A Collection of Ballads

(Child, vol. iii.)

There 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,

They hadna been a week from her,
   A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife
   That her three sons were gane.

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

“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!”

It fell about the Martinmass,
   Whan nights are lang and mirk,
The carline wife’s three sons came hame,
   And their hats were o the birk.

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

* * * * *

And 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 bedside.

* * * * *

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

The cock he hadna crawd but once,
   And clapp’d his wings at a’,
Whan the youngest to the eldest said,
   “Brother, we must awa.

“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.

“Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
   Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
   That kindles my mother’s fire!”

(Child, vol. i.)

As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
“Where sall we gang and dine the day?”

“In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

“His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So we may make our dinner sweet.

“Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.

“Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whae he is gane,
Oer his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.”

(Child, vol. vi.)

A.

Ye Highlands, and ye Lawlands
   Oh where have you been?
They have slain the Earl of Murray,
   And they layd him on the green.

“Now wae be to thee, Huntly!
   And wherefore did you sae?
I bade you bring him wi you,
   But forbade you him to slay.”

He was a braw gallant,
   And he rid at the ring;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
   Oh he might have been a King!

He was a braw gallant,
   And he playd at the ba;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
   Was the flower amang them a’.

He was a braw gallant,
   And he playd at the glove;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
   Oh he was the Queen’s love!

Oh lang will his lady
   Look oer the castle Down,
Eer she see the Earl of Murray
   Come sounding thro the town!
      Eer she, etc.

“Open the gates
   and let him come in;
He is my brother Huntly,
   he’ll do him nae harm.”

The gates they were opent,
   they let him come in,
But fause traitor Huntly,
   he did him great harm.

He’s ben and ben,
   and ben to his bed,
And with a sharp rapier
   he stabbed him dead.

The lady came down the stair,
   wringing her hands:
“He has slain the Earl o Murray,
   the flower o Scotland.”

But Huntly lap on his horse,
   rade to the King:
“Ye’re welcome hame, Huntly,
   and whare hae ye been?

“Where hae ye been?
   and how hae ye sped?”
“I’ve killed the Earl o Murray
   dead in his bed.”

“Foul fa you, Huntly!
   and why did ye so?
You might have taen the Earl o Murray,
   and saved his life too.”

“Her corn grows ripe,
   her meadows grow green,
But in bonnie Dinnibristle
   I darena be seen.”

(Child, vol. iii.)

Clerk Saunders and may Margaret
   Walked ower yon garden green;
And sad and heavy was the love
   That fell thir twa between.

“A bed, a bed,” Clerk Saunders said,
   “A bed for you and me!”
“Fye na, fye na,” said may Margaret,
   “’Till anes we married be.

“For in may come my seven bauld brothers,
   Wi’ torches burning bright;
They’ll say,—‘We hae but ae sister,
   And behold she’s wi a knight!’”

“Then take the sword frae my scabbard,
   And slowly lift the pin;
And you may swear, and save your aith.
   Ye never let Clerk Saunders in.

“And take a napkin in your hand,
   And tie up baith your bonny e’en,
And you may swear, and save your aith,
   Ye saw me na since late yestreen.”

It was about the midnight hour,
   When they asleep were laid,
When in and came her seven brothers,
   Wi’ torches burning red.

Then out and spake the first o’ them,
   “I bear the sword shall gar him die!”
And out and spake the second o’ them,
   “His father has nae mair than he!”

And out and spake the third o’ them,
   “I wot that they are lovers dear!”
And out and spake the fourth o’ them,
   “They hae been in love this mony a year!”

Then out and spake the fifth o’ them,
   “It were great sin true love to twain!”
And out and spake the sixth o’ them,
   “It were shame to slay a sleeping man!”

Then up and gat the seventh o’ them,
   And never a word spake he;
But he has striped his bright brown brand
   Out through Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye.

Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned
   Into his arms as asleep she lay;
And sad and silent was the night
   That was atween thir twae.

And they lay still and sleeped sound
   Until the day began to daw;
And kindly to him she did say,
   “It is time, true love, you were awa’.”

But he lay still, and sleeped sound,
   Albeit the sun began to sheen;
She looked atween her and the wa’,
   And dull and drowsie were his e’en.

“Comfort weel your seven sons;
   For comforted will I never be:
I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon
   Was in the bower last night wi’ me.”

The clinking bell gaed through the town,
   To carry the dead corse to the clay;
And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window,
   I wot, an hour before the day.

“Are ye sleeping, Margaret?” he says,
   “Or are ye waking presentlie?
Give me my faith and troth again,
   I wot, true love, I gied to thee.”

“Your faith and troth ye sall never get,
   Nor our true love sall never twin,
Until ye come within my bower,
   And kiss me cheik and chin.”

“My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,
   It has the smell, now, of the ground;
And if I kiss thy comely mouth,
   Thy days of life will not be lang.

“O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,
   I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
Give me my faith and troth again,
   And let me fare me on my way.”

“Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,
   And our true love sall never twin,
Until ye tell what comes of women,
   I wot, who die in strong traivelling?

“O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,
   I wot the wild fowl are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
   And I, ere now, will be missed away.”

Then she has ta’en a crystal wand,
   And she has stroken her troth thereon;
She has given it him out at the shot-window,
   Wi’ mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan.

“I thank ye, Marg’ret, I thank ye, Marg’ret;
   And aye I thank ye heartilie;
Gin ever the dead come for the quick,
   Be sure, Mag’ret, I’ll come for thee.”

It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
   She climb’d the wall, and followed him,
Until she came to the green forest,
   And there she lost the sight o’ him.

“Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?
   Is there ony room at your feet?
Is there ony room at your side, Saunders,
   Where fain, fain I wad sleep?”

“There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret,
   There’s nae room at my feet;
My bed it is full lowly now,
   Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

“Cauld mould is my covering now,
   But and my winding-sheet;
The dew it falls nae sooner down
   Than my resting-place is weet.

“And fair Marg’ret, and rare Marg’ret,
   And Marg’ret, o’ veritie,
Gin ere ye love another man,
   Ne’er love him as ye did me.”

Then up and crew the milk-white cock,
   And up and crew the gray;
Her lover vanish’d in the air,
   And she gaed weeping away.

(Mackay.)

O waly, waly, up the bank,
   O waly, waly, down the brae.
And waly, waly, yon burn side,
   Where I and my love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik,
   An’ thocht it was a trustie tree,
But first it bow’d and syne it brak,
   Sae my true love did lichtly me.

O waly, waly, but love is bonnie
   A little time while it is new,
But when it’s auld it waxes cauld,
   And fades away like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head,
   O wherefore should I kame my hair,
For my true love has me forsook,
   And says he’ll never love me mair.

Now Arthur’s Seat shall be my bed,
   The sheets shall ne’er be pressed by me,
St. Anton’s well shall be my drink,
   Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
   And shake the green leaves off the tree!
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
   For of my life I am wearie!

But had I wist before I kist
   That love had been sae ill to win,
I’d locked my heart in a case of gold,
   And pinned it wi’ a siller pin.
Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
   And set upon the nurse’s knee;
And I myself were dead and gane,
   And the green grass growing over me!

(Child, Part III., p. 220.)

“O wha will shoe my fu’ fair foot?
   And wha will glove my hand?
And wha will lace my middle jimp,
   Wi’ the new-made London band?

“And wha will kaim my yellow hair,
   Wi’ the new made silver kaim?
And wha will father my young son,
   Till Love Gregor come hame?”

“Your father will shoe your fu’ fair foot,
   Your mother will glove your hand;
Your sister will lace your middle jimp
   Wi’ the new-made London band.

“Your brother will kaim your yellow hair,
   Wi’ the new made silver kaim;
And the king of heaven will father your bairn,
   Till Love Gregor come haim.”

“But I will get a bonny boat,
   And I will sail the sea,
For I maun gang to Love Gregor,
   Since he canno come hame to me.”

O she has gotten a bonny boat,
   And sailld the sa’t sea fame;
She langd to see her ain true-love,
   Since he could no come hame.

She has ta’en her young son in her arms,
   And to the door she’s gone,
And lang she’s knocked and sair she ca’d,
   But answer got she none.

“O open the door, Love Gregor,” she says,
   “O open, and let me in;
For the wind blaws thro’ my yellow hair,
   And the rain draps o’er my chin.”

“Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
   You’r nae come here for good;
You’r but some witch, or wile warlock,
   Or mer-maid of the flood.”

“I am neither a witch nor a wile warlock,
   Nor mer-maid of the sea,
I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal;
   O open the door to me.”

“Gin ye be Annie of Rough Royal—
   And I trust ye are not she—
Now tell me some of the love-tokens
   That past between you and me.”

“O dinna you mind now, Love Gregor,
   When we sat at the wine,
How we changed the rings frae our fingers?
   And I can show thee thine.

“O yours was good, and good enough,
   But ay the best was mine;
For yours was o’ the good red goud,
   But mine o’ the diamonds fine.

“Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
   For here ye shanno win in;
Gae drown ye in the raging sea,
   Or hang on the gallows-pin.”

When the cock had crawn, and day did dawn,
   And the sun began to peep,
Then up he rose him, Love Gregor,
   And sair, sair did he weep.

“O I dreamd a dream, my mother dear,
   The thoughts o’ it gars me greet,
That Fair Annie of Rough Royal
   Lay cauld dead at my feet.”

“Gin it be for Annie of Rough Royal
   That ye make a’ this din,
She stood a’ last night at this door,
   But I trow she wan no in.”

“O wae betide ye, ill woman,
   An ill dead may ye die!
That ye woudno open the door to her,
   Nor yet woud waken me.”

O he has gone down to yon shore-side,
   As fast as he could fare;
He saw Fair Annie in her boat,
   But the wind it tossd her sair.

And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie!
   Dear Annie, speak to me!”
But ay the louder he cried “Annie,”
   The louder roard the sea.

The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,
   And dashd the boat on shore;
Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,
   But her young son rose no more.

Love Gregor tare his yellow hair,
   And made a heavy moan;
Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,
   But his bonny young son was gone.

O cherry, cherry was her cheek,
   And gowden was her hair,
But clay cold were her rosey lips,
   Nae spark of life was there,

And first he’s kissd her cherry cheek,
   And neist he’s kissed her chin;
And saftly pressd her rosey lips,
   But there was nae breath within.

“O wae betide my cruel mother,
   And an ill dead may she die!
For she turnd my true-love frae my door,
   When she came sae far to me.”

   (Child, vi., Border Minstrelsy.)

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
   Wi ribbons in her hair;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
   Than ony that were there.

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
   Wi ribbons on her breast;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
   Than he listend to the priest.

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
   Wi gloves upon her hands;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
   Than the queen and a’ her lands.

She hadna been about the king’s court
   A month, but barely one,
Till she was beloved by a’ the king’s court,
   And the king the only man.

She hadna been about the king’s court
   A month, but barely three,
Till frae the king’s court Marie Hamilton,
   Marie Hamilton durst na be.

The king is to the Abbey gane,
   To pu the Abbey tree,
To scale the babe frae Marie’s heart;
   But the thing it wadna be.

Word is to the kitchen gane,
   And word is to the ha,
And word is to the noble room,
   Amang the ladyes a’,
That Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed,
   And the bonny babe’s mist and awa.

Scarcely had she lain down again,
   And scarcely faen asleep,
When up then started our gude queen,
   Just at her bed-feet,
Saying “Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe?
   For I am sure I heard it greet.”

“O no, O no, my noble queen!
   Think no such thing to be!
’Twas but a stitch into my side,
   And sair it troubles me.”

“Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton,
   Get up, and follow me,
For I am going to Edinburgh town,
   A rich wedding for to see.”

O slowly, slowly raise she up,
   And slowly put she on;
And slowly rode she out the way,
   Wi mony a weary groan.

The queen was clad in scarlet,
   Her merry maids all in green;
And every town that they cam to,
   They took Marie for the queen.

But little wist Marie Hamilton,
   When she rade on the brown,
That she was ga’en to Edinburgh town,
   And a’ to be put down.

“Why weep ye so, ye burgess-wives,
   Why look ye so on me?
O, I am going to Edinburgh town,
   A rich wedding for to see!”

When she gaed up the Tolbooth stairs,
   The corks frae her heels did flee;
And lang or eer she cam down again,
   She was condemned to die.

When she cam to the Netherbow Port,
   She laughed loud laughters three;
But when she cam to the gallows-foot,
   The tears blinded her ee.

“Yestreen the queen had four Maries,
   The night she’ll hae but three;
There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaten,
   And Marie Carmichael, and me.

“O, often have I dressd my queen,
   And put gold upon her hair;
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
   The gallows to be my share.

“Often have I dressd my queen,
   And often made her bed:
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
   The gallows-tree to tread.

“I charge ye all, ye mariners,
   That sail upon the sea,
Let neither my father nor mother get wit,
   This dog’s death I’m to die.

“For if my father and mother got wit,
   And my bold brethren three,
O mickle wad be the gude red blude,
   This day wad be spilt for me!

“O little did my mother ken,
   The day she cradled me,
The lands I was to travel in,
   Or the death I was to die!”

(Child, vol. vi.)

O have ye na heard o the fause Sakelde?
   O have ye na heard o the keen Lord Scroop?
How they hae taen bauld Kinmont Willie,
   On Hairibee to hang him up?

Had Willie had but twenty men,
   But twenty men as stout as be,
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont taen
   Wi eight score in his companie.

They band his legs beneath the steed,
   They tied his hands behind his back;
They guarded him, fivesome on each side,
   And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.

They led him thro the Liddel-rack.
   And also thro the Carlisle sands;
They brought him to Carlisle castell.
   To be at my Lord Scroope’s commands.

“My hands are tied; but my tongue is free,
   And whae will dare this deed avow?
Or answer by the border law?
   Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?”

“Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!
   There’s never a Scot shall set ye free:
Before ye cross my castle-yate,
   I trow ye shall take farewell o me.”

Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,
   In Branksome Ha where that he lay,
That Lord Scroope has taen the Kinmont Willie,
   Between the hours of night and day.

He has taen the table wi his hand,
   He garrd the red wine spring on hie;
“Now Christ’s curse on my head,” he said,
   “But avenged of Lord Scroope I’ll be!

“O is my basnet a widow’s curch?
   Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?
Or my arm a lady’s lilye hand,
   That an English lord should lightly me?

“And have they taen him, Kinmont Willie,
   Against the truce of Border tide?
And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch
   Is keeper here on the Scottish side?

“And have they een taen him, Kinmont Willie,
   Withouten either dread or fear,
And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch
   Can back a steed, or shake a spear?

“O were there war between the lands,
   As well I wot that there is none,
I would slight Carlisle castell high,
   Tho it were builded of marble stone.

“But since nae war’s between the lands,
   And there is peace, and peace should be;
I’ll neither harm English lad or lass,
   And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!”

He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,
   I trow they were of his ain name,
Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calld
   The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.

He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,
   Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch,
With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,
   And gleuves of green, and feathers blue.

There were five and five before them a’,
   Wi hunting-horns and bugles bright;
And five and five came wi Buccleuch,
   Like Warden’s men, arrayed for fight.

And five and five, like a mason-gang,
   That carried the ladders lang and hie;
And five and five, like broken men;
   And so they reached the Woodhouselee.

And as we crossd the Bateable Land,
   When to the English side we held,
The first o men that we met wi,
   Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde!

“Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?”
   Quo fause Sakelde; “come tell to me!”
“We go to hunt an English stag,
   Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.”

“Where are ye gaun, ye mason-lads,
   Wi a’ your ladders lang and hie?”
“We gang to herry a corbie’s nest,
   That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.”

“Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?”
   Quo fause Sakelde; “come tell to me?”
Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,
   And the nevir a word o lear had he.

“Why trespass ye on the English side?
   Row-footed outlaws, stand!” quo he;
The neer a word had Dickie to say,
   Sae he thrust the lance thro his fause bodie.

Then on we held for Carlisle toun,
   And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we crossd;
The water was great and meikle of spait,
   But the nevir a horse nor man we lost.

And when we reachd the Staneshaw-bank,
   The wind was rising loud and hie;
And there the laird garrd leave our steeds,
   For fear that they should stamp and nie.

And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,
   The wind began full loud to blaw;
But ’twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,
   When we came beneath the castell-wa.

We crept on knees, and held our breath,
   Till we placed the ladders against the wa;
And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell
   To mount she first, before us a’.

“Now sound out, trumpets!” quo Buccleuch;
   “Let’s waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!”
Then loud the warden’s trumpet blew
   “O whae dare meddle wi me?”

Then speedilie to wark we gaed,
   And raised the slogan ane and a’,
And cut a hole through a sheet of lead,
   And so we wan to the castel-ha.

They thought King James and a’ his men
   Had won the house wi bow and speir;
It was but twenty Scots and ten
   That put a thousand in sic a stear!

Wi coulters, and wi fore-hammers,
   We garrd the bars bang merrilie,
Until we came to the inner prison,
   Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie.

And when we came to the lower prison,
   Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie,
“O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,
   Upon the morn that thou’s to die?”

“O I sleep saft, and I wake aft,
   It’s lang since sleeping was fley’d frae me;
Gie my service back to my wyfe and bairns
   And a’ gude fellows that speer for me.”

Then Red Rowan has hente him up,
   The starkest man in Teviotdale:
“Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,
   Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.

Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,
   We bore him down the ladder lang;
At every stride Red Rowan made,
   I wot the Kinmont’s airms playd clang!

“O mony a time,” quo Kinmont Willie.
   “I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;
But a rougher beast than Red Rowan,
   I ween my legs have neer bestrode.

“And mony a time,” quo Kinmont Willie,
   “I’ve pricked a horse out oure the furs;
But since the day I backed a steed
   I nevir wore sic cumbrous spurs!”

We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,
   When a’ the Carlisle bells were rung,
And a thousand men, in horse and foot,
   Cam wi the keen Lord Scroope along.

Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water,
   Even where it flowd frae bank to brim,
And he has plunged in wi a’ his band,
   And safely swam them thro the stream.

He turned him on the other side,
   And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he:
“If ye like na my visit in merry England,
   In fair Scotland come visit me!”

All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,
   He stood as still as rock of stane;
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,
   When thro the water they had gane.

(Child, vol. vi.  Early Edition.)

It fell about the Martinmas tyde,
   When our Border steeds get corn and hay
The captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde,
   And he’s ower to Tividale to drive a prey.

The first ae guide that they met wi’,
   It was high up Hardhaughswire;
The second guide that we met wi’,
   It was laigh down in Borthwick water.

“What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?”
   “Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee;
But, gin ye’ll gae to the fair Dodhead,
   Mony a cow’s cauf I’ll let thee see.”

And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead,
   Right hastily they clam the peel;
They loosed the kye out, ane and a’,
   And ranshackled the house right weel.

Now Jamie Telfer’s heart was sair,
   The tear aye rowing in his e’e;
He pled wi’ the captain to hae his gear,
   Or else revenged he wad be.

The captain turned him round and leugh;
   Said—“Man, there’s naething in thy house,
But ae auld sword without a sheath,
   That hardly now wad fell a mouse!”

And whan he cam to the fair tower yate,
   He shouted loud, and cried weel hie,
Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot—
   “Wha’s this that brings the fraye to me?”

“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead,
   And a harried man I think I be!
There’s naething left at the fair Dodhead,
   But a waefu’ wife and bairnies three.

“Gae seek your succour at Branksome Ha’.
   For succour ye’se get nane frae me!
Gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail,
   For, man! ye ne’er paid money to me.”

Jamie has turned him round about,
   I wat the tear blinded his e’e—
“I’ll ne’er pay mail to Elliot again,
   And the fair Dodhead I’ll never see!

“My hounds may a’ rin masterless,
   My hawks may fly frae tree to tree;
My lord may grip my vassal lands,
   For there again maun I never be.”

He has turned him to the Tiviot side,
   E’en as fast as he could drie,
Till he came to the Coultart Cleugh
   And there he shouted baith loud and hie.

Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve—
   “Wha’s this that brings the fray to me?”
“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead,
   A harried man I trow I be.

“Alack a wae!” quo’ auld Jock Grieve,
   “Alack! my heart is sair for thee!
For I was married on the elder sister,
   And you on the youngest of a’ the three.”

Then he has ta’en out a bonny black,
   Was right weel fed wi’ corn and hay,
And he’s set Jamie Telfer on his back,
   To the Catslockhill to tak’ the fray.

And whan he cam to the Catslockhill,
   He shouted loud and weel cried he,
Till out and spak him William’s Wat—
   “O wha’s this brings the fraye to me?”

“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead,
   A harried man I think I be!
The captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear;
   For God’s sake rise, and succour me!”

“Alas for wae!” quo’ William’s Wat,
   “Alack, for thee my heart is sair!
I never cam by the fair Dodhead,
   That ever I fand thy basket bare.”

He’s set his twa sons on coal-black steeds,
   Himsel’ upon a freckled gray,
And they are on wi, Jamie Telfer,
   To Branksome Ha to tak the fray.

And whan they cam to Branksome Ha’,
   They shouted a’ baith loud and hie,
Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch,
   Said—“Wha’s this brings the fray to me?

“Alack for wae!” quoth the gude auld lord,
   “And ever my heart is wae for thee!
But fye gar cry on Willie, my son,
   And see that he come to me speedilie!

“Gar warn the water, braid and wide,
   Gar warn it soon and hastily!
They that winna ride for Telfer’s kye,
   Let them never look in the face o’ me!

“Warn Wat o’ Harden, and his sons,
   Wi’ them will Borthwick water ride;
Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh,
   And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside.

“Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire,
   And warn the Currors o’ the Lee;
As ye come down the Hermitage Slack,
   Warn doughty Willie o’ Gorrinbery.”

The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran,
   Sae starkly and sae steadilie!
And aye the ower-word o’ the thrang,
   Was—“Rise for Branksome readilie!”

The gear was driven the Frostylee up,
   Frae the Frostylee unto the plain,
Whan Willie has looked his men before,
   And saw the kye right fast driving.

“Wha drives thir kye?” ’gan Willie say,
   “To mak an outspeckle o’ me?”
“It’s I, the captain o’ Bewcastle, Willie;
   I winna layne my name for thee.”

“I winna let the kye gae back,
   Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear,
But I will drive Jamie Telfer’s kye,
   In spite of every Scot that’s here.”

“Set on them, lads!” quo’ Willie than,
   “Fye, lads, set on them cruellie!
For ere they win to the Ritterford,
   Mony a toom saddle there sall be!”

But Willie was stricken ower the head,
   And through the knapscap the sword has gane;
And Harden grat for very rage,
   Whan Willie on the ground lay slain.

But he’s ta’en aff his gude steel-cap,
   And thrice he’s waved it in the air—
The Dinlay snaw was ne’er mair white,
   Nor the lyart locks of Harden’s hair.

“Revenge! revenge!” auld Wat ’gan cry;
   “Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie!
We’ll ne’er see Tiviotside again,
   Or Willie’s death revenged shall be.”

O mony a horse ran masterless,
   The splintered lances flew on hie;
But or they wan to the Kershope ford,
   The Scots had gotten the victory.

John o’ Brigham there was slain,
   And John o’ Barlow, as I hear say;
And thirty mae o’ the captain’s men,
   Lay bleeding on the grund that day.

“Hae back thy kye!” the captain said;
   “Dear kye, I trow, to some they be!
For gin I suld live a hundred years,
   There will ne’er fair lady smile on me.”

Then word is gane to the captain’s bride,
   Even in the bower where that she lay,
That her lord was prisoner in enemy’s land,
   Since into Tividale he had led the way.

“I wad lourd have had a winding-sheet,
   And helped to put it ower his head,
Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot,
   When he ower Liddel his men did lead!”

There was a wild gallant amang us a’,
   His name was Watty wi’ the Wudspurs,
Cried—“On for his house in Stanegirthside,
   If ony man will ride with us!”

When they cam to the Stanegirthside,
   They dang wi’ trees, and burst the door;
They loosed out a’ the captain’s kye,
   And set them forth our lads before.

There was an auld wife ayont the fire,
   A wee bit o’ the captain’s kin—
“Wha daur loose out the captain’s kye,
   Or answer to him and his men?”

“It’s I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye,
   I winna layne my name frae thee!
And I will loose out the captain’s kye,
   In scorn of a’ his men and he.”

And he has paid the rescue shot,
   Baith wi’ goud, and white monie;
And at the burial o’ Willie Scott,
   I wot was mony a weeping e’e.

(Child, vol. ii.  Early Edition.)

“Rise up, rise up now, Lord Douglas,” she says,
   “And put on your armour so bright;
Let it never be said that a daughter of thine
   Was married to a lord under night.

“Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,
   And put on your armour so bright,
And take better care of your youngest sister,
   For your eldest’s awa the last night.”—

He’s mounted her on a milk-white steed,
   And himself on a dapple grey,
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
   And lightly they rode away.

Lord William lookit o’er his left shoulder,
   To see what he could see,
And there be spy’d her seven brethren bold,
   Come riding o’er the lee.

“Light down, light down, Lady Marg’ret,” he said,
   “And hold my steed in your hand,
Until that against your seven brothers bold,
   And your father I make a stand.”—

She held his steed in her milk white hand,
   And never shed one tear,
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa’,
   And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.

O she’s ta’en out her handkerchief,
   It was o’ the holland sae fine,
And aye she dighted her father’s bloody wounds,
   That were redder than the wine.

“O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg’ret,” he said,
   “O whether will ye gang or bide?”
“I’ll gang, I’ll gang, Lord William,” she said,
   “For ye have left me no other guide.”—

He’s lifted her on a milk-white steed,
   And himself on a dapple grey.
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
   And slowly they baith rade away.

They lighted down to tak a drink
   Of the spring that ran sae clear:
And down the stream ran his gude heart’s blood,
   And sair she ’gan to fear.

“Hold up, hold up, Lord William,” she says,
   “For I fear that you are slain!”
“’Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak
   That shines in the water sae plain.”

O they rade on, and on they rade,
   And a’ by the light of the moon,
Until they cam to his mother’s ha’ door,
   And there they lighted down.

“Get up, get up, lady mother,” he says,
   “Get up, and let me in!—
Get up, get up, lady mother,” he says,
   “For this night my fair ladye I’ve win.

“O mak my bed, lady mother,” he says,
   “O mak it braid and deep!
And lay Lady Marg’ret close at my back,
   And the sounder I will sleep.”—

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
   Lady Marg’ret lang ere day—
And all true lovers that go thegither,
   May they have mair luck than they!

Lord William was buried in St. Marie’s kirk,
   Lady Margaret in Marie’s quire;
Out o’ the lady’s grave grew a bonny red rose,
   And out o’ the knight’s a brier.

And they twa met, and they twa plat,
   And fain they wad be near;
And a’ the warld might ken right weel,
   They were twa lovers dear.

But by and rade the Black Douglas,
   And wow but he was rough!
For he pull’d up the bonny brier,
   An flang’t in St. Marie’s Loch.

(Child, vol. ii.)

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

And 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.

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

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

“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.”

“I am na courtier, fair maid,
   But new come frae the sea;
I am nae courtier, fair maid,
   But when I court’ith thee.

“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad,
   Sae loud’s I hear ye lee!
For I’m Lord Randal’s yae daughter,
   He has nae mair nor me.”

“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.”

She’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.

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

And 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!”

“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.

“Fourscore of them are siller-shod,
   Of thae ye may get three;”
“But O and O for my bonny hyn,
   Beneath yon hollin tree!”

“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!”

“O were ye at your sister’s bower,
   Your sister fair to see,
Ye’ll think na mair o your bonny hyn
   Beneath the hollin tree.”

(Child, vol. ii.)

In London city was Bicham born,
   He longd strange countries for to see,
But he was taen by a savage Moor,
   Who handld him right cruely.

For thro his shoulder he put a bore,
   An thro the bore has pitten a tree,
And he’s gard him draw the carts o wine,
   Where horse and oxen had wont to be.

He’s casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
   Where he coud neither hear nor see;
He’s shut him up in a prison strong,
   An he’s handld him right cruely.

O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
   I wot her name was Shusy Pye;
She’s doen her to the prison-house,
   And she’s calld young Bicham one word by.

“O hae ye ony lands or rents,
   Or citys in your ain country,
Coud free you out of prison strong,
   An coud maintain a lady free?”

“O London city is my own,
   An other citys twa or three,
Coud loose me out o prison strong,
   An could maintain a lady free.”

She’s gi’n him a loaf o good white bread,
   But an a flask o Spanish wine,
An she bad him mind on the ladie’s love
   That sae kindly freed him out o pine.

“Go set your foot on good ship-board,
   An haste you back to your ain country,
An before that seven years has an end,
   Come back again, love, and marry me.”

It was long or seven years had an end
   She longd fu sair her love to see;
She’s set her foot on good ship-board,
   An turnd her back on her ain country.

She’s saild up, so has she down,
   Till she came to the other side;
She’s landed at Young Bicham’s gates,
   An I hop this day she sal be his bride.

“Is this Young Bicham’s gates?” says she.
   “Or is that noble prince within?”
“He’s up the stair wi his bonny bride,
   An monny a lord and lady wi him.”

“O has he taen a bonny bride,
   An has he clean forgotten me?”
An sighing said that gay lady,
   “I wish I were in my ain country!”

She’s pitten her ban in her pocket,
   An gin the porter guineas three;
Says, “Take ye that, ye proud porter,
   An bid the bridegroom speak to me.”

“O I’ve been porter at your gates
   This mair nor seven years an three,
But there is a lady at them now
   The like of whom I never did see.

“For on every finger she has a ring,
   An on the mid-finger she has three,
An there’s as meikle goud aboon her brow
   As woud buy an earldom o lan to me.”

Then up it started Young Bicham,
   An sware so loud by Our Lady,
“It can be nane but Shusy Pye
   That has come oor the sea to me.”

O quickly ran he down the stair,
   O fifteen steps he has made but three,
He’s tane his bonny love in his arms
   An a wot he kissd her tenderly.

“O hae you tane a bonny bride?
   An hae you quite forsaken me?
An hae ye quite forgotten her
   That gae you life an liberty?”

She’s lookit oer her left shoulder
   To hide the tears stood in her ee;
“Now fare thee well, Young Bicham,” she says,
   “I’ll strive to think nae mair on thee.”

He’s tak his bonny love by the han,
   And led her to yon fountain stane;
He’s changed her name frae Shusy Pye,
   An he’s cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.

(Child, vol. ii.  Cockney copy.)

Lord Bateman was a noble lord,
   A noble lord of high degree;
He shipped himself all aboard of a ship,
   Some foreign country for to see.

He sailed east, he sailed west,
   Until he came to famed Turkey,
Where he was taken and put to prison,
   Until his life was quite weary.

All in this prison there grew a tree,
   O there it grew so stout and strong!
Where he was chained all by the middle,
   Until his life was almost gone.

This Turk he had one only daughter,
   The fairest my two eyes eer see;
She steal the keys of her father’s prison,
   And swore Lord Bateman she would let go free.

O she took him to her father’s cellar,
   And gave to him the best of wine;
And every health she drank unto him
   Was “I wish, Lord Bateman, as you was mine.”

“O I’ve got houses and I’ve got land,
   And half Northumberland belongs to me;
And I will give it all to the fair young lady
   As out of prison would let me go free.”

“O in seven long years I’ll make a vow
   For seven long years, and keep it strong,
That if you’ll wed no other woman,
   O I will wed no other man.”

O she took him to her father’s harbor,
   And gave to him a ship of fame,
Saying, “Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,
   I fear I shall never see you again.”

Now seven long years is gone and past,
   And fourteen days, well known to me;
She packed up all her gay clothing,
   And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.

O when she arrived at Lord Bateman’s castle,
   How boldly then she rang the bell!
“Who’s there? who’s there?” cries the proud young porter,
   “O come unto me pray quickly tell.”

“O is this here Lord Bateman’s castle,
   And is his lordship here within?”
“O yes, O yes,” cries the proud young porter,
   “He’s just now taking his young bride in.”

O away and away went this proud young porter,
   O away and away and away went he,
Until he came to Lord Bateman’s chamber,
   Where he went down on his bended knee.

“What news, what news, my proud young porter?
   What news, what news? come tell to me:”
“O there is the fairest young lady
   As ever my two eyes did see.

“She has got rings on every finger,
   And on one finger she has got three;
With as much gay gold about her middle
   As would buy half Northumberlee.

“O she bids you to send her a slice of bread,
   And a bottle of the very best wine,
And not forgetting the fair young lady
   As did release you when close confine.”

Lord Bateman then in passion flew,
   And broke his sword in splinters three,
Saying, “I will give half of my father’s land,
   If so be as Sophia has crossed the sea.”

Then up and spoke this young bride’s mother,
   Who never was heard to speak so free;
Saying, “You’ll not forget my only daughter,
   If so be Sophia has crossed the sea.”

Lord Bateman then prepared another marriage,
   With both their hearts so full of glee,
Saying, “I will roam no more to foreign countries,
   Now that Sophia has crossed the sea.”