A Collection of Ballads

(Child, vol. vii.  Early Edition.)

It fell on a day, and a bonnie summer day,
   When the corn grew green and yellow,
That there fell out a great dispute
   Between Argyle and Airly.

The Duke o’ Montrose has written to Argyle
   To come in the morning early,
An’ lead in his men, by the back O’ Dunkeld,
   To plunder the bonnie house o’ Airly.

The lady look’d o’er her window sae hie,
   And O but she looked weary!
And there she espied the great Argyle
   Come to plunder the bonnie house o’ Airly.

“Come down, come down, Lady Margaret,” he says,
   “Come down and kiss me fairly,
Or before the morning clear daylight,
   I’ll no leave a standing stane in Airly.”

“I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle,
   I wadna kiss thee fairly,
I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle,
   Gin you shouldna leave a standing stane Airly.”

He has ta’en her by the middle sae sma’,
   Says, “Lady, where is your drury?”
“It’s up and down by the bonnie burn side,
   Amang the planting of Airly.”

He has ta’en her by the left shoulder,
   And O but she grat sairly,
And led her down to yon green bank,
   Till he plundered the bonnie house o’ Airly.

“O it’s I hae seven braw sons,” she says,
   “And the youngest ne’er saw his daddie,
And altho’ I had as mony mae,
   I wad gie them a’ to Charlie.

“But gin my good lord had been at hame,
   As this night he is wi’ Charlie,
There durst na a Campbell in a’ the west
   Hae plundered the bonnie house o’ Airly.”

(Child, vol. vi.  Early Edition.)

Rob Roy from the Highlands cam,
   Unto the Lawlan’ border,
To steal awa a gay ladie
   To haud his house in order.
He cam oure the lock o’ Lynn,
   Twenty men his arms did carry;
Himsel gaed in, an’ fand her out,
   Protesting he would many.

“O will ye gae wi’ me,” he says,
   “Or will ye be my honey?
Or will ye be my wedded wife?
   For I love you best of any.”
“I winna gae wi’ you,” she says,
   “Nor will I be your honey,
Nor will I be your wedded wife;
   You love me for my money.”

* * * * *

But he set her on a coal-black steed,
   Himsel lap on behind her,
An’ he’s awa to the Highland hills,
   Whare her frien’s they canna find her.

* * * * *

“Rob Roy was my father ca’d,
   Macgregor was his name, ladie;
He led a band o’ heroes bauld,
   An’ I am here the same, ladie.
Be content, be content,
   Be content to stay, ladie,
For thou art my wedded wife
   Until thy dying day, ladie.

(Child, vol. vii.  Early Edition.)

Clavers and his Highlandmen
   Came down upo’ the raw, man,
Who being stout, gave mony a clout;
   The lads began to claw then.
With sword and terge into their hand,
   Wi which they were nae slaw, man,
Wi mony a fearful heavy sigh,
   The lads began to claw then.

O’er bush, o’er bank, o’er ditch, o’er stark,
   She flang amang them a’, man;
The butter-box got many knocks,
   Their riggings paid for a’ then.
They got their paiks, wi sudden straiks,
   Which to their grief they saw, man:
Wi clinkum, clankum o’er their crowns,
   The lads began to fa’ then.

Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,
   And flang amang them a’, man;
The English blades got broken beads,
   Their crowns were cleav’d in twa then.
The durk and door made their last hour,
   And prov’d their final fa’, man;
They thought the devil had been there,
   That play’d them sic a paw then.

Sir Evan Du, and his men true,
   Came linking up the brink, man;
The Hogan Dutch they feared such,
   They bred a horrid stink then.
The true Maclean and his fierce men
   Came in amang them a’, man;
Nane durst withstand his heavy hand.
   All fled and ran awa’ then.

Oh’ on a ri, Oh’ on a ri,
   Why should she lose King Shames, man?
Oh’ rig in di, Oh’ rig in di,
   She shall break a’ her banes then;
With furichinish, an’ stay a while,
   And speak a word or twa, man,
She’s gi’ a straike, out o’er the neck,
   Before ye win awa’ then.

Oh fy for shame, ye’re three for ane,
   Hur-nane-sell’s won the day, man;
King Shames’ red-coats should be hung up,
   Because they ran awa’ then.
Had bent their brows, like Highland trows,
   And made as lang a stay, man,
They’d sav’d their king, that sacred thing,
   And Willie’d ran awa’ then.

(Child, vol. ii.  Early Edition.)

“Annan water’s wading deep,
   And my love Annie’s wondrous bonny;
And I am laith she suld weet her feet,
   Because I love her best of ony.

“Gar saddle me the bonny black,—
   Gar saddle sune, and make him ready:
For I will down the Gatehope-Slack,
   And all to see my bonny ladye.”—

He has loupen on the bonny black,
   He stirr’d him wi’ the spur right sairly;
But, or he wan the Gatehope-Slack,
   I think the steed was wae and weary.

He has loupen on the bonny gray,
   He rade the right gate and the ready;
I trow he would neither stint nor stay,
   For he was seeking his bonny ladye.

O he has ridden o’er field and fell,
   Through muir and moss, and mony a mire;
His spurs o’ steel were sair to bide,
   And fra her fore-feet flew the fire.

“Now, bonny grey, now play your part!
   Gin ye be the steed that wins my deary,
Wi’ corn and hay ye’se be fed for aye,
   And never spur sall make you wearie.”

“O boatman, boatman, put off your boat!
   Put off your boat for gowden monie!
I cross the drumly stream the night,
   Or never mair I see my honey.”—

“O I was sworn sae late yestreen,
   And not by ae aith, but by many;
And for a’ the gowd in fair Scotland,
   I dare na take ye through to Annie.”

The side was stey, and the bottom deep,
   Frae bank to brae the water pouring;
And the bonny grey mare did sweat for fear,
   For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.

O he has pou’d aff his dapperpy coat,
   The silver buttons glancèd bonny;
The waistcoat bursted aff his breast,
   He was sae full of melancholy.

He has ta’en the ford at that stream tail;
   I wot he swam both strong and steady;
But the stream was broad, and his strength did fail,
   And he never saw his bonny ladye.

“O wae betide the frush saugh wand!
   And wae betide the bush of brier!
It brake into my true love’s hand,
   When his strength did fail, and his limbs did tire.

“And wae betide ye, Annan water,
   This night that ye are a drumlie river!
For over thee I’ll build a bridge,
   That ye never more true love may sever.”—

(C. K. Sharpe.)

I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
   An’ a cow low down in yon glen;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
   Or his mither bid him come ben.

I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
   An’ a cow low down in yon fauld;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
   Or is mither take him frae cauld.

   Waken, Queen of Elfan,
   An hear your Nourrice moan.
   O moan ye for your meat,
   Or moan ye for your fee,
   Or moan ye for the ither bounties
   That ladies are wont to gie?

I moan na for my meat,
   Nor yet for my fee,
But I mourn for Christened land—
   It’s there I fain would be.

O nurse my bairn, Nourice, she says,
   Till he stan’ at your knee,
An’ ye’s win hame to Christen land,
   Whar fain it’s ye wad be.

O keep my bairn, Nourice,
   Till he gang by the hauld,
An’ ye’s win hame to your young son,
   Ye left in four nights auld.

(Mackay.)

Cospatrick has sent o’er the faem;
Cospatrick brought his ladye hame;
And fourscore ships have come her wi’,
The ladye by the green-wood tree.

There were twal’ and twal’ wi’ baken bread,
And twal’ and twal’ wi’ gowd sae red,
And twal’ and twal’ wi’ bouted flour,
And twal’ and twal’ wi’ the paramour.

Sweet Willy was a widow’s son,
And at her stirrup he did run;
And she was clad in the finest pall,
But aye she loot the tears down fall.

“O is your saddle set awrye?
Or rides your steed for you owre high?
Or are you mourning, in your tide,
That you suld be Cospatrick’s bride?”

“I am not mourning, at this tide,
That I suld he Cospatrick’s bride;
But I am sorrowing in my mood,
That I suld leave my mother good.”

“But, gentle boy, come tell to me,
What is the custom of thy countrie?”
“The custom thereof, my dame,” he says,
“Will ill a gentle ladye please.

“Yet, gin you’re sure that you’re a maid,
Ye may gae safely to his bed;
But gif o’ that ye be na sure,
Then hire some damsel o’ your bour.”

The ladye’s called her bour-maiden,
That waiting was unto her train.
“Five thousand marks I’ll gie to thee,
To sleep this night with my lord for me.”

When bells were rung, and mass was sayne,
And a’ men unto bed were gane,
Cospatrick and the bonny maid,
Into ae chamber they were laid.

“Now speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed,
And speak, thou sheet, enchanted web;
And speak, my sword, that winna lie,
Is this a true maiden that lies by me?”

“It is not a maid that you hae wedded,
But it is a maid that you hae bedded;
It is a leal maiden that lies by thee,
But not the maiden that it should be.”

O wrathfully he left the bed,
And wrathfully his claes on did;
And he has ta’en him through the ha’,
And on his mother he did ca’.

“O stay, my son, into this ha’,
And sport ye wi’ your merry men a’;
And I will to the secret bour,
To see how it fares wi’ your paramour.”

The carline she was stark and stare,
She aff the hinges dang the dure.
“O is your bairn to laird or loun,
Or is it to your father’s groom?”

“O hear me, mother, on my knee,
Till my sad story I tell to thee:
O we were sisters, sisters seven,
We were the fairest under heaven.

“It fell on a summer’s afternoon,
When a’ our toilsome work was done,
We coost the kevils us amang,
To see which suld to the green-wood gang.

“Ohon! alas, for I was youngest,
And aye my weird it was the strongest!
The kevil it on me did fa’,
Whilk was the cause of a’ my woe.

“For to the green-wood I maun gae,
To pu’ the red rose and the slae;
To pu’ the red rose and the thyme,
To deck my mother’s bour and mine.

“I hadna pu’d a flower but ane,
When by there came a gallant hinde,
Wi’ high colled hose and laigh colled shoon,
And he seemed to be some king’s son.

“He gae me a lock o’ his yellow hair,
And bade me keep it ever mair;
He gae me a carknet o’ bonny beads,
And bade me keep it against my needs.

“He gae to me a gay gold ring,
And bade me keep it abune a’ thing.”
“What did ye wi’ the tokens rare,
That ye gat frae that gallant there?”

“O bring that coffer unto me,
And a’ the tokens ye sall see.”
“Now stay, daughter, your bour within,
While I gae parley wi’ my son.”

O she has ta’en her thro’ the ha’,
And on her son began to ca’:
“What did ye wi’ the bonny beads,
I bade ye keep against your needs?

“What did you wi’ the gay gold ring,
I bade you keep abune a’ thing?”
“I gae them to a ladye gay,
I met in green-wood on a day.

“But I wad gie a’ my halls and tours,
I had that ladye within my bours,
But I wad gie my very life,
I had that ladye to my wife.”

“Now keep, my son, your ha’s and tours;
Ye have that bright burd in your bours;
And keep, my son, your very life;
Ye have that ladye to your wife.”

Some speak of lords, some speak of lairds,
   And sic like men of high degree;
Of a gentleman I sing a sang,
   Some time call’d Laird of Gilnockie.

The king he writes a loving letter,
   With his ain hand sae tenderlie,
And he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrang,
   To come and speak with him speedilie.

The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene,
   They were a gallant companie:
“We’ll ride and meet our lawful king,
   And bring him safe to Gilnockie.

“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
   Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
   And now I’ll not begin with thee.”

“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
   And a bonnie gift I’ll gi’e to thee;
Full four-and-twenty milk-white steeds,
   Were all foal’d in ae year to me.

“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
   And a great gift I’ll gi’e to thee:
Bauld four-and-twenty sisters’ sons
   Shall for thee fecht, tho’ all shou’d flee.”

“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
   Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
   And now I’ll not begin with thee.”

“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
   And a brave gift I’ll gi’e to thee:
All between here and Newcastle town
   Shall pay their yearly rent to thee.”

“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
   Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
   And now I’ll not begin with thee.”

“Ye lied, ye lied, now, king,” he says,
   “Altho’ a king and prince ye be!
For I’ve loved naething in my life,
   I weel dare say it, but honestie.

“Save a fat horse, and a fair woman,
   Twa bonnie dogs to kill a deer;
But England shou’d have found me meal and mault,
   Gif I had lived this hundred year.

“She shou’d have found me meal and mault,
   And beef and mutton in all plentie;
But never a Scots wife cou’d have said,
   That e’er I skaith’d her a puir flee.

“But had I kenn’d, ere I came frae hame,
   How unkind thou wou’dst been to me,
I wou’d ha’e keepit the Border side,
   In spite of all thy force and thee.

“Wist England’s king that I was ta’en,
   Oh, gin a blythe man he wou’d be!
For ance I slew his sister’s son,
   And on his breast-bane brak a tree.”

John wore a girdle about his middle,
   Embroider’d o’er with burning gold,
Bespangled with the same metal,
   Maist beautiful was to behold.

The ladye ran to her tower head,
   As fast as she cou’d hie,
To see if, by her fair speeches,
   She cou’d with him agree.

As soon as he saw this ladye fair.
   And her yetts all lockit fast,
He fell into a rage of wrath,
   And his heart was all aghast.

“Come down to me, ye ladye gay,
   Come down, come down to me;
This night ye shall lye within my arms,
   The morn my bride shall be.”

“I winna come down, ye false Gordon,
   I winna come down to thee;
I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
   That is sae far frae me.”

“Gi’e up your house, ye ladye fair,
   Gi’e up your house to me;
Or I shall burn yoursel’ therein,
   Bot and your babies three.”

“I winna gi’e up, ye false Gordon,
   To nae sic traitor as thee;
Tho’ you shou’d burn mysel’ therein,
   Bot and my babies three.

[“But fetch to me my pistolette,
   And charge to me my gun;
For, but if I pierce that bluidy butcher,
   My babes we will be undone.”

“Set fire to the house!” quo’ the false Gordon,
   “Since better may nae be;
And I will burn hersel’ therein,
   Bot and her babies three.”

Oh, then out spake her daughter dear,
   She was baith jimp and small:
“Oh, row me in a pair of sheets,
   And tow me o’er the wall.”

They row’d her in a pair of sheets,
   And tow’d her o’er the wall;
But on the point of Gordon’s spear
   She got a deadly fall.

Oh, bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,
   And cherry were her cheeks;
And clear, clear was her yellow hair,
   Whereon the red bluid dreeps.

Then with his spear he turn’d her o’er,
   Oh, gin her face was wan!
He said—“You are the first that e’er
   I wish’d alive again.”

He turn’d her o’er and o’er again,
   Oh, gin her skin was white!
“I might ha’e spared that bonnie face
   To ha’e been some man’s delight.

“Busk and boun, my merry men all,
   For ill dooms I do guess;
I canna look on that bonnie face,
   As it lyes on the grass!”

The Gordon then his bugle blew,
   And said—“Away, away!
The house of Towie is all in a flame,
   I hald it time to gae.”]

Oh, then he spied her ain dear lord,
   As he came o’er the lea;
He saw his castle all in a flame,
   As far as he could see.

(Child, vol. iv.  Early Edition.)

Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep,
If thou’lt be silent, I’ll be glad,
Thy mourning makes my heart full sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mother’s joy,
Thy father bred one great annoy.
   Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep,
   It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

Balow, my darling, sleep a while,
And when thou wak’st then sweetly smile;
But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids, nay, God forbid;
For in thine eye his look I see,
The tempting look that ruin’d me.
   Balow, my boy, etc.

When he began to court my love,
And with his sugar’d words to move,
His tempting face, and flatt’ring chear,
In time to me did not appear;
But now I see that cruel he
Cares neither for his babe nor me.
   Balow, my boy, etc.

I was too cred’lous at the first,
To yield thee all a maiden durst.
Thou swore for ever true to prove,
Thy faith unchang’d, unchang’d thy love;
But quick as thought the change is wrought,
Thy love’s no mair, thy promise nought.
   Balow, my boy, etc.

I wish I were a maid again!
From young men’s flatt’ry I’d refrain;
For now unto my grief I find
They all are perjur’d and unkind;
Bewitching charms bred all my harms;—
Witness my babe lies in my arms.
   Balow, my boy, etc.

I take my fate from bad to worse,
That I must needs be now a nurse,
And lull my young son on my lap:
From me, sweet orphan, take the pap.
Balow, my child, thy mother mild
Shall wail as from all bliss exil’d.
   Balow, my boy, etc.

Balow, my boy, thy father’s fled,
When he the thriftless son has played;
Of vows and oaths forgetful, he
Preferr’d the wars to thee and me.
But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine
Make him eat acorns with the swine.
   Balow, my boy, etc.

But curse not him; perhaps now he,
Stung with remorse, is blessing thee:
Perhaps at death; for who can tell
Whether the judge of heaven or hell,
By some proud foe has struck the blow,
And laid the dear deceiver low?
   Balow, my boy, etc.

I wish I were into the bounds
Where he lies smother’d in his wounds,
Repeating, as he pants for air,
My name, whom once he call’d his fair;
No woman’s yet so fiercely set
But she’ll forgive, though not forget.
   Balow, my boy, etc.

If linen lacks, for my love’s sake
Then quickly to him would I make
My smock, once for his body meet,
And wrap him in that winding-sheet.
Ah me! how happy had I been,
If he had ne’er been wrapt therein.
   Balow, my boy, etc.

Balow, my boy, I’ll weep for thee;
Too soon, alake, thou’lt weep for me:
Thy griefs are growing to a sum,
God grant thee patience when they come;
Born to sustain thy mother’s shame,
A hapless fate, a bastard’s name.
   Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep,
   It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

(Child, Part VI., p. 479.)

Now Liddisdale has ridden a raid,
   But I wat they had better staid at hame;
For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead,
   And my son Johnie is prisner tane?
   With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle.

For Mangerton house auld Downie is gane,
   Her coats she has kilted up to her knee;
And down the water wi speed she rins,
   While tears in spaits fa fast frae her eie.

Then up and bespake the lord Mangerton:
   “What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?”
   “Bad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton;
   Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son Johnie.”

“Neer fear, sister Downie,” quo Mangerton;
   “I hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie,
My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a’ weel filld,
   And I’ll part wi them a’ ere Johnie shall die.

“Three men I’ll take to set him free,
   Weel harnessd a’ wi best of steel;
The English rogues may hear, and drie
   The weight o their braid swords to feel

Now, Hobie was an English man,
   In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
   They banished him neer to return.

Lord Mangerton then orders gave,—
   “Your horses the wrang way maun a’ be shod;
Like gentlemen ye must not seem,
   But look like corn-caugers gawn ae road.

“Your armour gude ye maunna shaw,
   Nor ance appear like men o weir;
As country lads be all arrayd,
   Wi branks and brecham on ilk mare.”

Sae now a’ their horses are shod the wrang way,
   And Hobie has mounted his grey sae fine,
Jock his lively bay, Wat’s on his white horse behind,
   And on they rode for the water o Tyne.

At the Cholerford they a’ light down,
   And there, wi the help o the light o the moon,
A tree they cut, wi fifteen naggs upon each side,
   To climb up the wall of Newcastle toun.

But when they came to Newcastle toun,
   And were alighted at the wa,
They fand their tree three ells oer laigh,
   They fand their stick baith short aid sma.

His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung;
   Wi foot or hand he neer play’d paw;
His life and his keys at anes they hae taen,
   And cast his body ahind the wa.

Now soon they reached Newcastle jail,
   And to the prisner thus they call:
“Sleips thou, wakes thou, Jock o the Side,
   Or is thou wearied o thy thrall?”

Jock answers thus, wi dolefu tone:
   “Aft, aft I wake, I seldom sleip;
But wha’s this kens my name sae weel,
   And thus to hear my waes does seek?”

Then up and spake the good Laird’s Jock:
   “Neer fear ye now, my billie,” quo he;
“For here’s the Laird’s Jock, the Laird’s Wat,
   And Hobie Noble, come to set thee free.”

“Oh, had thy tongue, and speak nae mair,
   And o thy talk now let me be!
For if a’ Liddesdale were here the night,
   The morn’s the day that I maun die.

“Full fifteen stane o Spanish iron,
   They hae laid a’ right sair on me;
Wi locks and keys I am fast bound
   Into this dungeon mirk and drearie.”

The first strong dore that they came at,
   They loosed it without a key;
The next chaind dore that they cam at,
   They gard it a’ in flinders flee.

The prisner now, upo his back,
   The Laird’s Jock’s gotten up fu hie;
And down the stair him, irons and a’,
   Wi nae sma speed and joy brings he.

“Now, Jock, I wat,” quo Hobie Noble,
   “Part o the weight ye may lay on me,”
“I wat weel no,” quo the Laird’s Jock
   “I count him lighter than a flee.”

Sae out at the gates they a’ are gane,
   The prisner’s set on horseback hie;
And now wi speed they’ve tane the gate;
   While ilk ane jokes fu wantonlie.

“O Jock, sae winsomely’s ye ride,
   Wi baith your feet upo ae side!
Sae weel’s ye’re harnessd, and sae trig!
   In troth ye sit like ony bride.”

The night, tho wat, they didna mind,
   But hied them on fu mirrilie,
Until they cam to Cholerford brae,
   Where the water ran like mountains hie.

But when they came to Cholerford,
   There they met with an auld man;
Says, “Honest man, will the water ride?
   Tell us in haste, if that ye can.”

Then up and spake the Laird’s saft Wat,
   The greatest coward in the company;
“Now halt, now halt, we needna try’t;
   The day is comd we a’ maun die!”

“Poor faint-hearted thief!” quo the Laird’s Jock,
   “There’ll nae man die but he that’s fie;
I’ll lead ye a’ right safely through;
   Lift ye the prisner on ahint me.”

Sae now the water they a’ hae tane,
   By anes and ’twas they a’ swam through
“Here are we a’ safe,” says the Laird’s Jock,
   “And, poor faint Wat, what think ye now?”

They scarce the ither side had won,
   When twenty men they saw pursue;
Frae Newcastle town they had been sent,
   A’ English lads right good and true.

But when the land-sergeant the water saw,
   “It winna ride, my lads,” quo he;
Then out he cries, “Ye the prisner may take,
   But leave the irons, I pray, to me.”

“I wat weel no,” cryd the Laird’s Jock,
   “I’ll keep them a’; shoon to my mare they’ll be;
My good grey mare; for I am sure,
   She’s bought them a’ fu dear frae thee.”

“Now, Jock, my billie,” quo a’ the three,
   “The day was comd thou was to die;
But thou’s as weel at thy ain fireside,
   Now sitting, I think, ’tween thee and me.”

They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl,
   And after it they maun hae anither,
And thus the night they a’ hae spent,
   Just as they had been brither and brither.

(Child, Part III., p. 182.)

Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
   Sate a’ day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
   They had not talkt their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in jest,
   Fair Annet took it ill:
“A, I will nevir wed a wife
   Against my ain friend’s will.”

“Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
   A wife wull neir wed yee;”
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
   And knelt upon his knee.

“O rede, O rede, mither,” he says,
   “A gude rede gie to mee;
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,
   And let Faire Annet bee?”

“The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,
   Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty Fair Annet haes
   O it wull soon be gane.”

And he has till his brother gane:
   “Now, brother, rede ye mee;
A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
   And let Fair Annet bee?”

“Her oxen may dye i’ the house, billie,
   And her kye into the byre;
And I sall hae nothing to mysell
   Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.”

And he has till his sister gane:
   “Now, sister, rede ye mee;
O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
   And set Fair Annet free?”

“I’se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas,
   And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,
   What is this we brought hame!”

“No, I will tak my mither’s counsel,
   And marrie me owt o hand;
And I will tak the nut-browne bride,
   Fair Annet may leive the land.”

Up then rose Fair Annet’s father,
   Twa hours or it wer day,
And he is gane unto the bower
   Wherein Fair Annet lay.

“Rise up, rise up, Fair Annet,” he says
   “Put on your silken sheene;
Let us gae to St. Marie’s Kirke,
   And see that rich weddeen.”

“My maides, gae to my dressing-roome,
   And dress to me my hair;
Whaireir yee laid a plait before,
   See yee lay ten times mair.

The horse Fair Annet rade upon,
   He amblit like the wind;
Wi siller he was shod before,
   Wi burning gowd behind.

Four and twanty siller bells
   Wer a’ tyed till his mane,
And yae tift o the norland wind,
   They tinkled ane by ane.

Four and twanty gay gude knichts
   Rade by Fair Annet’s side,
And four and twanty fair ladies,
   As gin she had bin a bride.

And whan she cam to Marie’s Kirk,
   She sat on Marie’s stean:
The cleading that Fair Annet had on
   It skinkled in their een.

And whan she cam into the kirk,
   She shimmerd like the sun;
The belt that was about her waist
   Was a’ wi pearles bedone.

She sat her by the nut-browne bride,
   And her een they wer sae clear,
Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,
   When Fair Annet drew near.

He had a rose into his hand,
   He gae it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-browne bride,
   Laid it on Fair Annet’s knee.

“O I did get the rose-water
   Whair ye wull neir get nane,
For I did get that very rose-water
   Into my mither’s wame.”

The bride she drew a long bodkin
   Frae out her gay head-gear,
And strake Fair Annet unto the heart,
   That word spak nevir mair.

Lord Thomas he saw Fair Annet wex pale,
   And marvelit what mote bee;
But when he saw her dear heart’s blude,
   A’ wood-wroth wexed bee.

He drew his dagger that was sae sharp,
   That was sae sharp and meet,
And drave it into the nut-browne bride,
   That fell deid at his feit.

“Now stay for me, dear Annet,” he sed,
   “Now stay, my dear,” he cry’d;
Then strake the dagger untill his heart,
   And fell deid by her side.

Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa,
   Fair Annet within the quiere,
And o the ane thair grew a birk,
   The other a bonny briere.

And ay they grew, and ay they threw,
   As they wad faine be neare;
And by this ye may ken right weil
   They were twa luvers deare.

(Child, Part III., p. 69.)

“It’s narrow, narrow, make your bed,
   And learn to lie your lane:
For I’m ga’n oer the sea, Fair Annie,
   A braw bride to bring hame.
Wi her I will get gowd and gear;
   Wi you I neer got nane.

“But wha will bake my bridal bread,
   Or brew my bridal ale?
And wha will welcome my brisk bride,
   That I bring oer the dale?”

“It’s I will bake your bridal bread,
   And brew your bridal ale,
And I will welcome your brisk bride,
   That you bring oer the dale.”

“But she that welcomes my brisk bride
   Maun gang like maiden fair;
She maun lace on her robe sae jimp,
   And braid her yellow hair.”

“But how can I gang maiden-like,
   When maiden I am nane?
Have I not born seven sons to thee,
   And am with child again?”

“Come up, come up, my eldest son,
   And look oer yon sea-strand,
And see your father’s new-come bride,
   Before she come to land.”

“Come down, come down, my mother dear,
   Come frae the castle wa!
I fear, if langer ye stand there,
   Ye’ll let yoursell down fa.”

And she gaed down, and farther down,
   Her love’s ship for to see,
And the topmast and the mainmast
   Shone like the silver free.

And she’s gane down, and farther down,
   The bride’s ship to behold,
And the topmast and the mainmast
   They shone just like the gold.

She’s taen her seven sons in her hand,
   I wot she didna fail;
She met Lord Thomas and his bride,
   As they came oer the dale.

“You’re welcome to your house, Lord Thomas,
   You’re welcome to your land;
You’re welcome with your fair ladye,
   That you lead by the hand.

“I thank thee, Annie; I thank thee, Annie,
   Sae dearly as I thank thee;
You’re the likest to my sister Annie,
   That ever I did see.

“There came a knight out oer the sea,
   And steald my sister away;
The shame scoup in his company,
   And land where’er he gae!”

She hang ae napkin at the door,
   Another in the ha,
And a’ to wipe the trickling tears,
   Sae fast as they did fa.

And aye she served the lang tables
   With white bread and with wine,
And aye she drank the wan water,
   To had her colour fine.

And aye she served the lang tables,
   With white bread and with brown;
And aye she turned her round about,
   Sae fast the tears fell down.

And he’s taen down the silk napkin,
   Hung on a silver pin,
And aye he wipes the tear trickling
   A’down her cheek and chin.

And aye he turn’d him round about,
   And smiled amang his men;
Says, “Like ye best the old ladye,
   Or her that’s new come hame?”

Annie made her bed a little forbye,
   To hear what they might say;
“And ever alas!” Fair Annie cried,
   “That I should see this day!

“Gin my seven sons were seven young rats,
   Running on the castle wa,
And I were a grey cat mysell,
   I soon would worry them a’.

“Gin my young sons were seven young hares,
   Running oer yon lilly lee,
And I were a grew hound mysell,
   Soon worried they a’ should be.”

And wae and sad Fair Annie sat,
   And drearie was her sang,
And ever, as she sobbd and grat,
   “Wae to the man that did the wrang!”

“My gown is on,” said the new-come bride,
   “My shoes are on my feet,
And I will to Fair Annie’s chamber,
   And see what gars her greet.

“What ails ye, what ails ye, Fair Annie,
   That ye make sic a moan?
Has your wine-barrels cast the girds,
   Or is your white bread gone?

“The Earl of Wemyss was my father,
   The Countess of Wemyss my mother;
And a’ the folk about the house
   To me were sister and brother.”

“If the Earl of Wemyss was your father,
   I wot sae was he mine;
And it shall not be for lack o gowd
   That ye your love sall fyne.

“For I have seven ships o mine ain,
   A’ loaded to the brim,
And I will gie them a’ to thee
   Wi four to thine eldest son:
But thanks to a’ the powers in heaven
   That I gae maiden hame!”

(Child, Part III.  Early Edition.)

Late at e’en, drinking the wine,
   And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
   To fight it in the dawing.

“Oh, stay at hame, my noble lord,
   Oh, stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray
   On the dowie houms of Yarrow.”

“Oh, fare ye weel, my ladye gaye!
   Oh, fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, though I ne’er return,
   Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.”

She kiss’d his cheek, she kaim’d his hair,
   As oft she had done before, O;
She belted him with his noble brand,
   And he’s away to Yarrow.

As he gaed up the Tennies bank,
   I wot he gaed wi’ sorrow,
Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm’d men,
   On the dowie houms of Yarrow.

“Oh, come ye here to part your land,
   The bonnie Forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand,
   On the dowie houms of Yarrow?”

“If I see all, ye’re nine to ane;
   An that’s an unequal marrow:
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,
   On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.”

Four has he hurt, and five has slain,
   On the bloody braes of Yarrow;
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
   And ran his body thorough.

“Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John,
   And tell your sister Sarah,
To come and lift her leafu’ lord;
   He’s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.”

“Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream;
   I fear there will be sorrow!
I dream’d I pu’d the heather green,
   Wi’ my true love, on Yarrow.

“O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
   From where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
   And tell me how he fareth!

“But in the glen strive armed men;
   They’ve wrought me dole and sorrow;
They’ve slain—the comeliest knight they’ve slain—
   He bleeding lies on Yarrow.”

As she sped down yon high, high hill,
   She gaed wi’ dole and sorrow,
And in the den spied ten slain men,
   On the dowie banks of Yarrow.

“Now, haud your tongue, my daughter dear!
   For a’ this breeds but sorrow;
I’ll wed ye to a better lord
   Than him ye lost on Yarrow.”

“Oh, haud your tongue, my father dear!
   Ye mind me but of sorrow:
A fairer rose did never bloom
   Than now lies cropp’d on Yarrow.”