair England's shore she came.
Then she went to Lord Beichan's gate,And she tirl'd gently at the pin,And ask'd—"Is this Lord Beichan's hall,And is that noble lord within?"
The porter ready answer made,—"Oh yes, this is Lord Beichan's hall;And he is also here within,With bride and guests assembled all."
"And has he betroth'd another love,And has he quite forgotten me,To whom he plighted his love and troth,When from prison I did him free?
"Bear to your lord, ye proud porter,This parted ring, the plighted tokenOf mutual love, and mutual vows,By him, alas! now falsely broken.
"And bid him send one bit of bread,And bid him send one cup of wine,Unto the maid he hath betray'd,Tho' she freed him from cruel pine."
The porter hasten'd to his lord,And fell down on his bended knee:"My lord, a lady stands at your gate,The fairest lady I e'er did see.
"On every finger she has a ring,And on her middle finger three;With as much gold above her browAs wou'd buy an earldom to me."
It's out then spake the bride's mother,Both loud and angry out spake she,—"Ye might have excepted our bonnie bride,If not more of this companie."
"My dame, your daughter's fair enough,Her beauty's not denied by me;But were she ten times fairer still,With this lady ne'er compare cou'd she.
"My lord, she asks one bit of bread,And bids you send one cup of wine;And to remember the lady's love,Who freed you out of cruel pine."
Lord Beichan hied him down the stair,—Of fifteen steps he made but three,Until he came to Susie Pye,Whom he did kiss most tenderlie.
He's ta'en her by the lily hand,And led her to his noble hall,Where stood his sore-bewilder'd bride,And wedding guests assembled all.
Fair Susie blushing look'd around,Upon the lords and ladies gay;Then with the tear-drops in her eyes,Unto Lord Beichan she did say:
"Oh, have ye ta'en another bride,And broke your plighted vows to me?Then fare thee well, my Christian lord,I'll try to think no more on thee.
"But sadly I will wend my way,And sadly I will cross the sea,And sadly will with grief and shameReturn unto my own countrie."
"Oh, never, never, Susie Pye,Oh, never more shall you leave me;This night you'll be my wedded wife,And lady of my lands so free."
Syne up then spake the bride's mother,She ne'er before did speak so free,—"You'll not forsake my dear daughter,For sake of her from Pagandie."
"Take home, take home your daughter dear,She's not a pin the worse of me;She came to me on horseback riding,But shall go back in a coach and three."
Lord Beichan got ready another wedding,And sang, with heart brimful of glee,—"Oh, I'll range no more in foreign lands,Since Susie Pye has cross'd the sea."
Old Ballad.