C

Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 93, taken from the recitation of an old woman by Professor Scott, of Aberdeen, and "somewhat improved" by a fragment communicated by the Rev. William Gray, of Lincoln.

1Glenkindie was ance a harper gude,He harped to the king;And Glenkindie was ance the best harperThat ever harpd on a string.2He'd harpit a fish out o saut water,Or water out o a stane,Or milk out o a maiden's breast,That bairn had never nane.3He's taen his harp intil his hand,He harpit and he sang,And ay as he harpit to the king,To haud him unthought lang.4'I'll gie you a robe, Glenkindie,A robe o the royal pa,Gin ye will harp i the winter's nightAfore my nobles a'.'5He's taen his harp intill his hand,He's harpit them a' asleep,Except it was the young countess,That love did waukin keep.6And first he has harpit a grave tune,And syne he has harpit a gay,And mony a sich atween handsI wat the lady gae.7Says, Whan day is dawen, and cocks hae crawen,And wappit their wings sae wide,It's ye may come to my bower-door,And streek you by my side.8But look that ye tell na Gib, your man,For naething that ye dee;For, an ye tell him Gib, your man,He'll beguile baith you and me.9He's taen his harp intill his hand,He harpit and he sang,And he is hame to Gib, his man,As fast as he could gang.10'O mith I tell you, Gib, my man,Gin I a man had slain?''O that ye micht, my gude master,Altho ye had slain ten.'11'Then tak ye tent now, Gib, my man,My bidden for to dee;And but an ye wauken me in time,Ye sall be hangit hie.12'Whan day has dawen, and cocks hae crawen,And wappit their wings sae wide,I'm bidden gang till yon lady's bower,And streek me by her side.'13'Gae hame to your bed, my good master;Ye've waukit, I fear, oer lang;For I'll wauken you in as good timeAs ony cock i the land.'14He's taen his harp intill his hand,He harpit and he sang,Until he harpit his master asleep,Syne fast awa did gang.15And he is till that lady's bower,As fast as he could rin;When he cam till that lady's bower,He chappit at the chin.16'O wha is this,' says that lady,'That opens nae and comes in?''It's I, Glenkindie, your ain true-love,O open and lat me in!'17She kent he was nae gentle knichtThat she had latten in,For neither when he gaed nor cam,Kist he her cheek or chin.18He neither kist her when he cam,Nor clappit her when he gaed,And in and at her bower window,The moon shone like the gleed.19'O ragged is your hose, Glenkindie,And riven is your sheen,And reaveld is your yellow hair,That I saw late yestreen.'20'The stockings they are Gib, my man's,They came first to my hand,And this is Gib, my man's shoon,At my bed-feet they stand;I've reavelld a' my yellow hairComing against the wind.'21He's taen the harp intill his hand,He harpit and he sang,Until he cam to his master,As fast as he could gang.22'Won up, won up, my good master,I fear ye sleep oer lang;There's nae a cock in a' the landBut has wappit his wings and crawn.'23Glenkindie 's tane his harp in hand,He harpit and he sang,And he has reachd the lady's bowerAfore that eer he blan.24When he cam to the lady's bower,He chappit at the chin:'O wha is that at my bower-door,That opens na and comes in?''It's I, Glenkindie, your ain true-love,And in I canna win.'* * * * *25'Forbid it, forbid it,' says that lady,'That ever sic shame betide,That I should first be a wild loon's lass,And than a young knight's bride.'26He's taen his harp intill his hand,He harpit and he sang,And he is hame to Gib, his man,As fast as he could gang.27'Come forth, come forth, now, Gib, my man,Till I pay you your fee;Come forth, come forth, now, Gib, my man,Weel payit sall ye be.'28And he has taen him Gib, his man,And he has hangd him hie,And he's hangit him oer his ain yate,As high as high could be.29There was nae pity for that lady,For she lay cald and dead,But a' was for him, Glenkindie,In bower he must go mad.

1Glenkindie was ance a harper gude,He harped to the king;And Glenkindie was ance the best harperThat ever harpd on a string.

2He'd harpit a fish out o saut water,Or water out o a stane,Or milk out o a maiden's breast,That bairn had never nane.

3He's taen his harp intil his hand,He harpit and he sang,And ay as he harpit to the king,To haud him unthought lang.

4'I'll gie you a robe, Glenkindie,A robe o the royal pa,Gin ye will harp i the winter's nightAfore my nobles a'.'

5He's taen his harp intill his hand,He's harpit them a' asleep,Except it was the young countess,That love did waukin keep.

6And first he has harpit a grave tune,And syne he has harpit a gay,And mony a sich atween handsI wat the lady gae.

7Says, Whan day is dawen, and cocks hae crawen,And wappit their wings sae wide,It's ye may come to my bower-door,And streek you by my side.

8But look that ye tell na Gib, your man,For naething that ye dee;For, an ye tell him Gib, your man,He'll beguile baith you and me.

9He's taen his harp intill his hand,He harpit and he sang,And he is hame to Gib, his man,As fast as he could gang.

10'O mith I tell you, Gib, my man,Gin I a man had slain?''O that ye micht, my gude master,Altho ye had slain ten.'

11'Then tak ye tent now, Gib, my man,My bidden for to dee;And but an ye wauken me in time,Ye sall be hangit hie.

12'Whan day has dawen, and cocks hae crawen,And wappit their wings sae wide,I'm bidden gang till yon lady's bower,And streek me by her side.'

13'Gae hame to your bed, my good master;Ye've waukit, I fear, oer lang;For I'll wauken you in as good timeAs ony cock i the land.'

14He's taen his harp intill his hand,He harpit and he sang,Until he harpit his master asleep,Syne fast awa did gang.

15And he is till that lady's bower,As fast as he could rin;When he cam till that lady's bower,He chappit at the chin.

16'O wha is this,' says that lady,'That opens nae and comes in?''It's I, Glenkindie, your ain true-love,O open and lat me in!'

17She kent he was nae gentle knichtThat she had latten in,For neither when he gaed nor cam,Kist he her cheek or chin.

18He neither kist her when he cam,Nor clappit her when he gaed,And in and at her bower window,The moon shone like the gleed.

19'O ragged is your hose, Glenkindie,And riven is your sheen,And reaveld is your yellow hair,That I saw late yestreen.'

20'The stockings they are Gib, my man's,They came first to my hand,And this is Gib, my man's shoon,At my bed-feet they stand;I've reavelld a' my yellow hairComing against the wind.'

21He's taen the harp intill his hand,He harpit and he sang,Until he cam to his master,As fast as he could gang.

22'Won up, won up, my good master,I fear ye sleep oer lang;There's nae a cock in a' the landBut has wappit his wings and crawn.'

23Glenkindie 's tane his harp in hand,He harpit and he sang,And he has reachd the lady's bowerAfore that eer he blan.

24When he cam to the lady's bower,He chappit at the chin:'O wha is that at my bower-door,That opens na and comes in?''It's I, Glenkindie, your ain true-love,And in I canna win.'

* * * * *

25'Forbid it, forbid it,' says that lady,'That ever sic shame betide,That I should first be a wild loon's lass,And than a young knight's bride.'

26He's taen his harp intill his hand,He harpit and he sang,And he is hame to Gib, his man,As fast as he could gang.

27'Come forth, come forth, now, Gib, my man,Till I pay you your fee;Come forth, come forth, now, Gib, my man,Weel payit sall ye be.'

28And he has taen him Gib, his man,And he has hangd him hie,And he's hangit him oer his ain yate,As high as high could be.

29There was nae pity for that lady,For she lay cald and dead,But a' was for him, Glenkindie,In bower he must go mad.

Kinloch's MSS, III, 139, in the handwriting of John Hill Burton.

1Glenkinnie was as good a harperAs ever harpet tone;He harpet fish out o the sea-flood,And water out of a dry loan,And milk out o the maiden's breastThat bairn had never neen.2He harpit i the king's palace,He harpit them a' asleep,Unless it were Burd Bell alone,And she stud on her feet.3'Ye will do ye home, Glenkinnie,And ye will take a sleep,And ye will come to my bower-doorBefore the cock's crowing.'4He's taen out his milk-white steed,And fast away rode he,Till he came to his ain castle,Where gold glanced never so hie.5'Might I tell ye, Jeck, my man,Gin I had slain a man?''Deed might [ye], my good master,Altho ye had slain ten.'6'I've faun in love wi a gay ladie,She's daughter to the Queen,And I maun be at her bower-doorBefore the cock's crowing.'7He's taen out his master's steed,And fast awa rode he,Until he cam to Burd Bell's door,Where gold glanced never so hie.8When he came to Burd Bell's door,He tirled at the pin,And up she rose, away she goes,To let Glenkinnie in.9. . . . . . .. . . . . . .. . . . . . .That I combed out yestreen.* * * * *10She looked out at a shot-window,Atween her and the meen:'There is twa lovers beguiled the night,And I fear I am ane.11'Ye shall na hae to say, Glenkindie,When you sit at the wine,That once you loved a queen's daughter,And she was your footman's quean.'* * * * *

1Glenkinnie was as good a harperAs ever harpet tone;He harpet fish out o the sea-flood,And water out of a dry loan,And milk out o the maiden's breastThat bairn had never neen.

2He harpit i the king's palace,He harpit them a' asleep,Unless it were Burd Bell alone,And she stud on her feet.

3'Ye will do ye home, Glenkinnie,And ye will take a sleep,And ye will come to my bower-doorBefore the cock's crowing.'

4He's taen out his milk-white steed,And fast away rode he,Till he came to his ain castle,Where gold glanced never so hie.

5'Might I tell ye, Jeck, my man,Gin I had slain a man?''Deed might [ye], my good master,Altho ye had slain ten.'

6'I've faun in love wi a gay ladie,She's daughter to the Queen,And I maun be at her bower-doorBefore the cock's crowing.'

7He's taen out his master's steed,And fast awa rode he,Until he cam to Burd Bell's door,Where gold glanced never so hie.

8When he came to Burd Bell's door,He tirled at the pin,And up she rose, away she goes,To let Glenkinnie in.

9. . . . . . .. . . . . . .. . . . . . .That I combed out yestreen.

* * * * *

10She looked out at a shot-window,Atween her and the meen:'There is twa lovers beguiled the night,And I fear I am ane.

11'Ye shall na hae to say, Glenkindie,When you sit at the wine,That once you loved a queen's daughter,And she was your footman's quean.'

* * * * *

14. cappe... yoode.15, 6, 21, 2make a stanza in the MS.33. this harpe.41. him fall?43. 7 yeere.61. whom then.

14. cappe... yoode.

15, 6, 21, 2make a stanza in the MS.

33. this harpe.

41. him fall?

43. 7 yeere.

61. whom then.

73, 4.& at her chamber must I beebeffore the cocke haue crowen.

102. pinn:one stroke of the n is left out, as frequently, in the MS. Furnivall.112. nor noe.144. times.164. him im.171. you you.173. you are.214. killed 3.223. head:there is a tag to thedas if fors. Furnivall.234. these 3.

102. pinn:one stroke of the n is left out, as frequently, in the MS. Furnivall.

112. nor noe.

144. times.

164. him im.

171. you you.

173. you are.

214. killed 3.

223. head:there is a tag to thedas if fors. Furnivall.

234. these 3.

13, 4, 2 are cited by Jamieson in the Scots Magazine, October, 1803, p. 698, as the beginning of a fragment [Gray's], with only this variation:

Glenkindie was ance the best harper.

He has, therefore, combined the two versions here.Stanza 4, as published, is the first of"another copy [Scott's], in which the story is complete, but, it having been written from the recitation of a poor old woman in Aberdeenshire, the diction has been much humbled. It begins:

He has, therefore, combined the two versions here.

Stanza 4, as published, is the first of"another copy [Scott's], in which the story is complete, but, it having been written from the recitation of a poor old woman in Aberdeenshire, the diction has been much humbled. It begins:

'I'll gie you a robe, Glenkindy,A robe o the royal pa,Gin ye will harp i the winter's nightAfore my nobles a'.'

(Robeis misprintedrolu).After 4 follows this stanza, which, with but a word or two of difference, is the first of'Brown Robin,'where, no doubt, it belongs, but not here:

(Robeis misprintedrolu).

After 4 follows this stanza, which, with but a word or two of difference, is the first of'Brown Robin,'where, no doubt, it belongs, but not here:

And the king but and his nobles a'Sat birling at the wine,And he wad hae but his ae dochterTo wait on them at dine.

10 may not be in the right place, and should, perhaps, be put just before Gib gets his deserts. Some such stanza would come in well between 20 and 21 ofA.After 25 follows 29, manifestly with no right. If this commonplace is retained, it must come at the end.After 29 (27 in Jamieson) follow these three stanzas, the first a superfluous and very improbable repetition; the second altered by Jamieson, "to introduce a little variety, and prevent the monotonous tiresomeness of repetition,"the last as little in traditional style as the second.

10 may not be in the right place, and should, perhaps, be put just before Gib gets his deserts. Some such stanza would come in well between 20 and 21 ofA.

After 25 follows 29, manifestly with no right. If this commonplace is retained, it must come at the end.

After 29 (27 in Jamieson) follow these three stanzas, the first a superfluous and very improbable repetition; the second altered by Jamieson, "to introduce a little variety, and prevent the monotonous tiresomeness of repetition,"the last as little in traditional style as the second.

He'd harpit a fish out o saut water,The water out o a stane,The milk out o a maiden's breastThat bairn had never nane.He's taen his harp intill his hand,Sae sweetly as it rang,And wae and weary was to hearGlenkindie's dowie sang.But cald and dead was that lady,Nor heeds for a' his maen;An he wad harpit till domis day,She'll never speak again.

He'd harpit a fish out o saut water,The water out o a stane,The milk out o a maiden's breastThat bairn had never nane.

He's taen his harp intill his hand,Sae sweetly as it rang,And wae and weary was to hearGlenkindie's dowie sang.

But cald and dead was that lady,Nor heeds for a' his maen;An he wad harpit till domis day,She'll never speak again.

8 follows 2 in the MS.A fragment in Kinloch MSS, III, 147, sixteen stanzas, in the writing of John Hill Burton, is thus made up:B1, 2,C2,B6, 7,C4, 5,B11,C6,B14,C7, 8,B17, 18,B191-3andC94,B20; with the following variations, probably arbitrary.Variations from

8 follows 2 in the MS.

A fragment in Kinloch MSS, III, 147, sixteen stanzas, in the writing of John Hill Burton, is thus made up:B1, 2,C2,B6, 7,C4, 5,B11,C6,B14,C7, 8,B17, 18,B191-3andC94,B20; with the following variations, probably arbitrary.

Variations from

B11. a gude harper.13, he was the.14. on string.21. o the sea-flood.22. o the.23. And milk.C23. Except it was.B74. streek down.C43. Untill.C51. Now might.C52. a man had slain=B102.C53. Indeed ye micht.B111. Jock my man.113. And but ye.C71. And he's.C81. bower-door.C83. and away.

B11. a gude harper.

13, he was the.

14. on string.

21. o the sea-flood.

22. o the.

23. And milk.

C23. Except it was.

B74. streek down.

C43. Untill.

C51. Now might.

C52. a man had slain=B102.

C53. Indeed ye micht.

B111. Jock my man.

113. And but ye.

C71. And he's.

C81. bower-door.

C83. and away.

FOOTNOTES:[96]See The Cambrian Journal, September, 1858, pp 192-194, communicated to me by the kind courtesy of Rev. Professor D. Silvan Evans. As to Glasgerion's being a king's son, ballad titles count for little.[97]InC18, p. 440,Sheweptthe sma brids frae the tree,Sheweptthe starns adoun frae the lift,Sheweptthe fish out o the sea.

[96]See The Cambrian Journal, September, 1858, pp 192-194, communicated to me by the kind courtesy of Rev. Professor D. Silvan Evans. As to Glasgerion's being a king's son, ballad titles count for little.

[97]InC18, p. 440,Sheweptthe sma brids frae the tree,Sheweptthe starns adoun frae the lift,Sheweptthe fish out o the sea.

[97]InC18, p. 440,

Sheweptthe sma brids frae the tree,Sheweptthe starns adoun frae the lift,Sheweptthe fish out o the sea.

A.'Young Hunting.'a.Herd's MSS, I, 182.b.The same, II, 67.B.'Young Redin,' Kinloch MSS, VII, 7, Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 1.C.'Young Riedan,' Harris MS., fol. 8.D.Motherwell's MS., p. 377.E.'Lord William,' Scott's Minstrelsy, III, 265, 1803.F.'Earl Richard.'a.Motherwell's MS., p. 61, Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 218.b.Motherwell's Minstrelsy, Appendix, p. xvii, one stanza.G.Herd's MSS, I, 34; Herd's Scottish Songs, 1776, I, 148.H.'Clyde's Water,' Dr Joseph Robertson's Journal of Excursions, No 1, 1829.I.'Lord John,' Motherwell's MS., p. 189.J.'Earl Richard,' Scott's Minstrelsy, II, 42, 1802, and III, 184, 1833.K.'Young Hunting,' Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 118.

A.'Young Hunting.'a.Herd's MSS, I, 182.b.The same, II, 67.

B.'Young Redin,' Kinloch MSS, VII, 7, Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 1.

C.'Young Riedan,' Harris MS., fol. 8.

D.Motherwell's MS., p. 377.

E.'Lord William,' Scott's Minstrelsy, III, 265, 1803.

F.'Earl Richard.'a.Motherwell's MS., p. 61, Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 218.b.Motherwell's Minstrelsy, Appendix, p. xvii, one stanza.

G.Herd's MSS, I, 34; Herd's Scottish Songs, 1776, I, 148.

H.'Clyde's Water,' Dr Joseph Robertson's Journal of Excursions, No 1, 1829.

I.'Lord John,' Motherwell's MS., p. 189.

J.'Earl Richard,' Scott's Minstrelsy, II, 42, 1802, and III, 184, 1833.

K.'Young Hunting,' Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 118.

J, Scott's version, and naturally the best known, is described by the editor as made up from the best verses of Herd's copies,A,G, with some trivial alterations adopted from tradition. This account is far from being exact, for there are many lines in the edition of 1802 which are not found in Herd's copies, and in the edition of 1833 four additional stanzas, 11, 12, 13, 28. Such portions of Scott's version as are not found in Herd are here distinguished by a larger type.Kis perhaps a stall copy, and certainly, where it is not taken fromother versions, is to a considerable degree a modern manufacture by a very silly pen.[98]

The copy in Pinkerton's Tragic Ballads, p. 84, is only the first five stanzas ofG, a little altered.

A Scandinavian ballad begins somewhat like 'Young Hunting,' but ends like 'Elveskud' or 'Clerk Colvil.' A young man who has made up his mind to marry is warned by his mother against the wiles of a former mistress. He rides to his old love's house and is welcomed to beer and wine. He tells her that he is on the way to his bride. She wants a word with him, or a kiss, and as he leans over to her on his horse, stabs him to the heart. He rides home bleeding, pretends that he has hurt himself by running against a tree, asks that his bed may be made and a priest sent for, and dies.Danish, 'Frillens Hævn,' Grundtvig, IV, 203 f, No 208,A-D,Afrom a manuscript of the 17th century.Swedish,A, 'Herr Magnus,' Afzelius, No 13, I, 67, an imperfect copy;B, from Cavallius and Stephens' manuscript collection,C-H, fragments in the same collection, Grundtvig, IV, 203;I, 'Herr Samsing,' Eva Wigström, in Hazelius, Ur de nordiska Folkens Lif, p. 124.Norwegian, 'Herre Per og Gjöðalin,' a mixed form, Landstad, p. 564, No 68, and the first stanza in Lindeman, No 132, No 178.

The place where the dead body of the knight lies at the bottom of the river is discovered by candles burning bright,A22 f,C19 f,H8,K31, 35. Sir Walter Scott supposed these candles to mean "the corpse-lights... which are sometimes seen to illuminate the spot where a dead body is concealed." He had been informed that the body of a man drowned in the Ettrick had been discovered by means of these candles. Though the language in the ballad is not quite explicit, owing perhaps to the fact that the method of detection practised was more familiar formerly than now, the meaning is as likely to be that a candle, floated on the water, would burn brighter when it came to the spot where the body lay. A candle (a consecrated one in Catholic countries) stuck in a loaf of bread, or supported by cork, is still believed to be efficient for indicating the place of a drowned body; in England, Henderson, Notes on the Folk Lore of the Northern Counties, ed. 1879, p. 60; in Bohemia, Wuttke, Deutscher Volksaberglaube der Gegenwart, ed. 1869, p. 239, No 371; in Brittany, Blätter für literarische Unterhaltung, 1837, p. 892; in Portugal, Vasconcellos, Tradições Populares, p. 80, No 178.[99]

That the body of a murdered man will emit blood upon being touched, or even approached, by the murderer is a belief of ancient standing, and evidence of this character was formerly admitted in judicial investigations. See especially Grimm, Rechtsalterthümer, 1854, p. 930 f, Bahrgericht, who cites from literature the Nibelungenlied (1043-45, Bartsch) Hartmann's Iwein, 1355-64, Shakespeare's Richard III,I, 2, besides instances of legal or historical description; to which may be added others furnished by Sir W. Scott, Minstrelsy III, 190-93, ed. 1833, and Kinloch, Ancient Scottish Ballads, pp 10-12. See further Schmidt, Die Märchen des Straparola, pp 229, 346 ff, Holinshed's Chronicle of Scotland, p. 235, ed. 1808, Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, ed. Luard, II, 344 f, Brand's Antiquities, ed. Ellis, II, 542-44.[100]

There is a sort ofjudicium ignisinA26-28,B23 f,C24,K37 f: the fire which does not burn the innocent bower-woman consumes her guilty mistress.

For the oath by corn,A16,D21, grassand corn,G7, thorn,K26, see 'Glasgerion.'

Eis translated by Schubart, p. 173;Fby Wolff, Halle der Völker, I, 24, Hausschatz, p. 204;Jby Schubart, p. 86, Gerhard, p. 134; Aytoun's copy by Rosa Warrens, Schottische Volkslieder, p. 46; Allingham's copy by Knortz, Lieder und Romanzen Alt-Englands, p. 42.

a.Herd's MSS, I, 182;b.the same, II, 67.

1O lady, rock never your young son youngOne hour longer for me,For I have a sweetheart in Garlick's WellsI love thrice better than thee.2'The very sols of my love's feetIs whiter then thy face:''But nevertheless na, Young Hunting,Ye'l stay wi me all night.'3She has birld in him Young HuntingThe good ale and the beer,Till he was as fou drunkenAs any wild-wood steer.4She has birld in him Young HuntingThe good ale and the wine,Till he was as fou drunkenAs any wild-wood swine.5Up she has tain him Young Hunting,And she has had him to her bed,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .6And she has minded her on a little penknife,That hangs low down by her gare,And she has gin him Young HuntingA deep wound and a sare.7Out an spake the bonny bird,That flew abon her head:'Lady, keep well thy green clothingFra that good lord's blood.'8'O better I'll keep my green clothingFra that good lord's bloodNor thou can keep thy flattering toung,That flatters in thy head.9'Light down, light down, my bonny bird,Light down upon my hand,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .10'O siller, O siller shall be thy hire,An goud shall be thy fee,An every month into the yearThy cage shall changed be.'11'I winna light down, I shanna light down,I winna light on thy hand;For soon, soon wad ye do to meAs ye done to Young Hunting.'12She has booted an spird him Young HuntingAs he had been gan to ride,A hunting-horn about his neck,An the sharp sourd by his side.13And she has had him to yon wan water,For a' man calls it Clyde,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .14The deepest pot intill it allShe has puten Young Hunting in;A green truff upon his breast,To hold that good lord down.15It fell once upon a dayThe king was going to ride,And he sent for him Young Hunting,To ride on his right side.16She has turnd her right and round about,She sware now by the corn,'I saw na thy son, Young Hunting,Sen yesterday at morn.'17She has turnd her right and round about,She swear now by the moon,'I saw na thy son, Young Hunting,Sen yesterday at noon.18'It fears me sair in Clyde WaterThat he is drownd therein:'O thay ha sent for the king's duckers,To duck for Young Hunting.19They ducked in at the tae water-bank,Thay ducked out at the tither:'We'll duck no more for Young Hunting,All tho he wear our brother.'20Out an spake the bonny bird,That flew abon their heads,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .21'O he's na drownd in Clyde Water,He is slain and put therein;The lady that lives in yon castilSlew him and put him in.22'Leave aff your ducking on the day,And duck upon the night;Whear ever that sakeless knight lys slain,The candels will shine bright.'23Thay left off their ducking o the day,And ducked upon the night,And where that sakeless knight lay slain,The candles shone full bright.24The deepest pot intill it a'Thay got Young Hunting in;A green turff upon his brest,To hold that good lord down.25O thay ha sent aff men to the woodTo hew down baith thorn an fern,That they might get a great bonefireTo burn that lady in.'Put na the wyte on me,' she says,'It was her May Catheren.'26Whan thay had tane her May Catheren,In the bonefire set her in;It wad na take upon her cheeks,Nor take upon her chin,Nor yet upon her yallow hair,To healle the deadly sin.27Out they hae tain her May Catheren,And they hay put that lady in;O it took upon her cheek, her cheek,An it took upon her chin,An it took on her fair body,She burnt like hoky-gren.

1O lady, rock never your young son youngOne hour longer for me,For I have a sweetheart in Garlick's WellsI love thrice better than thee.

2'The very sols of my love's feetIs whiter then thy face:''But nevertheless na, Young Hunting,Ye'l stay wi me all night.'

3She has birld in him Young HuntingThe good ale and the beer,Till he was as fou drunkenAs any wild-wood steer.

4She has birld in him Young HuntingThe good ale and the wine,Till he was as fou drunkenAs any wild-wood swine.

5Up she has tain him Young Hunting,And she has had him to her bed,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

6And she has minded her on a little penknife,That hangs low down by her gare,And she has gin him Young HuntingA deep wound and a sare.

7Out an spake the bonny bird,That flew abon her head:'Lady, keep well thy green clothingFra that good lord's blood.'

8'O better I'll keep my green clothingFra that good lord's bloodNor thou can keep thy flattering toung,That flatters in thy head.

9'Light down, light down, my bonny bird,Light down upon my hand,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

10'O siller, O siller shall be thy hire,An goud shall be thy fee,An every month into the yearThy cage shall changed be.'

11'I winna light down, I shanna light down,I winna light on thy hand;For soon, soon wad ye do to meAs ye done to Young Hunting.'

12She has booted an spird him Young HuntingAs he had been gan to ride,A hunting-horn about his neck,An the sharp sourd by his side.

13And she has had him to yon wan water,For a' man calls it Clyde,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

14The deepest pot intill it allShe has puten Young Hunting in;A green truff upon his breast,To hold that good lord down.

15It fell once upon a dayThe king was going to ride,And he sent for him Young Hunting,To ride on his right side.

16She has turnd her right and round about,She sware now by the corn,'I saw na thy son, Young Hunting,Sen yesterday at morn.'

17She has turnd her right and round about,She swear now by the moon,'I saw na thy son, Young Hunting,Sen yesterday at noon.

18'It fears me sair in Clyde WaterThat he is drownd therein:'O thay ha sent for the king's duckers,To duck for Young Hunting.

19They ducked in at the tae water-bank,Thay ducked out at the tither:'We'll duck no more for Young Hunting,All tho he wear our brother.'

20Out an spake the bonny bird,That flew abon their heads,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

21'O he's na drownd in Clyde Water,He is slain and put therein;The lady that lives in yon castilSlew him and put him in.

22'Leave aff your ducking on the day,And duck upon the night;Whear ever that sakeless knight lys slain,The candels will shine bright.'

23Thay left off their ducking o the day,And ducked upon the night,And where that sakeless knight lay slain,The candles shone full bright.

24The deepest pot intill it a'Thay got Young Hunting in;A green turff upon his brest,To hold that good lord down.

25O thay ha sent aff men to the woodTo hew down baith thorn an fern,That they might get a great bonefireTo burn that lady in.'Put na the wyte on me,' she says,'It was her May Catheren.'

26Whan thay had tane her May Catheren,In the bonefire set her in;It wad na take upon her cheeks,Nor take upon her chin,Nor yet upon her yallow hair,To healle the deadly sin.

27Out they hae tain her May Catheren,And they hay put that lady in;O it took upon her cheek, her cheek,An it took upon her chin,An it took on her fair body,She burnt like hoky-gren.

Kinloch MSS, VII, p. 7, Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 1; "from the recitation of Miss E. Beattie, of Edinburgh, a native of Mearns-shire, who sings it to a plaintive and melancholy, though somewhat monotonous, air of one measure."

1Young Redin's til the huntin gane,Wi therty lords and three;And he has til his true-love gane,As fast as he could hie.2'Ye're welcome here, my Young Redin,For coal and candle-licht;And sae are ye, my Young Redin,To bide wi me the nicht.'3'I thank ye for your licht, ladie,Sae do I for your coal;But there's thrice as fair a ladie as theeMeets me at Brandie's Well.'4Whan they war at their supper set,And merrily drinking wine,This ladie has tane a sair sickness,And til her bed has gane.5Young Redin he has followed her,And a dowie man was he;He fund his true-love in her bouer,And the tear was in her ee.6Whan he was in her arms laid,And gieing her kisses sweet,Then out she's tane a little penknife,And woundid him sae deep.7'O lang, lang is the winter nicht,And slawly daws the day;There is a slain knicht in my bouer,And I wish he war away.'8Then up bespak her bouer-woman,And she spak ae wi spite:'An there be a slain knicht in your bouer,It's yoursell that has the wyte.'9'O heal this deed on me, Meggy,O heal this deed on me;The silks that war shapen for me gen Pasche,They sall be sewed for thee.'10'O I hae heald on my mistressA twalmonth and a day,And I hae heald on my mistressMair than I can say.'* * * * *11They've booted him, and they've spurred him,As he was wont to ride,A huntin-horn round his neck,And a sharp sword by his side;In the deepest place o Clyde's Water,It's there they've made his bed.12Sine up bespak the wylie parrot,As he sat on the tree:'And hae ye killd him Young Redin,Wha neer had love but thee?'13'Come doun, come doun, ye wylie parrot,Come doun into my hand;Your cage sall be o the beaten gowd,Whan now it's but the wand.'14'I winna come doun, I canna come doun,I winna come doun to thee;For as ye've dune to Young Redin,Ye'll do the like to me;Ye'll thraw my head aff my hause-bane,And throw me in the sea.'15O there cam seekin Young RedinMony a lord and knicht,And there cam seekin Young RedinMony a ladie bricht.16And they've til his true-love gane,Thinking he was wi her;. . . . . . .. . . . . . .17'I hae na seen him Young RedinSin yesterday at noon;He turnd his stately steed about,And hied him throw the toun.18'But ye'll seek Clyde's Water up and doun,Ye'll seek it out and in;I hae na seen him Young RedinSin yesterday at noon.'19Then up bespak Young Redin's mither,And a dowie woman was scho:'There's na a place in Clyde's WaterBut my son wad gae throw.'20They've sought Clyde's Water up and doun,They've sought it out and in,And the deepest place in Clyde's WaterThey've fund Young Redin in.21O white, white war his wounds washen,As white as a linen clout;But as the traitor she cam near,His wounds they gushit out.22'It's surely been my bouer-woman,O ill may her betide!I neer wad slain him Young Redin,And thrown him in the Clyde.'23Then they've made a big bane-fire,The bouer-woman to brin;It tuke not on her cheek, her cheek,It tuke not on her chin,But it tuke on the cruel handsThat pat Young Redin in.24Then they've tane out the bouer-woman,And pat the ladie in;It tuke na on her cheek, her cheek,It tuke na on her chin,But it tuke on the fause, fause armsThat Young Redin lay in.

1Young Redin's til the huntin gane,Wi therty lords and three;And he has til his true-love gane,As fast as he could hie.

2'Ye're welcome here, my Young Redin,For coal and candle-licht;And sae are ye, my Young Redin,To bide wi me the nicht.'

3'I thank ye for your licht, ladie,Sae do I for your coal;But there's thrice as fair a ladie as theeMeets me at Brandie's Well.'

4Whan they war at their supper set,And merrily drinking wine,This ladie has tane a sair sickness,And til her bed has gane.

5Young Redin he has followed her,And a dowie man was he;He fund his true-love in her bouer,And the tear was in her ee.

6Whan he was in her arms laid,And gieing her kisses sweet,Then out she's tane a little penknife,And woundid him sae deep.

7'O lang, lang is the winter nicht,And slawly daws the day;There is a slain knicht in my bouer,And I wish he war away.'

8Then up bespak her bouer-woman,And she spak ae wi spite:'An there be a slain knicht in your bouer,It's yoursell that has the wyte.'

9'O heal this deed on me, Meggy,O heal this deed on me;The silks that war shapen for me gen Pasche,They sall be sewed for thee.'

10'O I hae heald on my mistressA twalmonth and a day,And I hae heald on my mistressMair than I can say.'

* * * * *

11They've booted him, and they've spurred him,As he was wont to ride,A huntin-horn round his neck,And a sharp sword by his side;In the deepest place o Clyde's Water,It's there they've made his bed.

12Sine up bespak the wylie parrot,As he sat on the tree:'And hae ye killd him Young Redin,Wha neer had love but thee?'

13'Come doun, come doun, ye wylie parrot,Come doun into my hand;Your cage sall be o the beaten gowd,Whan now it's but the wand.'

14'I winna come doun, I canna come doun,I winna come doun to thee;For as ye've dune to Young Redin,Ye'll do the like to me;Ye'll thraw my head aff my hause-bane,And throw me in the sea.'

15O there cam seekin Young RedinMony a lord and knicht,And there cam seekin Young RedinMony a ladie bricht.

16And they've til his true-love gane,Thinking he was wi her;. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

17'I hae na seen him Young RedinSin yesterday at noon;He turnd his stately steed about,And hied him throw the toun.

18'But ye'll seek Clyde's Water up and doun,Ye'll seek it out and in;I hae na seen him Young RedinSin yesterday at noon.'

19Then up bespak Young Redin's mither,And a dowie woman was scho:'There's na a place in Clyde's WaterBut my son wad gae throw.'

20They've sought Clyde's Water up and doun,They've sought it out and in,And the deepest place in Clyde's WaterThey've fund Young Redin in.

21O white, white war his wounds washen,As white as a linen clout;But as the traitor she cam near,His wounds they gushit out.

22'It's surely been my bouer-woman,O ill may her betide!I neer wad slain him Young Redin,And thrown him in the Clyde.'

23Then they've made a big bane-fire,The bouer-woman to brin;It tuke not on her cheek, her cheek,It tuke not on her chin,But it tuke on the cruel handsThat pat Young Redin in.

24Then they've tane out the bouer-woman,And pat the ladie in;It tuke na on her cheek, her cheek,It tuke na on her chin,But it tuke on the fause, fause armsThat Young Redin lay in.

Harris MS., fol. 8, from Mrs Harris, Perthshire.

1The ladie stude in her bour-door,In her bour-door as she stude,She thocht she heard a bridle ring,That did her bodie gude.2She thocht it had been her father dear,Come ridin owre the sand;But it was her true-love Riedan,Come hiean to her hand.3'You're welcome, you're welcome, Young Riedan,' she said,'To coal an cannel-licht;You're welcome, you're welcome, Young Riedan,To sleep in my bour this nicht.'4'I thank you for your coal, madame,An for your cannel tae;There's a fairer maid at Clyde's Water,I love better than you.'5'A fairer maid than me, Riedan?A fairer maid than me?A fairer maid than ten o meYou shurely neer did see.'6He leant him owre his saddle-bow,To gie her a kiss sae sweet;She keppit him on a little penknife,An gae him a wound sae deep.7'Oh hide! oh hide! my bourswoman,Oh hide this deed on me!An the silks that waur shappit for me at YuleAt Pasch sall be sewed for thee.'8They saidled Young Riedan, they bridled Young Riedan,The way he was wont to ride;Wi a huntin-horn aboot his neck,An a sharp sword by his side.9An they are on to Clyde's Water,An they rade it up an doon,An the deepest linn in a' Clyde's WaterThey flang him Young Riedan [in].10'Lie you there, you Young Riedan,Your bed it is fu wan;The [maid] you hae at Clyde's Water,For you she will think lang.'11Up it spak the wily bird,As it sat on the tree:'Oh wae betide you, ill woman,An an ill death may you dee!For he had neer anither love,Anither love but thee.'12'Come doon, come doon, my pretty parrot,An pickle wheat aff my glue;An your cage sall be o the beaten goud,Whan it's of the willow tree.'13'I winna come doon, I sanna come doon,To siccan a traitor as thee;For as you did to Young Riedan,Sae wald you do to mee.'14'Come doon, come doon, my pretty parrot,An pickle wheat aff my hand;An your cage sall be o the beaten goud,Whan it's o the willow wand.'15'I winna come doon, I sanna come doon,To siccan a traitor as thee;You wald thraw my head aff my hase-bane,An fling it in the sea.'16It fell upon a Lammas-tideThe king's court cam ridin bye:'Oh whare is it him Young Riedan?It's fain I wald him see.'17'Oh I hae no seen Young RiedanSin three lang weeks the morn;It bodes me sair, and drieds me mair,Clyde's Water's him forlorn.'18Up it spak the wily bird,As it sat on the tree;. . . . . . .. . . . . . .19'Leave aff, leave aff your day-seekin,An ye maun seek by nicht;Aboon the place Young Riedan lies,The cannels burn bricht.'20They gae up their day-seekin,An they did seek by nicht;An owre the place Young Riedan lay,The cannels burnt bricht.21The firsten grip his mother gotWas o his yellow hair;An was na that a dowie grip,To get her ae son there!22The nexten grip his mother gotWas o his milk-white hand;An wasna that a dowie grip,To bring sae far to land!23White, white waur his wounds washen,As white as ony lawn;But sune's the traitor stude afore,Then oot the red blude sprang.* * * * *24Fire wadna tak on her bourswoman,Niether on cheek nor chin;But it took fast on thae twa handsThat flang young Riedan in.25'Come oot, come oot, my bourswoman,Come oot, lat me win in;For as I did the deed mysell,Sae man I drie the pine.'

1The ladie stude in her bour-door,In her bour-door as she stude,She thocht she heard a bridle ring,That did her bodie gude.

2She thocht it had been her father dear,Come ridin owre the sand;But it was her true-love Riedan,Come hiean to her hand.

3'You're welcome, you're welcome, Young Riedan,' she said,'To coal an cannel-licht;You're welcome, you're welcome, Young Riedan,To sleep in my bour this nicht.'

4'I thank you for your coal, madame,An for your cannel tae;There's a fairer maid at Clyde's Water,I love better than you.'

5'A fairer maid than me, Riedan?A fairer maid than me?A fairer maid than ten o meYou shurely neer did see.'

6He leant him owre his saddle-bow,To gie her a kiss sae sweet;She keppit him on a little penknife,An gae him a wound sae deep.

7'Oh hide! oh hide! my bourswoman,Oh hide this deed on me!An the silks that waur shappit for me at YuleAt Pasch sall be sewed for thee.'

8They saidled Young Riedan, they bridled Young Riedan,The way he was wont to ride;Wi a huntin-horn aboot his neck,An a sharp sword by his side.

9An they are on to Clyde's Water,An they rade it up an doon,An the deepest linn in a' Clyde's WaterThey flang him Young Riedan [in].

10'Lie you there, you Young Riedan,Your bed it is fu wan;The [maid] you hae at Clyde's Water,For you she will think lang.'

11Up it spak the wily bird,As it sat on the tree:'Oh wae betide you, ill woman,An an ill death may you dee!For he had neer anither love,Anither love but thee.'

12'Come doon, come doon, my pretty parrot,An pickle wheat aff my glue;An your cage sall be o the beaten goud,Whan it's of the willow tree.'

13'I winna come doon, I sanna come doon,To siccan a traitor as thee;For as you did to Young Riedan,Sae wald you do to mee.'

14'Come doon, come doon, my pretty parrot,An pickle wheat aff my hand;An your cage sall be o the beaten goud,Whan it's o the willow wand.'

15'I winna come doon, I sanna come doon,To siccan a traitor as thee;You wald thraw my head aff my hase-bane,An fling it in the sea.'

16It fell upon a Lammas-tideThe king's court cam ridin bye:'Oh whare is it him Young Riedan?It's fain I wald him see.'

17'Oh I hae no seen Young RiedanSin three lang weeks the morn;It bodes me sair, and drieds me mair,Clyde's Water's him forlorn.'

18Up it spak the wily bird,As it sat on the tree;. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

19'Leave aff, leave aff your day-seekin,An ye maun seek by nicht;Aboon the place Young Riedan lies,The cannels burn bricht.'

20They gae up their day-seekin,An they did seek by nicht;An owre the place Young Riedan lay,The cannels burnt bricht.

21The firsten grip his mother gotWas o his yellow hair;An was na that a dowie grip,To get her ae son there!

22The nexten grip his mother gotWas o his milk-white hand;An wasna that a dowie grip,To bring sae far to land!

23White, white waur his wounds washen,As white as ony lawn;But sune's the traitor stude afore,Then oot the red blude sprang.

* * * * *

24Fire wadna tak on her bourswoman,Niether on cheek nor chin;But it took fast on thae twa handsThat flang young Riedan in.

25'Come oot, come oot, my bourswoman,Come oot, lat me win in;For as I did the deed mysell,Sae man I drie the pine.'

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