G

Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 83, stanzas 26 ff.

1When seven years were come and gane,Lady Margaret she thought lang;And she is up to the hichest tower,By the lee licht o the moon.2She was lookin oer her castle high,To see what she might fa,And there she saw a grieved ghost,Comin waukin oer the wa.3'O are ye a man of mean,' she says,'Seekin ony o my meat?Or are you a rank robber,Come in my bower to break?'4'O I'm Clerk Saunders, your true-love,Behold, Margaret, and see,And mind, for a' your meikle pride,Sae will become of thee.'5'Gin ye be Clerk Saunders, my true-love,This meikle marvels me;O wherein is your bonny arms,That wont to embrace me?'6'By worms they're eaten, in mools they're rotten,Behold, Margaret, and see,And mind, for a' your mickle pride,Sae will become o thee.'* * * * *7O, bonny, bonny sang the bird,Sat on the coil o hay;But dowie, dowie was the maidThat followd the corpse o clay.8'Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?Is there ony room at your feet?Is there ony room at your twa sides,For a lady to lie and sleep?'9'There is nae room at my head, Margaret,As little at my feet;There is nae room at my twa sides,For a lady to lie and sleep.10'But gae hame, gae hame now, May Margaret,Gae hame and sew your seam;For if ye were laid in your weel made bed,Your days will nae be lang.'

1When seven years were come and gane,Lady Margaret she thought lang;And she is up to the hichest tower,By the lee licht o the moon.

2She was lookin oer her castle high,To see what she might fa,And there she saw a grieved ghost,Comin waukin oer the wa.

3'O are ye a man of mean,' she says,'Seekin ony o my meat?Or are you a rank robber,Come in my bower to break?'

4'O I'm Clerk Saunders, your true-love,Behold, Margaret, and see,And mind, for a' your meikle pride,Sae will become of thee.'

5'Gin ye be Clerk Saunders, my true-love,This meikle marvels me;O wherein is your bonny arms,That wont to embrace me?'

6'By worms they're eaten, in mools they're rotten,Behold, Margaret, and see,And mind, for a' your mickle pride,Sae will become o thee.'

* * * * *

7O, bonny, bonny sang the bird,Sat on the coil o hay;But dowie, dowie was the maidThat followd the corpse o clay.

8'Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?Is there ony room at your feet?Is there ony room at your twa sides,For a lady to lie and sleep?'

9'There is nae room at my head, Margaret,As little at my feet;There is nae room at my twa sides,For a lady to lie and sleep.

10'But gae hame, gae hame now, May Margaret,Gae hame and sew your seam;For if ye were laid in your weel made bed,Your days will nae be lang.'

Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, III, 183, ed. 1833, the last three stanzas.

* * * * *1'But plait a wand o bonny birk,And lay it on my breast,And shed a tear upon my grave,And wish my saul gude rest.2'And fair Margret, and rare Margret,And Margret o veritie,Gin eer ye love another man,Neer love him as ye did me.'3Then up and crew the milk-white cock,And up and crew the grey;The lover vanishd in the air,And she gaed weeping away.

* * * * *

1'But plait a wand o bonny birk,And lay it on my breast,And shed a tear upon my grave,And wish my saul gude rest.

2'And fair Margret, and rare Margret,And Margret o veritie,Gin eer ye love another man,Neer love him as ye did me.'

3Then up and crew the milk-white cock,And up and crew the grey;The lover vanishd in the air,And she gaed weeping away.

83. yon kirk-yard.

12,And every oneis substituted forA wat a' man, no doubt by a reviser.14, 94. grown.51, 81.mid larf,midd larfI retain, though I do not understandlarf.92.on itstruck out at the end of the line, andthereonwritten over. Qyit on?144.A line is drawn throughDownandthe.151.is my bed, written afterweet, is struck out.The copy in Herd's second volume is a transcript of the other, and its variations have no apparent authority.

12,And every oneis substituted forA wat a' man, no doubt by a reviser.

14, 94. grown.

51, 81.mid larf,midd larfI retain, though I do not understandlarf.

92.on itstruck out at the end of the line, andthereonwritten over. Qyit on?

144.A line is drawn throughDownandthe.

151.is my bed, written afterweet, is struck out.

The copy in Herd's second volume is a transcript of the other, and its variations have no apparent authority.

74.MS.come (lye).94.awaywritten overbe gane.102.Motherwell printschurchyard green.141.whitethrice.Motherwell makes not a few slight changes in printing.

74.MS.come (lye).

94.awaywritten overbe gane.

102.Motherwell printschurchyard green.

141.whitethrice.

Motherwell makes not a few slight changes in printing.

151. at my head, Willie.

8 follows 10 in Kinloch.

FOOTNOTES:[128]Motherwell probably meant 13.[129]SoE10;A9 has, in Ramsay, kirk-yard, which obviously requires to be corrected.[130]In a note in the Kinloch MSS, VII, 277, Kinloch says that Sir Walter Scott told him that he had received this story from an old woman in Shetland.[131]The ballad has been often translated, mostly after the compounded form in the Danske Viser, No 29: Prior, III, 76 (DanishA), 81; "London Magazine, 1820, I, 152;" Borrow, Foreign Quarterly Review, 1830, VI, 62, and p. 47 of his Romantic Ballads; Buchanan, p. 112.[132]Hoffmann von Fallersleben in Deutsches Museum, 1852, II, 162=Erk's Wunderhorn, IV, 73, and Liederhort, p. 75, No 24a, Mittler, No 545; Wagner in Deutsches Museum, 1862, II, 802, 803; Liederhort, No 24, p. 74; Ditfurth, II, 1, No 2; Meier, p. 355, No 201; Peter, I, 199, No 14; A. Müller, p. 95; Meinert, p. 3=Erlach, IV, 196, Erk's Wunderhorn, IV, 74, Liederhort, p. 76, No 24b, Zuccalmaglio, p. 130, No 60, Mittler, No 544; Schleicher, Volkstümliches aus Sonneberg, p. 112, No 22.

[128]Motherwell probably meant 13.

[129]SoE10;A9 has, in Ramsay, kirk-yard, which obviously requires to be corrected.

[130]In a note in the Kinloch MSS, VII, 277, Kinloch says that Sir Walter Scott told him that he had received this story from an old woman in Shetland.

[131]The ballad has been often translated, mostly after the compounded form in the Danske Viser, No 29: Prior, III, 76 (DanishA), 81; "London Magazine, 1820, I, 152;" Borrow, Foreign Quarterly Review, 1830, VI, 62, and p. 47 of his Romantic Ballads; Buchanan, p. 112.

[132]Hoffmann von Fallersleben in Deutsches Museum, 1852, II, 162=Erk's Wunderhorn, IV, 73, and Liederhort, p. 75, No 24a, Mittler, No 545; Wagner in Deutsches Museum, 1862, II, 802, 803; Liederhort, No 24, p. 74; Ditfurth, II, 1, No 2; Meier, p. 355, No 201; Peter, I, 199, No 14; A. Müller, p. 95; Meinert, p. 3=Erlach, IV, 196, Erk's Wunderhorn, IV, 74, Liederhort, p. 76, No 24b, Zuccalmaglio, p. 130, No 60, Mittler, No 544; Schleicher, Volkstümliches aus Sonneberg, p. 112, No 22.

A.'The Unquiet Grave,' Folk-Lore Record, I, 60, 1868.B.Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, VII, 486.C.Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, VII, 387.D.'The Ghost and Sailor,' Buchan's MSS, I, 268.

A.'The Unquiet Grave,' Folk-Lore Record, I, 60, 1868.

B.Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, VII, 486.

C.Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, VII, 387.

D.'The Ghost and Sailor,' Buchan's MSS, I, 268.

The vow in the second stanza of all the copies is such as we find in 'Bonny Bee-Ho'm,' and elsewhere (see p. 156f of this volume), andA,B,D4, 5,C3, 4 are nearly a repetition of 'Sweet William's Ghost,'A5, 6,B3, 4,C7, 8,D7, 10. This may suggest a suspicion that this brief little piece is an aggregation of scraps. But these repetitions would not strike so much if the ballad were longer, and we must suppose that we have it only in an imperfect form. Even such as it is, however, this fragment has a character of its own. It exhibits the universal popular belief that excessive grieving for the dead interferes with their repose. We have all but had 'The Unquiet Grave' before, as the conclusion of two versions of 'The Twa Brothers:'

She ran distraught, she wept, she sicht,She wept the sma brids frae the tree,She wept the starns adown frae the lift,She wept the fish out o the sea.'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?'''Tis naething but my ghaist,' he said,'That's sent to comfort thee;O cease your weeping, my true-love,And 'twill gie peace to me.'

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

'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?'

''Tis naething but my ghaist,' he said,'That's sent to comfort thee;O cease your weeping, my true-love,And 'twill gie peace to me.'

(I, 440,C18-20.)

She put the small pipes to her mouth,And she harped both far and near,Till she harped the small birds off the briers,And her true-love out of the grave.'What's this? what's this, Lady Margaret?' he says,'What's this you want of me?''One sweet kiss of your ruby lips,That's all I want of thee.''My lips they are so bitter,' he says,'My breath it is so strong,If you get one kiss of my ruby lips,Your days will not be long.'

She put the small pipes to her mouth,And she harped both far and near,Till she harped the small birds off the briers,And her true-love out of the grave.

'What's this? what's this, Lady Margaret?' he says,'What's this you want of me?''One sweet kiss of your ruby lips,That's all I want of thee.'

'My lips they are so bitter,' he says,'My breath it is so strong,If you get one kiss of my ruby lips,Your days will not be long.'

(I, 439,B10-12.)

Sir Walter Scott has remarked that the belief that excessive grieving over lost friends destroyed their peace was general throughout Scotland: Redgauntlet, Note 2 to Letter XI. See also Gregor's Notes on the Folk-Lore ofthe North-East of Scotland, p. 69. We have recent testimony that this belief survives in England (1868), Folk Lore Record, I, 60. It was held in Ireland that inordinate tears would pierce a hole in the dead: Killinger, Erin, VI, 65, 449 (quoting a writer that I have not identified).

The common notion is that tears wet the shroud or grave-clothes. Scott relates a story of a Highlander who was constrained to come back and say to a kinswoman: My rest is disturbed by your unnecessary lamentation; your tears scald me in my shroud.

Mrs Grant of Laggan tells a similar story. An only sister had lost an only brother. Night after night she sat up, weeping incessantly and calling upon his name. At length her brother appeared to her in his shroud, and seemed wet and shivering. "Why," said he, "am I disturbed with the extravagance of thy sorrow? Till thou art humble and penitent for this rebellion against the decrees of Providence, every tear thou sheddest falls on this dark shroud without drying, and every night thy tears still more chill and encumber me." Essays on the Superstitions of the Highlanders of Scotland, ed. New York, 1813, p. 95 f.

A dead boy appears to his mother, and begs her to cease weeping, for all her tears fall upon his shirt and wet it so that he cannot sleep. The mother gives heed, her child comes again and says, Now my shirt is dry, and I have peace. Grimms, K. u. H. märchen, No 109.

In another form of this tradition a child has to carry all its mother's tears in a large pitcher, and cannot keep up with a happy little band to which it would belong, 'Die Macht der Thränen,' Erk, Neue Sammlung, III,I, No 35=Wunderhorn, IV, 95, Liederhort, p. 8, No 3, Mittler, No 557; Hoffmann u. Richter, p. 341, No 290; Börner, Volkssagen aus dem Orlagau, pp 142, 152; or lags behind because its clothes are heavy with these tears, Geiler von Kaisersberg's Trostspiegel, 1510, cited by Rochholz in Wolf's Zeitschrift für deutsche Mythologie, II, 252; Thomas Cantipratensis, Bonum Universale, "l. ii, c. 53, § 17," about 1250; or the child collects its mother's tears in its hands, Müllenhoff, No 196.

A wife's tears wet her dead husband's shirt in the German ballad 'Der Vorwirth:' Meinert, p. 13=Erk's Wunderhorn, IV, 96, Erk's Liederhort, p. 160, No 46a, Mittler, No 555; Hoffmann in Deutsches Museum, 1852, II, 161=Wunderhorn, IV, 98, Liederhort, p. 158, No 46, Mittler, No 556; Peter, I, 200, No 15.

Saint Johannes Eleemosynarius and a couple of his bishops are fain to rise from their graves because their stoles are wet through with a woman's tears, Legenda Aurea, c. 27, § 12, Grässe, p. 132, last half of the thirteenth century (cited by Liebrecht); and Saint Vicelin, because his robes are drenched with the tears of his friend Eppo, Helmold, Chronica Slavorum, l. i, 78, p. 15, ed. Lappenberg, last half of the twelfth century (cited by Müllenhoff).

Sigrún weeps bitter tears for Helgi's death every night ere she sleeps. The hero comes out of his mound to comfort her, but also to tell her how she discommodes him. He is otherwise well off, but every drop pierces, cold and bloody, to his breast: Helgakviða Hundingsbana II, 45. So in some of the ballads which apparently derive from this lay, the tears of Else or Kerstin fill her lover's coffin with blood: Grundtvig, II, 495, 497, No 90,A17,B8; Afzelius, I, 31, No 6, st. 14, Wigström, Folkdiktning, I, 18, st. 9.

Almost the very words of the Highland apparition in Scott's tale are used by an Indian sage to a king who is inconsolable for the loss of his wife; "the incessant tears of kinsfolk burn the dead, so it is said:" Kâlidâsas, Raghuvansa,VIII, 85, ed. Stenzler, p. 61 of his translation. Another representation is that the dead have to swallow the rheum and tears of their mourning relations, and therefore weeping must be abstained from: Yâjnavalkya's Gesetzbuch, Sanskrit u. Deutsch, Stenzler,III, 11, p. 89.

The ancient Persians also held that immoderate grief on the part of survivors was detrimental to the happiness of the dead. Weeping for the departed is forbidden, because the water so shed forms an impediment before the bridge Tchînavar (over which souls pass to heaven). Sad-der, PortaXCVII, Hyde, Veterum Persarum et Parthorum Religionis Historia, p. 486, ed. Oxford, 1700. Again, Ardai Viraf, seeing a deep and fetid river, which is carrying away a multitude of souls in all the agony of drowning, and asking what this is, is told: The river that you see before you is composed of the tears of mankind, tears shed, against the express command of the Almighty, for the departed; therefore, when you return again to the earth inculcate this to mankind, that to grieve immoderately is in the sight of God a most heinous sin; and the river is constantly increased by this folly, every tear making the poor wretches who float on it more distant from ease and relief. The Ardai Viraf Nameh, translated from the Persian, by J. A. Pope, London, 1816, p. 53 f.[133]

The Greeks and Romans also reprehend obstinate condolement as troubling the dead, and perhaps, if we had the popular views on the subject, these might be found to have taken an expression like some of the above. In Lucian De Luctu, c. 16, the ghost of a son who had died in the bloom of youth is made to reproach the disconsolate father in these words:ὁ κακοδαιμον ανθρωπε, τι κεκραγας; τι δε μοι παραχεις πραγματα;[134]

See, also, Maurer, Isländische Volkssagen, p. 312 f, No 9; Luzel, I, 65, 'La jeune fille et l'âme de sa mère;' Karadshitch, I, 272, No 368, Talvj, I, 84, ed. 1853; Kapper, Gesänge der Serben, II, 116; Nibelungen, 2302, ed. Bartsch; Blaas, in Germania, XXV, 429, No 34; Grimm, Deutsche Mythologie, III, 447, No 397; Müllenhoff, No 195; Wunderhorn, IV, 94, last stanza; Wolf, Beiträge zur deutschen Mythologie, I, 215, No 149.

Communicated to the Folk Lore Record, I, 60, by Miss Charlotte Latham, as written down from the lips of a girl in Sussex.

1'The wind doth blow today, my love,And a few small drops of rain;I never had but one true-love,In cold grave she was lain.2'I'll do as much for my true-loveAs any young man may;I'll sit and mourn all at her graveFor a twelvemonth and a day.'3The twelvemonth and a day being up,The dead began to speak:'Oh who sits weeping on my grave,And will not let me sleep?'4''Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,And will not let you sleep;For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,And that is all I seek.'5'You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;But my breath smells earthy strong;If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,Your time will not be long.6''Tis down in yonder garden green,Love, where we used to walk,The finest flower that ere was seenIs withered to a stalk.7'The stalk is withered dry, my love,So will our hearts decay;So make yourself content, my love,Till God calls you away.'

1'The wind doth blow today, my love,And a few small drops of rain;I never had but one true-love,In cold grave she was lain.

2'I'll do as much for my true-loveAs any young man may;I'll sit and mourn all at her graveFor a twelvemonth and a day.'

3The twelvemonth and a day being up,The dead began to speak:'Oh who sits weeping on my grave,And will not let me sleep?'

4''Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,And will not let you sleep;For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,And that is all I seek.'

5'You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;But my breath smells earthy strong;If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,Your time will not be long.

6''Tis down in yonder garden green,Love, where we used to walk,The finest flower that ere was seenIs withered to a stalk.

7'The stalk is withered dry, my love,So will our hearts decay;So make yourself content, my love,Till God calls you away.'

Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, VII, 436, cited by W. R. S. R., from the Ipswich Journal, 1877: from memory, after more than seventy years.

1'How cold the wind do blow, dear love,And see the drops of rain!I never had but one true-love,In the green wood he was slain.2'I would do as much for my own true-loveAs in my power doth lay;I would sit and mourn all on his graveFor a twelvemonth and a day.'3A twelvemonth and a day being past,His ghost did rise and speak:'What makes you mourn all on my grave?For you will not let me sleep.'4'It is not your gold I want, dear love,Nor yet your wealth I crave;But one kiss from your lily-white lipsIs all I wish to have.5'Your lips are cold as clay, dear love,Your breath doth smell so strong;''I am afraid, my pretty, pretty maid,Your time will not be long.'

1'How cold the wind do blow, dear love,And see the drops of rain!I never had but one true-love,In the green wood he was slain.

2'I would do as much for my own true-loveAs in my power doth lay;I would sit and mourn all on his graveFor a twelvemonth and a day.'

3A twelvemonth and a day being past,His ghost did rise and speak:'What makes you mourn all on my grave?For you will not let me sleep.'

4'It is not your gold I want, dear love,Nor yet your wealth I crave;But one kiss from your lily-white lipsIs all I wish to have.

5'Your lips are cold as clay, dear love,Your breath doth smell so strong;''I am afraid, my pretty, pretty maid,Your time will not be long.'

"From a yeoman in Suffolk, who got it from his nurse;" B. Montgomerie Ranking, in Notes and Queries, Fifth Series, VII, 387.

1'Cold blows the wind oer my true-love,Cold blow the drops of rain;I never, never had but one sweetheart,In the greenwood he was slain.2'I did as much for my true-loveAs ever did any maid;. . . . . . .. . . . . . .* * * * *3'One kiss from your lily-cold lips, true-love,One kiss is all I pray,And I'll sit and weep all over your graveFor a twelvemonth and a day.'4'My cheek is as cold as the clay, true-love,My breath is earthy and strong;And if I should kiss your lips, true-love,Your life would not be long.'

1'Cold blows the wind oer my true-love,Cold blow the drops of rain;I never, never had but one sweetheart,In the greenwood he was slain.

2'I did as much for my true-loveAs ever did any maid;. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

* * * * *

3'One kiss from your lily-cold lips, true-love,One kiss is all I pray,And I'll sit and weep all over your graveFor a twelvemonth and a day.'

4'My cheek is as cold as the clay, true-love,My breath is earthy and strong;And if I should kiss your lips, true-love,Your life would not be long.'

Buchan's MSS, I, 268.

1'Proud Boreas makes a hideous noise,Loud roars the fatal fleed;I loved never a love but one,In church-yard she lies dead.2'But I will do for my love's sakeWhat other young men may;I'll sit and mourn upon her grave,A twelvemonth and a day.'3A twelvemonth and a day being past,The ghost began to speak:'Why sit ye here upon my grave,And will not let me sleep?'4'One kiss of your lily-white lipsIs all that I do crave;And one kiss of your lily-white lipsIs all that I would have.'5'Your breath is as the roses sweet,Mine as the sulphur strong;If you get one kiss of my lips,Your days would not be long.6'Mind not ye the day, Willie,Sin you and I did walk?The firstand flower that we did puWas witherd on the stalk.'7'Flowers will fade and die, my dear,Aye as the tears will turn;And since I've lost my own sweet-heart,I'll never cease but mourn.'8'Lament nae mair for me, my love,The powers we must obey;But hoist up one sail to the wind,Your ship must sail away.'

1'Proud Boreas makes a hideous noise,Loud roars the fatal fleed;I loved never a love but one,In church-yard she lies dead.

2'But I will do for my love's sakeWhat other young men may;I'll sit and mourn upon her grave,A twelvemonth and a day.'

3A twelvemonth and a day being past,The ghost began to speak:'Why sit ye here upon my grave,And will not let me sleep?'

4'One kiss of your lily-white lipsIs all that I do crave;And one kiss of your lily-white lipsIs all that I would have.'

5'Your breath is as the roses sweet,Mine as the sulphur strong;If you get one kiss of my lips,Your days would not be long.

6'Mind not ye the day, Willie,Sin you and I did walk?The firstand flower that we did puWas witherd on the stalk.'

7'Flowers will fade and die, my dear,Aye as the tears will turn;And since I've lost my own sweet-heart,I'll never cease but mourn.'

8'Lament nae mair for me, my love,The powers we must obey;But hoist up one sail to the wind,Your ship must sail away.'

FOOTNOTES:[133]Rochholz has cited the Raghuvansa in Deutscher Unsterblichkeits Glaube, p. 208; the other oriental citations are made by Kuhn, Wolf's Zeitschrift für deutsche Mythologie, I, 62 f.[134]Schenkl, in Germania, XI, 451 f; who also cites Tibullus,I, 1, 67, Propertius,IV, 11, 1, and inscriptions, as Gruter, p. 1127, 8.

[133]Rochholz has cited the Raghuvansa in Deutscher Unsterblichkeits Glaube, p. 208; the other oriental citations are made by Kuhn, Wolf's Zeitschrift für deutsche Mythologie, I, 62 f.

[134]Schenkl, in Germania, XI, 451 f; who also cites Tibullus,I, 1, 67, Propertius,IV, 11, 1, and inscriptions, as Gruter, p. 1127, 8.

A.'The Wife of Usher's Well,' Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, II, 111, ed. 1802.B.'The Clerk's Twa Sons o Owsenford,' stanzas 18-23, Kinloch MSS, V, 403.

A.'The Wife of Usher's Well,' Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, II, 111, ed. 1802.

B.'The Clerk's Twa Sons o Owsenford,' stanzas 18-23, Kinloch MSS, V, 403.

Bforms the conclusion, as already said, to a beautiful copy of 'The Clerk's Twa Sons o Owsenford,' recited by the grandmother of Robert Chambers.

A motive for the return of the wife's three sons is not found in the fragments which remain to us. The mother had cursed the sea when she first heard they were lost, and can only go mad when she finds that after all she has not recovered them; nor will a little wee while,B5, make any difference. There is no indication that the sons come back to forbid obstinate grief, as the dead often do. But supplying a motive would add nothing to the impressiveness of these verses. Nothing that we have is more profoundly affecting.

Ais translated by Grundtvig, Engelske og skotske Folkeviser, No 14; by Freiligrath, Zwischen den Garben, II, 227, ed. Stuttgart, 1877; by Doenniges, p. 61; by Rosa Warrens, Schottische Volkslieder, No 9, with insertion ofB5, 6; and by Knortz, Lieder und Romanzen Alt-Englands, p. 227, after Allingham.

Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, II, 111, 1802, from the recitation of an old woman residing near Kirkhill, in West Lothian.

1There lived a wife at Usher's Well,And a wealthy wife was she;She had three stout and stalwart sons,And sent them oer the sea.2They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely ane,Whan word came to the carline wifeThat her three sons were gane.3They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely three,Whan word came to the carlin wifeThat her sons she'd never see.4'I wish the wind may never cease,Nor fashes in the flood,Till my three sons come hame to me,In earthly flesh and blood.'5It fell about the Martinmass,When nights are lang and mirk,The carlin wife's three sons came hame,And their hats were o the birk.6It neither grew in syke nor ditch,Nor yet in ony sheugh;But at the gates o Paradise,That birk grew fair eneugh.* * * * *7'Blow up the fire, my maidens,Bring water from the well;For a' my house shall feast this night,Since my three sons are well.'8And she has made to them a bed,She's made it large and wide,And she's taen her mantle her about,Sat down at the bed-side.* * * * *9Up then crew the red, red cock,And up and crew the gray;The eldest to the youngest said,'Tis time we were away.10The cock he hadna crawd but once,And clappd his wings at a',When the youngest to the eldest said,Brother, we must awa.11'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,The channerin worm doth chide;Gin we be mist out o our place,A sair pain we maun bide.12'Fare ye weel, my mother dear!Fareweel to barn and byre!And fare ye weel, the bonny lassThat kindles my mother's fire!'

1There lived a wife at Usher's Well,And a wealthy wife was she;She had three stout and stalwart sons,And sent them oer the sea.

2They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely ane,Whan word came to the carline wifeThat her three sons were gane.

3They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely three,Whan word came to the carlin wifeThat her sons she'd never see.

4'I wish the wind may never cease,Nor fashes in the flood,Till my three sons come hame to me,In earthly flesh and blood.'

5It fell about the Martinmass,When nights are lang and mirk,The carlin wife's three sons came hame,And their hats were o the birk.

6It neither grew in syke nor ditch,Nor yet in ony sheugh;But at the gates o Paradise,That birk grew fair eneugh.

* * * * *

7'Blow up the fire, my maidens,Bring water from the well;For a' my house shall feast this night,Since my three sons are well.'

8And she has made to them a bed,She's made it large and wide,And she's taen her mantle her about,Sat down at the bed-side.

* * * * *

9Up then crew the red, red cock,And up and crew the gray;The eldest to the youngest said,'Tis time we were away.

10The cock he hadna crawd but once,And clappd his wings at a',When the youngest to the eldest said,Brother, we must awa.

11'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,The channerin worm doth chide;Gin we be mist out o our place,A sair pain we maun bide.

12'Fare ye weel, my mother dear!Fareweel to barn and byre!And fare ye weel, the bonny lassThat kindles my mother's fire!'

Kinloch MSS, V, 403, stanzas 18-23. In the handwriting of James Chambers, as sung to his maternal grandmother, Janet Grieve, seventy years before, by an old woman, a Miss Ann Gray, of the Neidpath Castle, Peeblesshire: January 1, 1829.

1The hallow days o Yule are come,The nights are lang an dark,An in an cam her ain twa sons,Wi their hats made o the bark.2'O eat an drink, my merry men a',The better shall ye fare,For my twa sons the are come hameTo me for evermair.'3She has gaen an made their bed,An she's made it saft an fine,An she's happit them wi her gay mantel,Because they were her ain.4O the young cock crew i the merry Linkem,An the wild fowl chirpd for day;The aulder to the younger did say,Dear brother, we maun away.5'Lie still, lie still a little wee while,Lie still but if we may;For gin my mother miss us awayShe'll gae mad or it be day.'6O it's they've taen up their mother's mantel,An they've hangd it on the pin:'O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantel,Or ye hap us again!'

1The hallow days o Yule are come,The nights are lang an dark,An in an cam her ain twa sons,Wi their hats made o the bark.

2'O eat an drink, my merry men a',The better shall ye fare,For my twa sons the are come hameTo me for evermair.'

3She has gaen an made their bed,An she's made it saft an fine,An she's happit them wi her gay mantel,Because they were her ain.

4O the young cock crew i the merry Linkem,An the wild fowl chirpd for day;The aulder to the younger did say,Dear brother, we maun away.

5'Lie still, lie still a little wee while,Lie still but if we may;For gin my mother miss us awayShe'll gae mad or it be day.'

6O it's they've taen up their mother's mantel,An they've hangd it on the pin:'O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantel,Or ye hap us again!'

42. fishes.The correction is suggested in ed. 1833 of the Border Minstrelsy. Aytoun readsfreshes.

Percy MS., p. 90; Hales and Furnivall, I, 235.

This fine ballad was printed in the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, III, 48, ed. of 1765, "with considerable corrections." The information given by a page, the reward promised and the alternative punishment threatened him, the savage vengeance taken on the lady and the immediate remorse, are repeated in 'Little Musgrave,' No 81. So the "Sleep you, wake you" of 41, a frequent formula for such occasions,[135]which we find in 'Earl Brand,' No 7,D1, 'King Arthur and King Cornwall,' No 30, st. 493; 'Clerk Saunders,' No 69,F4; 'Willie and Lady Maisry,' No 70,B2, 11; 'The Bent sae Brown,' No 71, st. 5;'Lord Thomas and Fair Annet,' No 73,E5; 'Sweet William's Ghost,' No 77,B2; 'Jellon Grame,'A4; 'The Drowned Lovers,' Buchan, I, 140, st. 11; 'Jock o the Side,' Caw's Museum, st. 16; 'Kinmont Willie,' Scott, st. 35; 'The Baron of Brackley,' Scarce Ancient Ballads, st. 2; the song or ballad in 'King Lear,'III, 6, 40; Ravenscroft's Pammelia, 1609, No 30; the interlude of 'The Four Elements' (Steevens); Íslenzk Fornkvæði, II, 115, st. 26, 27; 'Der todte Freier,' Erk's Liederhort, p. 75, No 24a, Deutsches Museum, 1852, II, 167=Mittler No 545, Wunderhorn, IV, 73, etc., and Deutsches Museum, 1862, II, 803, No 10; Ampère, Instructions, p. 36; Coussemaker, No 48, st. 5; Kolberg, Pieśni ludu Polskiego, No 7e, st. 8; etc.

Old Robin, instead of attaching a cross of red cloth to the right shoulder of his coat or cloak, shapes the crossinhis shoulder "of white flesh and of red," st. 32; that is, burns the cross in with a hot iron, as was done sometimes by the unusually devout or superstitious, or for a pious fraud: Mabillon, Annales, ad annum 1095, cited by Michaud, Histoire des Croisades, I, 110, note, ed. 1825.

Translated by Bodmer, I, 153; by Knortz, Lieder und Romanzen Alt-Englands, No 66.

1God let neuer soe old a manMarry soe yonge a wiffeAs did Old Robin of Portingale;He may rue all the dayes of his liffe.2Ffor the maiors daughter of Lin, God wott,He chose her to his wife,And thought to haue liued in quiettnesseWith her all the dayes of his liffe.3They had not in their wed-bed laid,Scarcly were both on sleepe,But vpp shee rose, and forth shee goesTo Sir Gyles, and fast can weepe.4Saies, Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles?Or be not you within?. . . . . . .. . . . . . .5'But I am waking, sweete,' he said,'Lady, what is your will?''I haue vnbethought me of a wile,How my wed lord we shall spill.6'Four and twenty knights,' she sayes,'That dwells about this towne,Eene four and twenty of my next cozens,Will helpe to dinge him downe.'7Withthat beheard his litle foote-page,As he was watering his masters steed;Soe s ...His verry heart did bleed.8He mourned, sikt, and wept full sore;I sweare by the holy roode,The teares he for his master weptWere blend water and bloude.9Withthat beheard his deare master,As [he] in his garden sate;Says, Euer alacke, my litle page,What causes thee to weepe?10'Hath any one done to thee wronge,Any of thy fellowes here?Or is any of thy good friends dead,Which makes thee shed such teares?11'Or if it be my head-kookes-man,Greiued againe he shalbe,Nor noe man within my howseShall doe wrong vnto thee.'12'But it is not your head-kookes-man,Nor none of his degree;But [f]or to morrow, ere it be noone,You are deemed to die.13'And of that thanke your head-steward,And after, your gay ladie:''If it be true, my litle foote-page,Ile make thee heyre of all my land.'14'If it be not true, my deare master,God let me neuer thye:''If it be not true, thou litle foot-page,A dead corse shalt thou be.'15He called downe his head-kookes-man,Cooke in kitchen superto dresse:'All and anon, my deare master,Anon att your request.'16. . . . . . .. . . . . . .'And call you downe my faire lady,This night to supp with mee.'17And downe then camethat fayre lady,Was cladd all in purple and palle;The ringsthat were vpon her fingersCast light thorrow the hall.18'What is your will, my owne wed lord,What is your will with mee?''I am sicke, fayre lady,Sore sicke, and like to dye.'19'But and you be sicke, my owne wed lord,Soe sore it greiueth mee;But my fiue maydens and my selfeWill goe and make your bedd.20'And at the wakening of your first sleepeYou shall haue a hott drinke made,And at the wakening of your next sleepeYour sorrowes will haue a slake.'21He put a silke cote on his backe,Was thirteen inches folde,And put a steele cap vpon his head,Was gilded with good red gold.22Andhe layd a bright browne sword by his side,And another att his ffeete,And full well knew Old Robin thenWhether he shold wake or sleepe.23And about the middle time of the nightCame twenty four good knights in;Sir Gyles he was the formost man,Soe well he knewthat ginne.24Old Robin, with a bright browne sword,Sir Gyles head he did winne;Soe did he all those twenty four,Neuera one went quicke out [agen].25None but one litle foot-page,Crept forth at a window of stone,And he had two armes when he came in,And [when he went out he had none].26Vpp then camethat ladie light,With torches burning bright;Shee thought to haue brought Sir Gyles a drinke,But shee found her owne wedd knight.27And the first thingethat this ladye stumbled vponWas of Sir Gyles his ffoote;Sayes, Euer alacke, and woe is me,Here lyes my sweete hart-roote!28And thesecond thingthat this ladie stumbled onWas of Sir Gyles his head;Sayes, Euer alacke, and woe is me,Heere lyes my true-loue deade!29Hee cutt the papps beside he[r] brest,And bad her wish her will;And he cutt the eares beside her heade,And bade her wish on still.30'Mickle is the mans blood I haue spent,To doe thee and me some good;'Sayes, Euer alacke, my fayre lady,I thinkethat I was woode!31He calld then vp his litle foote-page,And made him heyre of all his land,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .32And he shope the crosse in his right sholder,Of the white flesh and the redd,And he went him into the holy land,Wheras Christ was quicke and dead.

1God let neuer soe old a manMarry soe yonge a wiffeAs did Old Robin of Portingale;He may rue all the dayes of his liffe.

2Ffor the maiors daughter of Lin, God wott,He chose her to his wife,And thought to haue liued in quiettnesseWith her all the dayes of his liffe.

3They had not in their wed-bed laid,Scarcly were both on sleepe,But vpp shee rose, and forth shee goesTo Sir Gyles, and fast can weepe.

4Saies, Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles?Or be not you within?. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

5'But I am waking, sweete,' he said,'Lady, what is your will?''I haue vnbethought me of a wile,How my wed lord we shall spill.

6'Four and twenty knights,' she sayes,'That dwells about this towne,Eene four and twenty of my next cozens,Will helpe to dinge him downe.'

7Withthat beheard his litle foote-page,As he was watering his masters steed;Soe s ...His verry heart did bleed.

8He mourned, sikt, and wept full sore;I sweare by the holy roode,The teares he for his master weptWere blend water and bloude.

9Withthat beheard his deare master,As [he] in his garden sate;Says, Euer alacke, my litle page,What causes thee to weepe?

10'Hath any one done to thee wronge,Any of thy fellowes here?Or is any of thy good friends dead,Which makes thee shed such teares?

11'Or if it be my head-kookes-man,Greiued againe he shalbe,Nor noe man within my howseShall doe wrong vnto thee.'

12'But it is not your head-kookes-man,Nor none of his degree;But [f]or to morrow, ere it be noone,You are deemed to die.

13'And of that thanke your head-steward,And after, your gay ladie:''If it be true, my litle foote-page,Ile make thee heyre of all my land.'

14'If it be not true, my deare master,God let me neuer thye:''If it be not true, thou litle foot-page,A dead corse shalt thou be.'

15He called downe his head-kookes-man,Cooke in kitchen superto dresse:'All and anon, my deare master,Anon att your request.'

16. . . . . . .. . . . . . .'And call you downe my faire lady,This night to supp with mee.'

17And downe then camethat fayre lady,Was cladd all in purple and palle;The ringsthat were vpon her fingersCast light thorrow the hall.

18'What is your will, my owne wed lord,What is your will with mee?''I am sicke, fayre lady,Sore sicke, and like to dye.'

19'But and you be sicke, my owne wed lord,Soe sore it greiueth mee;But my fiue maydens and my selfeWill goe and make your bedd.

20'And at the wakening of your first sleepeYou shall haue a hott drinke made,And at the wakening of your next sleepeYour sorrowes will haue a slake.'

21He put a silke cote on his backe,Was thirteen inches folde,And put a steele cap vpon his head,Was gilded with good red gold.

22Andhe layd a bright browne sword by his side,And another att his ffeete,And full well knew Old Robin thenWhether he shold wake or sleepe.

23And about the middle time of the nightCame twenty four good knights in;Sir Gyles he was the formost man,Soe well he knewthat ginne.

24Old Robin, with a bright browne sword,Sir Gyles head he did winne;Soe did he all those twenty four,Neuera one went quicke out [agen].

25None but one litle foot-page,Crept forth at a window of stone,And he had two armes when he came in,And [when he went out he had none].

26Vpp then camethat ladie light,With torches burning bright;Shee thought to haue brought Sir Gyles a drinke,But shee found her owne wedd knight.

27And the first thingethat this ladye stumbled vponWas of Sir Gyles his ffoote;Sayes, Euer alacke, and woe is me,Here lyes my sweete hart-roote!

28And thesecond thingthat this ladie stumbled onWas of Sir Gyles his head;Sayes, Euer alacke, and woe is me,Heere lyes my true-loue deade!

29Hee cutt the papps beside he[r] brest,And bad her wish her will;And he cutt the eares beside her heade,And bade her wish on still.

30'Mickle is the mans blood I haue spent,To doe thee and me some good;'Sayes, Euer alacke, my fayre lady,I thinkethat I was woode!

31He calld then vp his litle foote-page,And made him heyre of all his land,. . . . . . .. . . . . . .

32And he shope the crosse in his right sholder,Of the white flesh and the redd,And he went him into the holy land,Wheras Christ was quicke and dead.

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