D.

Motherwell's MS., p. 649. From the recitation of Mrs Cunningham, Ayr.

1There were twa brithers at ae scule;As they were coming hame,Then said the ane until the other'John, will ye throw the stane?'2'I will not throw the stane, brither,I will not play at the ba;But gin ye come to yonder woodI'll warsle you a fa.'3The firsten fa young Johnie got,It brought him to the ground;The wee pen-knife in Willie's pocketGied him a deadly wound.4'Tak aff, tak aff my holland sark,And rive it frae gore to gore,And stap it in my bleeding wounds,They'll aiblins bleed noe more.'5He pouit aff his holland sark,And rave it frae gore to gore,And stapt it in his bleeding wounds,But ay they bled the more.6'O brither, tak me on your back,And bear me hence away,And carry me to Chester kirk,And lay me in the clay.'7'What will I say to your father,This night when I return?''Tell him I'm gane to Chester scule,And tell him no to murn.'8'What will I say to your mother,This nicht whan I gae hame?''She wishd afore I cam awaThat I might neer gae hame.'9'What will I say to your true-love,This nicht when I gae hame?''Tell her I'm dead and in my grave,For her dear sake alane.'10He took him upon his backAnd bore him hence away,And carried him to Chester kirk,And laid him in the clay.11He laid him in the cauld cauld clay,And he cuirt him wi a stane,And he's awa to his fathers ha,Sae dowilie alane.12'You're welcome, dear son,' he said,'You're welcome hame to me;But what's come o your brither John,That gade awa wi thee?'13'Oh he's awa to Chester scule,A scholar he'll return;He bade me tell his father dearAbout him no to murn.'14'You're welcome hame, dear son,' she said,'You're welcome hame to me;But what's come o your brither John,That gade awa wi thee?'15'He bade me tell his mother dear,This nicht when I cam hame,Ye wisht before he gade awa,That he might neer return.'16Then next came up his true-love dear,And heavy was her moan;'You're welcome hame, dear Will,' she said,'But whare's your brither John?'17'O lady, cease your trouble now,O cease your heavy moan;He's dead and in the cauld cauld clay,For your dear sake alone.'18She ran distraught, she wept, she sicht,She wept the sma brids frae the tree,She wept the starns adoun frae the lift,She wept the fish out o the sea.19'O cease your weeping, my ain true-love,Ye but disturb my rest;''Is that my ain true lover John,The man that I loe best?'20''T is naething but my ghaist,' he said,'That's sent to comfort thee;O cease your weeping, my true-love,And 't will gie peace to me.'

1There were twa brithers at ae scule;As they were coming hame,Then said the ane until the other'John, will ye throw the stane?'

2'I will not throw the stane, brither,I will not play at the ba;But gin ye come to yonder woodI'll warsle you a fa.'

3The firsten fa young Johnie got,It brought him to the ground;The wee pen-knife in Willie's pocketGied him a deadly wound.

4'Tak aff, tak aff my holland sark,And rive it frae gore to gore,And stap it in my bleeding wounds,They'll aiblins bleed noe more.'

5He pouit aff his holland sark,And rave it frae gore to gore,And stapt it in his bleeding wounds,But ay they bled the more.

6'O brither, tak me on your back,And bear me hence away,And carry me to Chester kirk,And lay me in the clay.'

7'What will I say to your father,This night when I return?''Tell him I'm gane to Chester scule,And tell him no to murn.'

8'What will I say to your mother,This nicht whan I gae hame?''She wishd afore I cam awaThat I might neer gae hame.'

9'What will I say to your true-love,This nicht when I gae hame?''Tell her I'm dead and in my grave,For her dear sake alane.'

10He took him upon his backAnd bore him hence away,And carried him to Chester kirk,And laid him in the clay.

11He laid him in the cauld cauld clay,And he cuirt him wi a stane,And he's awa to his fathers ha,Sae dowilie alane.

12'You're welcome, dear son,' he said,'You're welcome hame to me;But what's come o your brither John,That gade awa wi thee?'

13'Oh he's awa to Chester scule,A scholar he'll return;He bade me tell his father dearAbout him no to murn.'

14'You're welcome hame, dear son,' she said,'You're welcome hame to me;But what's come o your brither John,That gade awa wi thee?'

15'He bade me tell his mother dear,This nicht when I cam hame,Ye wisht before he gade awa,That he might neer return.'

16Then next came up his true-love dear,And heavy was her moan;'You're welcome hame, dear Will,' she said,'But whare's your brither John?'

17'O lady, cease your trouble now,O cease your heavy moan;He's dead and in the cauld cauld clay,For your dear sake alone.'

18She ran distraught, she wept, she sicht,She wept the sma brids frae the tree,She wept the starns adoun frae the lift,She wept the fish out o the sea.

19'O cease your weeping, my ain true-love,Ye but disturb my rest;''Is that my ain true lover John,The man that I loe best?'

20''T is naething but my ghaist,' he said,'That's sent to comfort thee;O cease your weeping, my true-love,And 't will gie peace to me.'

Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 59. From the recitation of Mrs W. Arrott, of Aberbrothick.

1'O will ye gae to the school, brother?Or will ye gae to the ba?Or will ye gae to the wood a-warslin,To see whilk o's maun fa?'2'It's I winna gae to the school, brother,Nor will I gae to the ba;But I will gae to the wood a-warslin,And it is you maun fa.'3They warstled up, they warstled down,The lee-lang simmer's day;. . . . . . .. . . . . . .4'O lift me up upon your back,Tak me to yon wall fair;You'll wash my bluidy wounds oer and oer,And syne they'll bleed nae mair.5'And ye'll tak aff my hollin sark,And riv 't frae gair to gair;Ye'll stap it in my bluidy wounds,And syne they'll bleed nae mair.'6He's liftit his brother upon his back,Taen him to yon wall fair;He's washed his bluidy wounds oer and oer,But ay they bled mair and mair.7And he's taen aff his hollin sark,And riven 't frae gair to gair;He's stappit it in his bluidy wounds,But ay they bled mair and mair.8'Ye'll lift me up upon your back,Tak me to Kirkland fair;Ye'll mak my greaf baith braid and lang,And lay my body there.9'Ye'll lay my arrows at my head,My bent bow at my feet,My sword and buckler at my side,As I was wont to sleep.10'Whan ye gae hame to your father,He'll speer for his son John:Say, ye left him into Kirkland fair,Learning the school alone.11'When ye gae hame to my sister,She'll speer for her brother John:Ye'll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair,The green grass growin aboon.12'Whan ye gae hame to my true-love,She'll speer for her lord John:Ye'll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair,But hame ye fear he'll never come.'13He's gane hame to his father;He speered for his son John:'It's I left him into Kirkland fair,Learning the school alone.'14And whan he gaed hame to his sister,She speered for her brother John:'It's I left him into Kirkland fair,The green grass growin aboon.'15And whan he gaed home to his true-love,She speerd for her lord John:'It's I left him into Kirkland fair,And hame I fear he'll never come.'16'But whaten bluid's that on your sword, Willie?Sweet Willie, tell to me;''O it is the bluid o my grey hounds,They wadna rin for me.'17'It's nae the bluid o your hounds, Willie,Their bluid was never so red;But it is the bluid o my true-love,That ye hae slain indeed.'18That fair may wept, that fair may mournd,That fair may mournd and pin'd:'When every lady looks for her love,I neer need look for mine.'19'O whaten a death will ye die, Willie?Now, Willie, tell to me;''Ye'll put me in a bottomless boat,And I'll gae sail the sea.'20'Whan will ye come hame again, Willie?Now, Willie, tell to me;''Whan the sun and moon dances on the green,And that will never be.'

1'O will ye gae to the school, brother?Or will ye gae to the ba?Or will ye gae to the wood a-warslin,To see whilk o's maun fa?'

2'It's I winna gae to the school, brother,Nor will I gae to the ba;But I will gae to the wood a-warslin,And it is you maun fa.'

3They warstled up, they warstled down,The lee-lang simmer's day;. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

4'O lift me up upon your back,Tak me to yon wall fair;You'll wash my bluidy wounds oer and oer,And syne they'll bleed nae mair.

5'And ye'll tak aff my hollin sark,And riv 't frae gair to gair;Ye'll stap it in my bluidy wounds,And syne they'll bleed nae mair.'

6He's liftit his brother upon his back,Taen him to yon wall fair;He's washed his bluidy wounds oer and oer,But ay they bled mair and mair.

7And he's taen aff his hollin sark,And riven 't frae gair to gair;He's stappit it in his bluidy wounds,But ay they bled mair and mair.

8'Ye'll lift me up upon your back,Tak me to Kirkland fair;Ye'll mak my greaf baith braid and lang,And lay my body there.

9'Ye'll lay my arrows at my head,My bent bow at my feet,My sword and buckler at my side,As I was wont to sleep.

10'Whan ye gae hame to your father,He'll speer for his son John:Say, ye left him into Kirkland fair,Learning the school alone.

11'When ye gae hame to my sister,She'll speer for her brother John:Ye'll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair,The green grass growin aboon.

12'Whan ye gae hame to my true-love,She'll speer for her lord John:Ye'll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair,But hame ye fear he'll never come.'

13He's gane hame to his father;He speered for his son John:'It's I left him into Kirkland fair,Learning the school alone.'

14And whan he gaed hame to his sister,She speered for her brother John:'It's I left him into Kirkland fair,The green grass growin aboon.'

15And whan he gaed home to his true-love,She speerd for her lord John:'It's I left him into Kirkland fair,And hame I fear he'll never come.'

16'But whaten bluid's that on your sword, Willie?Sweet Willie, tell to me;''O it is the bluid o my grey hounds,They wadna rin for me.'

17'It's nae the bluid o your hounds, Willie,Their bluid was never so red;But it is the bluid o my true-love,That ye hae slain indeed.'

18That fair may wept, that fair may mournd,That fair may mournd and pin'd:'When every lady looks for her love,I neer need look for mine.'

19'O whaten a death will ye die, Willie?Now, Willie, tell to me;''Ye'll put me in a bottomless boat,And I'll gae sail the sea.'

20'Whan will ye come hame again, Willie?Now, Willie, tell to me;''Whan the sun and moon dances on the green,And that will never be.'

Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 60.

1There were twa brothers at the scule,And when they got awa,'It's will ye play at the stane-chucking,Or will ye play at the ba,Or will ye gae up to yon hill head,And there we'll warsel a fa?'2'I winna play at the stane-chucking,Nor will I play at the ba;But I'll gae up to yon bonnie green hill,And there we'll warsel a fa.'3They warsled up, they warsled down,Till John fell to the ground;A dirk fell out of William's pouch,And gave John a deadly wound.4'O lift me upon your back,Take me to yon well fair,And wash my bluidy wounds oer and oer,And they'll neer bleed nae mair.'5He's lifted his brother upon his back,Taen him to yon well fair;He's wash'd his bluidy wounds oer and oer,But they bleed ay mair and mair.6'Tak ye aff my holland sark,And rive it gair by gair,And row it in my bluidy wounds,And they'll neer bleed nae mair.'7He's taken aff his holland sark,And torn it gair by gair;He's rowit it in his bluidy wounds,But they bleed ay mair and mair.8'Tak now aff my green cleiding,And row me saftly in,And tak me up to yon kirk-style,Whare the grass grows fair and green.'9He's taken aff the green cleiding,And rowed him saftly in;He's laid him down by yon kirk-style,Whare the grass grows fair and green.10'What will ye say to your father dear,When ye gae hame at een?''I'll say ye're lying at yon kirk-style,Whare the grass grows fair and green.'11'O no, O no, my brother dear,O you must not say so;But say that I'm gane to a foreign land,Whare nae man does me know.'12When he sat in his father's chair,He grew baith pale and wan:'O what blude's that upon your brow?O dear son, tell to me;''It is the blude o my gude gray steed,He wadna ride wi me.'13'O thy steed's blude was neer sae red,Nor eer sae dear to me:O what blude's this upon your cheek?O dear son, tell to me;''It is the blude of my greyhound,He wadna hunt for me.'14'O thy hound's blude was neer sae red,Nor eer sae dear to me:O what blude's this upon your hand?O dear son, tell to me;''It is the blude of my gay goss-hawk,He wadna flee for me.'15'O thy hawk's blude was neer sae red,Nor eer sae dear to me:O what blude's this upon your dirk?Dear Willie, tell to me;''It is the blude of my ae brother,O dule and wae is me!'16'O what will ye say to your father?Dear Willie, tell to me;''I'll saddle my steed, and awa I'll ride,To dwell in some far countrie.'17'O when will ye come hame again?Dear Willie, tell to me;''When sun and mune leap on yon hill,And that will never be.'18She turnd hersel right round about,And her heart burst into three:'My ae best son is deid and gane,And my tother ane I'll neer see.'

1There were twa brothers at the scule,And when they got awa,'It's will ye play at the stane-chucking,Or will ye play at the ba,Or will ye gae up to yon hill head,And there we'll warsel a fa?'

2'I winna play at the stane-chucking,Nor will I play at the ba;But I'll gae up to yon bonnie green hill,And there we'll warsel a fa.'

3They warsled up, they warsled down,Till John fell to the ground;A dirk fell out of William's pouch,And gave John a deadly wound.

4'O lift me upon your back,Take me to yon well fair,And wash my bluidy wounds oer and oer,And they'll neer bleed nae mair.'

5He's lifted his brother upon his back,Taen him to yon well fair;He's wash'd his bluidy wounds oer and oer,But they bleed ay mair and mair.

6'Tak ye aff my holland sark,And rive it gair by gair,And row it in my bluidy wounds,And they'll neer bleed nae mair.'

7He's taken aff his holland sark,And torn it gair by gair;He's rowit it in his bluidy wounds,But they bleed ay mair and mair.

8'Tak now aff my green cleiding,And row me saftly in,And tak me up to yon kirk-style,Whare the grass grows fair and green.'

9He's taken aff the green cleiding,And rowed him saftly in;He's laid him down by yon kirk-style,Whare the grass grows fair and green.

10'What will ye say to your father dear,When ye gae hame at een?''I'll say ye're lying at yon kirk-style,Whare the grass grows fair and green.'

11'O no, O no, my brother dear,O you must not say so;But say that I'm gane to a foreign land,Whare nae man does me know.'

12When he sat in his father's chair,He grew baith pale and wan:'O what blude's that upon your brow?O dear son, tell to me;''It is the blude o my gude gray steed,He wadna ride wi me.'

13'O thy steed's blude was neer sae red,Nor eer sae dear to me:O what blude's this upon your cheek?O dear son, tell to me;''It is the blude of my greyhound,He wadna hunt for me.'

14'O thy hound's blude was neer sae red,Nor eer sae dear to me:O what blude's this upon your hand?O dear son, tell to me;''It is the blude of my gay goss-hawk,He wadna flee for me.'

15'O thy hawk's blude was neer sae red,Nor eer sae dear to me:O what blude's this upon your dirk?Dear Willie, tell to me;''It is the blude of my ae brother,O dule and wae is me!'

16'O what will ye say to your father?Dear Willie, tell to me;''I'll saddle my steed, and awa I'll ride,To dwell in some far countrie.'

17'O when will ye come hame again?Dear Willie, tell to me;''When sun and mune leap on yon hill,And that will never be.'

18She turnd hersel right round about,And her heart burst into three:'My ae best son is deid and gane,And my tother ane I'll neer see.'

Buchan's MSS, I, 57; Motherwell's MS., p. 662.

1There were twa brothers in the east,Went to the school o Ayr;The one unto the other did say,Come let us wrestle here.2They wrestled up and wrestled down,Till John fell to the ground;There being a knife in Willie's pocket,Gae John his deadly wound.3'O is it for my gold, brother?Or for my white monie?Or is it for my lands sae braid,That ye hae killed me?'4'It is not for your gold,' he said,'Nor for your white monie;It is by the hand o accidentThat I hae killed thee.'5'Ye'll take the shirt that's on my back,Rive it frae gair to gair,And try to stop my bloody wounds,For they bleed wonderous sair.'6He's taen the shirt was on his back,Reave it frae gare to gare,And tried to stop his bleeding wounds,But still they bled the mair.7'Ye'll take me up upon your back,Carry me to yon water clear,And try to stop my bloody wounds,For they run wonderous sair.'8He's taen him up upon his back,Carried him to yon water clear,And tried to stop his bleeding wounds,But still they bled the mair.9'Ye'll take me up upon your back,Carry me to yon church-yard;Ye'll dig a grave baith wide and deep,And then ye'll lay me there.10'Ye'll put a head-stane at my head,Another at my feet,Likewise a sod on my breast-bane,The souner I may sleep.11'Whenever my father asks of thee,Saying, What's become of John?Ye'll tell frae me, I'm ower the sea,For a cargo of good wine.12'And when my sweetheart asks of thee,Saying, What's become of John?Ye'll tell frae me, I'm ower the sea,To buy a wedding gown.13'And when my sister asks of thee,Saying, William, where is John?Ye'll tell frae me, I'm ower the sea,To learn some merry sang.14'And when my mother asks of thee,Saying, William, where is John?Tell her I'm buried in green Fordland,The grass growing ower my tomb.'15He's taen him up upon his back,Carried him to yon church-yard,And dug a grave baith wide and deep,And he was buried there.16He laid a head-stane at his head,Another at his feet,And laid a green sod on his breast,The souner he might sleep.17His father asked when he came hame,Saying, 'William, where is John?'Then John said, 'He is ower the sea,To bring you hame some wine.'18'What blood is this upon you, William,And looks sae red on thee?''It is the blood o my grey-hound,He woudna run for me.'19'O that's nae like your grey-hound's blude,William, that I do see;I fear it is your own brother's bloodThat looks sae red on thee.'20'That is not my own brother's blude,Father, that ye do see;It is the blood o my good grey steed,He woudna carry me.'21'O that is nae your grey steed's blude,William, that I do see;It is the blood o your brother John,That looks sae red on thee.'22'It's nae the blood o my brother John,Father, that ye do see;It is the blude o my good grey hawk,Because he woudna flee.'23'O that is nae your grey hawk's blood,William, that I do see:''Well, it's the blude o my brother,This country I maun flee.'24'O when will ye come back again,My dear son, tell to me?''When sun and moon gae three times round,And this will never be.'25'Ohon, alas! now William, my son,This is bad news to me;Your brother's death I'll aye bewail,And the absence o thee.'

1There were twa brothers in the east,Went to the school o Ayr;The one unto the other did say,Come let us wrestle here.

2They wrestled up and wrestled down,Till John fell to the ground;There being a knife in Willie's pocket,Gae John his deadly wound.

3'O is it for my gold, brother?Or for my white monie?Or is it for my lands sae braid,That ye hae killed me?'

4'It is not for your gold,' he said,'Nor for your white monie;It is by the hand o accidentThat I hae killed thee.'

5'Ye'll take the shirt that's on my back,Rive it frae gair to gair,And try to stop my bloody wounds,For they bleed wonderous sair.'

6He's taen the shirt was on his back,Reave it frae gare to gare,And tried to stop his bleeding wounds,But still they bled the mair.

7'Ye'll take me up upon your back,Carry me to yon water clear,And try to stop my bloody wounds,For they run wonderous sair.'

8He's taen him up upon his back,Carried him to yon water clear,And tried to stop his bleeding wounds,But still they bled the mair.

9'Ye'll take me up upon your back,Carry me to yon church-yard;Ye'll dig a grave baith wide and deep,And then ye'll lay me there.

10'Ye'll put a head-stane at my head,Another at my feet,Likewise a sod on my breast-bane,The souner I may sleep.

11'Whenever my father asks of thee,Saying, What's become of John?Ye'll tell frae me, I'm ower the sea,For a cargo of good wine.

12'And when my sweetheart asks of thee,Saying, What's become of John?Ye'll tell frae me, I'm ower the sea,To buy a wedding gown.

13'And when my sister asks of thee,Saying, William, where is John?Ye'll tell frae me, I'm ower the sea,To learn some merry sang.

14'And when my mother asks of thee,Saying, William, where is John?Tell her I'm buried in green Fordland,The grass growing ower my tomb.'

15He's taen him up upon his back,Carried him to yon church-yard,And dug a grave baith wide and deep,And he was buried there.

16He laid a head-stane at his head,Another at his feet,And laid a green sod on his breast,The souner he might sleep.

17His father asked when he came hame,Saying, 'William, where is John?'Then John said, 'He is ower the sea,To bring you hame some wine.'

18'What blood is this upon you, William,And looks sae red on thee?''It is the blood o my grey-hound,He woudna run for me.'

19'O that's nae like your grey-hound's blude,William, that I do see;I fear it is your own brother's bloodThat looks sae red on thee.'

20'That is not my own brother's blude,Father, that ye do see;It is the blood o my good grey steed,He woudna carry me.'

21'O that is nae your grey steed's blude,William, that I do see;It is the blood o your brother John,That looks sae red on thee.'

22'It's nae the blood o my brother John,Father, that ye do see;It is the blude o my good grey hawk,Because he woudna flee.'

23'O that is nae your grey hawk's blood,William, that I do see:''Well, it's the blude o my brother,This country I maun flee.'

24'O when will ye come back again,My dear son, tell to me?''When sun and moon gae three times round,And this will never be.'

25'Ohon, alas! now William, my son,This is bad news to me;Your brother's death I'll aye bewail,And the absence o thee.'

a.Taken down lately from the singing of little girls in South Boston.b.Two stanzas, from a child in New York, 1880. Communicated by Mr W. W. Newell.

1As John and William were coming home one day,One Saturday afternoon,Says John to William, Come and try a fight,Or will you throw a stone?Or will you come down to yonder, yonder townWhere the maids are all playing ball, ball, ball,Where the maids are all playing ball?2Says William to John, I will not try a fight,Nor will I throw a stone,Nor will I come down to yonder town,Where the maids are all playing ball.3So John took out of his pocketA knife both long and sharp,And stuck it through his brother's heart,And the blood came pouring down.4Says John to William, Take off thy shirt,And tear it from gore to gore,And wrap it round your bleeding heart,And the blood will pour no more.'5So John took off his shirt,And tore it from gore to gore,And wrapped it round his bleeding heart,And the blood came pouring more.6'What shall I tell your dear father,When I go home to-night?''You'll tell him I'm dead and in my grave,For the truth must be told.'7'What shall I tell your dear mother,When I go home to-night?''You'll tell her I'm dead and in my grave,For the truth must be told.'8'How came this blood upon your knife?My son, come tell to me;''It is the blood of a rabbit I have killed,O mother, pardon me.'9'The blood of a rabbit couldnt be so pure,My son, come tell to me:''It is the blood of a squirrel I have killed,O mother, pardon me.'10'The blood of a squirrel couldnt be so pure,My son, come tell to me:''It is the blood of a brother I have killed,O mother, pardon me.'

2Says William to John, I will not try a fight,Nor will I throw a stone,Nor will I come down to yonder town,Where the maids are all playing ball.

3So John took out of his pocketA knife both long and sharp,And stuck it through his brother's heart,And the blood came pouring down.

4Says John to William, Take off thy shirt,And tear it from gore to gore,And wrap it round your bleeding heart,And the blood will pour no more.'

5So John took off his shirt,And tore it from gore to gore,And wrapped it round his bleeding heart,And the blood came pouring more.

6'What shall I tell your dear father,When I go home to-night?''You'll tell him I'm dead and in my grave,For the truth must be told.'

7'What shall I tell your dear mother,When I go home to-night?''You'll tell her I'm dead and in my grave,For the truth must be told.'

8'How came this blood upon your knife?My son, come tell to me;''It is the blood of a rabbit I have killed,O mother, pardon me.'

9'The blood of a rabbit couldnt be so pure,My son, come tell to me:''It is the blood of a squirrel I have killed,O mother, pardon me.'

10'The blood of a squirrel couldnt be so pure,My son, come tell to me:''It is the blood of a brother I have killed,O mother, pardon me.'

12.Var.to the chase.103. "As to Kirk-land, my copy has only kirk-yard, till the last verse, where land has been added from conjecture."Sharpe's Ballad-Book, p. 56.

12.Var.to the chase.

103. "As to Kirk-land, my copy has only kirk-yard, till the last verse, where land has been added from conjecture."Sharpe's Ballad-Book, p. 56.

13, 23. o Warslin.

133. tell me free.Motherwell has Scotticised the spelling.94.Motherwell hasleave.111, 121, 131, 141.Motherwell, speirs at thee.233.Motherwell hasmy ae brother.

133. tell me free.

Motherwell has Scotticised the spelling.

94.Motherwell hasleave.

111, 121, 131, 141.Motherwell, speirs at thee.

233.Motherwell hasmy ae brother.

G. b.

1.Jack and William was gone to school,One fine afternoon;Jack says to William, Will you try a fight?Do not throw no stones.2.Jack took out his little penknife,The end of it was sharp,He stuck it through his brother's heart,And the blood was teeming down.

1.Jack and William was gone to school,One fine afternoon;Jack says to William, Will you try a fight?Do not throw no stones.

2.Jack took out his little penknife,The end of it was sharp,He stuck it through his brother's heart,And the blood was teeming down.

FOOTNOTES:[401]Mr Newell says: "I have heard it sung at a picnic, by a whole carful of little girls. The melody is pretty. These children were of the poorest class."[402]"The house of Inchmurry, formerly called Kirkland, was built of old by the abbot of Holyrood-house for his accommodation when he came to that country, and was formerly the minister's manse." Statistical Account of Scotland, XIII, 506, cited by Jamieson, I, 62. There are still three or four Kirklands in Scotland and the north of England.

[401]Mr Newell says: "I have heard it sung at a picnic, by a whole carful of little girls. The melody is pretty. These children were of the poorest class."

[402]"The house of Inchmurry, formerly called Kirkland, was built of old by the abbot of Holyrood-house for his accommodation when he came to that country, and was formerly the minister's manse." Statistical Account of Scotland, XIII, 506, cited by Jamieson, I, 62. There are still three or four Kirklands in Scotland and the north of England.

'The Bonny Hyn,' Herd's MSS, I, 224; II, fol. 65, fol. 83.

This piece is transcribed three times in Herd's manuscripts, with a note prefixed in each instance that it was copied from the mouth of a milkmaid in 1771. An endorsement to the same effect on the last transcript gives the date as 1787, no doubt by mistake. Scott had only MS. I in his hands, which accidentally omits two stanzas (13, 14), and he printed this defective copy with the omission of still another (4): Minstrelsy, II, 298, ed. 1802; III, 309, ed. 1833. Motherwell supplies these omitted stanzas, almost in Herd's very words, in the Introduction to his collection, p. lxxxiv, note 99. He remarks, p. 189, that tales of this kind abound in the traditionary poetry of Scotland. The two ballads which follow, Nos51,52, are of the same general description.

In the first half of the story 'The Bonny Hind' comes very near to the fine Scandinavian ballad of 'Margaret,' as yet known to be preserved only in Färöe and Icelandic. The conclusions differ altogether. Margaret in the Färöe ballad, 'Margretu kvæði,' Færöiske Kvæder, Hammershaimb, No 18, is the only daughter of the Norwegian king Magnus, and has been put in a convent. After two or three months she longs to see her father's house again. On her way thither she is assaulted by a young noble with extreme violence: to whom she says,

Now you have torn off all my clothes, and done me sin and shame,I beg you, before God most high, tell me what is your name.

Magnus, he answers, is his father, and Gertrude his mother, and he himself is Olaf, and was brought up in the woods. By this she recognizes that he is her own brother. Olafbegs her to go back to the convent, and say nothing, bearing her sorrow as she may. This she does. But every autumn the king makes a feast, and invites to it all the nuns in the cloister. Margaret is missed, and asked for. Is she sick or dead? Why does she not come to the feast, like other merry dames? The wicked abbess answers, Your daughter is neither sick nor dead; she goes with child, like other merry dames. The king rides off to the cloister, encounters his daughter, and demands who is the father of her child. She replies that she will sooner die than tell. The king leaves her in wrath, but returns presently, resolved to burn the convent, and Margaret in it, Olaf comes from the wood, tired and weary, sees the cloister burning, and quenches the flames with his heart's blood.

The Icelandic ballad, 'Margrètar kvæði,' Íslenzk Fornkvæði, Grundtvig and Sigurðsson, No 14, has the same story. It is, however, the man who brings on the discovery by asking the woman's parentage. The editors inform us that the same subject is treated in an unprinted Icelandic ballad, less popular as to style and stanza, in the Arne Magnussen collection, 154.

The story of Kullervo, incorporated in what is called the national epic of the Finns, the Kalevala, has striking resemblances with the ballads of the Bonny Hind class. While returning home in his sledge from a somewhat distant errand, Kullervo met three times a girl who was travelling on snow-shoes, and invited her to get in with him. She rejected his invitation with fierceness, and the third time he pulled her into the sledge by force. She angrily bade him let her go, or she would dash the sledge to pieces; but he won her over by showing her rich things. The next morning she asked what was his race and family; for it seemed to her that he must come of a great line. "No," he said, "neither of great nor small. I am Kalervo's unhappy son. Tell me of what stock art thou." "Of neither great nor small," she answered. "I am Kalervo's unhappy daughter." She was, in fact, a long-lost sister of Kullervo's, who, when a child, had gone to the wood for berries, and had never found her way home. She had wept the first day and the second; the third and fourth, the fifth and sixth, she had tried every way to kill herself. She broke out in heart-piercing lamentations:

'O that I had died then, wretched!O that I had perished, weak one!Had not lived to hear these horrors,Had not lived this shame to suffer!'

So saying she sprang from the sledge into the river, and found relief under the waters.

Kullervo, mad with anguish, went home to his mother, and told her what had happened. He asked only how he might die,—by wolf or bear, by whale or sea-pike. His mother vainly sought to soothe him. He consented to live only till the wrongs of his parents had been revenged. His mother tried to dissuade him even from seeking a hero's death in fight.

'If thou die in battle, tell me,What protection shall remain thenFor the old age of thy father?''Let him die in any alley,Lay his life down in the house-yard.''What protection shall remain thenFor the old age of thy mother?''Let her die on any straw-truss;Let her stifle in the stable.''Who shall then be left thy brother,Who stand by him in mischances?''Let him pine away in the forest,Let him drop down on the common.''Who shall then be left thy sister,Who stand by her in mischances?''When she goes to the well for water,Or to the washing, let her stumble.'

Kullervo had his fill of revenge. Meanwhile father, brother, sister, and mother died, and he came back to his home to find it empty and cold. A voice from his mother's grave seemed to direct him to go to the wood for food: obeying it, he came again to the polluted spot, where grass or flowers would not grow any more. He asked his sword would it like to feed on guilty flesh and drink wicked blood. The sword said, Why should I not like to feed on guilty flesh and drink wicked blood, I that feed on the flesh of the goodand drink the blood of the sinless? Kullervo set the sword hilt in the earth, and threw himself on the point. (Kalewala, übertragen von Schiefner, runes 35, 36.)

The dialogue between Kullervo and his mother is very like a passage in another Finnish rune, 'Werinen Pojka,' 'The Bloody Son,' Schröter, Finnische Runen, 124, ed. 1819; 150, ed. 1834. This last is a form of the ballad known in Scottish as'Edward,' No 13, or of'The Twa Brothers,' No 49. Something similar is found in'Lizie Wan,' No 51.

The passage 5-7 is a commonplace that may be expected to recur under the same or analogous circumstances, as it does in 'Tam Lin,'D, 'The Knight and Shepherd's Daughter,' 'The Maid and the Magpie,' and in one version of 'The Broom of Cowdenknows.' These are much less serious ballads, and the tone of stanza 5, which so ill befits the distressful situation, is perhaps owing to that stanza's having been transferred from some copy of one of these. It might well change places with this, from 'The Knight and Shepherd's Daughter,'A:

Sith you have had your will of me,And put me to open shame,Now, if you are a courteous knight,Tell me what is your name.

Much better with the solemn adjuration in the Färöe 'Margaret,' or even this in 'Ebbe Galt,' Danske Viser, No 63, 8:

Now you have had your will of me,To both of us small gain,By the God that is above all things,I beg you tell your name.

Herd's MSS, II, fol. 65. "Copied from the mouth of a milkmaid, by W. L. in 1771."

1O may she comes, and may she goes,Down by yon gardens green,And there she spied a gallant squireAs squire had ever been.2And may she comes, and may she goes,Down by yon hollin tree,And there she spied a brisk young squire,And a brisk young squire was he.3'Give me your green manteel, fair maid,Give me your maidenhead;Gif ye winna gie me your green manteel,Gi me your maidenhead.'4He has taen her by the milk-white hand,And softly laid her down,And when he's lifted her up againGiven her a silver kaim.5'Perhaps there may be bairns, kind sir,Perhaps there may be nane;But if you be a courtier,You'll tell to me your name.'6'I am nae courtier, fair maid,But new come frae the sea;I am nae courtier, fair maid,But when I court 'ith thee.7'They call me Jack when I'm abroad,Sometimes they call me John;But when I'm in my father's bowerJock Randal is my name.'8'Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad,Sae loud's I hear ye lee!Ffor I'm Lord Randal's yae daughter,He has nae mair nor me.'9'Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny may,Sae loud's I hear ye lee!For I'm Lord Randal's yae yae son,Just now come oer the sea.'10She's putten her hand down by her spare,And out she's taen a knife,And she has putn't in her heart's bluid,And taen away her life.11And he's taen up his bonny sister,With the big tear in his een,And he has buried his bonny sisterAmang the hollins green.12And syne he's hyed him oer the dale,His father dear to see:'Sing O and O for my bonny hind,Beneath yon hollin tree!'13'What needs you care for your bonny hyn?For it you needna care;There's aught score hyns in yonder park,And five score hyns to spare.14'Four score of them are siller-shod,Of thae ye may get three;''But O and O for my bonny hyn,Beneath yon hollin tree!'15'What needs you care for your bonny hyn?For it you need na care;Take you the best, gi me the warst,Since plenty is to spare.'16'I care na for your hyns, my lord,I care na for your fee;But O and O for my bonny hyn,Beneath the hollin tree!'17'O were ye at your sister's bower,Your sister fair to see,Ye'll think na mair o your bonny hynBeneath the hollin tree.'* * * * *

1O may she comes, and may she goes,Down by yon gardens green,And there she spied a gallant squireAs squire had ever been.

2And may she comes, and may she goes,Down by yon hollin tree,And there she spied a brisk young squire,And a brisk young squire was he.

3'Give me your green manteel, fair maid,Give me your maidenhead;Gif ye winna gie me your green manteel,Gi me your maidenhead.'

4He has taen her by the milk-white hand,And softly laid her down,And when he's lifted her up againGiven her a silver kaim.

5'Perhaps there may be bairns, kind sir,Perhaps there may be nane;But if you be a courtier,You'll tell to me your name.'

6'I am nae courtier, fair maid,But new come frae the sea;I am nae courtier, fair maid,But when I court 'ith thee.

7'They call me Jack when I'm abroad,Sometimes they call me John;But when I'm in my father's bowerJock Randal is my name.'

8'Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad,Sae loud's I hear ye lee!Ffor I'm Lord Randal's yae daughter,He has nae mair nor me.'

9'Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny may,Sae loud's I hear ye lee!For I'm Lord Randal's yae yae son,Just now come oer the sea.'

10She's putten her hand down by her spare,And out she's taen a knife,And she has putn't in her heart's bluid,And taen away her life.

11And he's taen up his bonny sister,With the big tear in his een,And he has buried his bonny sisterAmang the hollins green.

12And syne he's hyed him oer the dale,His father dear to see:'Sing O and O for my bonny hind,Beneath yon hollin tree!'

13'What needs you care for your bonny hyn?For it you needna care;There's aught score hyns in yonder park,And five score hyns to spare.

14'Four score of them are siller-shod,Of thae ye may get three;''But O and O for my bonny hyn,Beneath yon hollin tree!'

15'What needs you care for your bonny hyn?For it you need na care;Take you the best, gi me the warst,Since plenty is to spare.'

16'I care na for your hyns, my lord,I care na for your fee;But O and O for my bonny hyn,Beneath the hollin tree!'

17'O were ye at your sister's bower,Your sister fair to see,Ye'll think na mair o your bonny hynBeneath the hollin tree.'

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