Ballads from the Danish and Original Verses

Lo now, I bid you, my merry men all,
Put your armour on,[A]
Bind on your helms of the burning gold,
And follow Sir John!

Sir Peter rides home from the Thing so fleet,
(Put your armour on),
Little Kirstin comes forth her father to greet—
And ask after John.

“Welcome, dear father, home from the Thing!
(Put your armour on)
Say now, what tidings hast thou to bring?”
What news of Sir John?

“This is the news that I bring to thee—
(Put your armour on),
That young Sir Lovel thy bridegroom shall be,
And not Sir John.”

“If young Sir Lovel my bridegroom shall be
(Put your armour on),
Sorrow and care he shall have with me.”
Oh fickle Sir John!

Sir Lovel he rides to his bridal bright;
(Put your armour on)—
Sir John has saddled his war-horse white—
“I go too,” says John.

Sir John he rode to the blithe bridàle
(Put your armour on)
High on his horse, in his coat of mail.
“I’m coming,” said John.

The bride she busked her, so runs the rime
(Put your armour on),
As the bells were ringing a merry chime—
“I’m ready,” said John.

Down to the kirk-door came the bride,
(Put your armour on)—
And bold Sir John was close at her side—
“I’m first,” said John.

He lifted her up on his war-horse white
(Put your armour on)—
“I wish Sir Lovel a gay good-night!”
All from Sir John.

When dawn is red, and the small birds sing
(Put your armour on),
Sir Lovel has ridden to seek the king.
“I go too,” says John.

“My liege, my liege, an thou wilt hear
(Put your armour on),
I’ve a tale of wrong for thy gracious ear!”
“’Tis of me,” said John.

“Yest’re’en it was my bridal gay
(Put your armour on),
But another knight bore the bride away.”
“’Twas I,” said John.

“Since to ye both the maid is so dear
(Put your armour on),
Lo! for her love ye shall break a spear.”
“I shall win,” said John.

The first course that they rode together
(Put your armour on),
Sir Lovel he broke his stirrup-leather.
“Hold up,” said John.

But when they ran the second course
(Put your armour on),
Dead fell Sir Lovel, hurled from his horse—
“Lie there!” said John.

The bride clapped her hands to see the show
(Put your armour on)—
“Ha! ha! for the wolf and the carrion-crow!”
So he won, Sir John.

Bind on your helms of the burning gold,
And follow Sir John!

[A] Lit. Be ye well boun

RIME OF THE DEAD LOVER

Three maidens sat in a bower,
Two broidered with gold—
The third she wept her lover
Under darksome mould.
(For she loved the knight so truly.)

It was the knight Sir Aager
Rode in his own countrie;
He loved the lady Elsa,
So fair was she.

He wooed the lady Elsa
With gifts and gold—
On Monday thereafter
Lay he i’ the mould.

She wrung her hands, fair Elsa,
With wellaway—
That heard the knight Sir Aager
Low where he lay.

Up stood the knight Sir Aager,
His coffin took amain,
And forth he fared to his true-love’s bower
With mickle pain.

There knocked he with his coffin—
No sword had he—
“Stand up, thou Lady Elsa!
Open to me!”

Then spake the lady Elsa,
With tears spake she:
“Canst thou name our Saviour
I’ll open to thee.”

“Stand up, thou lady Elsa!
Open thy door!
For I can name our Saviour
As I could before.”

Up stood she, lady Elsa,
With drearihead—
Straight opened she her bower door,
Let in the dead.

She took her golden comb
To comb his hair—
For every lock she ordered
Down fell a tear.

“Hear, thou knight Sir Aager,
Liefest love o’ mine!
How is it under darksome earth
In grave of thine?”

“So is it in the darksome earth
In my low bed,
As up in holy heaven,
Where all are glad.”

“Hear, thou knight Sir Aager,
Liefest love and dear!
Down with thee in darksome earth
Fain would I fare.”

“So is it in the darksome earth
Down where I dwell,
As it is grim and ghastly
In blackest hell.

“For every tear thou weepest
In woeful mood,
Into my coffin falls a drop
Of thy heart’s blood.

“Up above mine head
The green grass grows;
Down beside my feet
The wild worm goes.

“When thy mood is merry,
For each word said,
Out of my grave there springeth up
Roses red.

“I hear the red cock crowing
I’ the mirk so grey,
And all the doors are opening—
I must away.

“I hear the black cock crowing
In the farm-stead—
And I must to the kirkyard
With all the dead.”

Up stood the knight Sir Aager,
His coffin took again:
He went his way to the kirkyard
With mickle pain.

Up she rose, proud Elsa,
Sad was her mood—
She followed him, her own true love,
To the dark wood.

When through the wood they wended
To kirkyard fair,
Wan it grew and faded,
His goodly golden hair.

“Behold thou up in heaven
The stars so bright!
There mayst thou see so soothly
How goes the night.”

She saw them up in heaven,
The stars so fair;
Down in the earth the dead man sank
Ere she was ’ware.

Home went the lady Elsa,
With care so cold—
On Monday thereafter
Lay she i’ the mould.

For she loved the knight so truly.

ORIGINAL VERSES

THE KING’S HUNTING

The king has busked him forth to ride
All on his steed so brown—
He’s halted him by the standing stone
To see the sun sink down.

And is it the moan of the mourning pine
Doth in his ear complain?
The wizened bough of the lean thorn-tree
That clutches his bridle-rein?

He looks, and knows the grisly witch
That wears the grey wolf-skin—
“Ruth, ruth, oh king, on the deadly wrong
That’s wrought thy realm within!

“Thou hast taken a wife of alien life
From far beyond the sea;
And she’s brought in a foreign faith
To flout thy gods and thee.

“The kirk-bell rings, the pale priest sings,
By thorpe and tower and town—
The black rood stands with arms spread wide
Where of old the blood ran down.

“The carven stone stands drear and lone—
And the old gods in their pain
Rave high and wail in the winter gale
And sob in the running rain.

“Harken and hear—for I crouched this eve
Where thistle and dock grow tall,
And I saw her steal from the postern-gate
And creep by the palace-wall.

“She’s off and away to the lonely kirk
To keep a cursèd tryst;
She’s taken thy son, to be bound for aye
A slave to the wan White Christ.”

The king he rides by holt and heath,
The witch goes on before,
By the carven stone on the moorland lone
Where the blood ran down of yore.

Oh, wan was the glint of the misty moon
In the brimming burn, and shrill
The wind it wailed in the lean thorn-trees
That crouch upon the hill.

“The font is dight, the taper bright,
I hear the sound of prayer—
Lest I be banned with bell and book
I dare not enter there.”

All lily-white the fair queen stood—
In strode the angry king—
“Thy God is thine, but my son is mine,
And I will not have this thing!”

White as a lily-flower, the queen
Fell down upon her knee—
“Have pity, have pity, thou cruel king,
On the souls of mine and me!”

The pale priest stood before the rood,
His look was proud and grim—
“Stand back, unshriven! the King of Heaven
Doth claim the babe for Him!”

Most like the wail of a winter gale
The grisly witch laughed loud—
“The christening-robes are white enow
To serve as a goodly shroud!”

She’s witched his arm, she’s witched his heart,
She’s witched his blade so true,
She’s cast the glamour o’er his eyes,
The deadly deed to do.

The king, he drew his trusty brand,
And clove him to the chin—
“Short shrift at least is thine, proud priest,
Thy God His grace to win!”

Alas! alas! for the bloody chrism
The king’s son got that day!
For the queen fell down at the self-same stroke
Nor turned not where she lay.

He’s seized his young son in his arms,
And busked his steed to flee;
Like a crooked shadow the grisly witch
Runs ever beside his knee.

With laughter shrill she’s by him still
While the misty moon grows dim—
Ere he can cross the running burn
She’s reft the babe from him.

Where the priests of eld high worship held
The witch-wife laughs alone;
“The babe she bore shall learn my lore,
And dance by the carven stone!”

The tapers’ light is quenched in night—
Hushed is the holy bell—
The pale priest’s blood is on the rood—
The old gods have their will.
. . . .

Now on a day when years are gone
The knights they rise apace—
For the sound of the horn in the dim red morn
Has called them to the chase.

The gaunt grey wolf-hounds growl and grin,
And the king is at their head—
His face is white in the breaking light
As the face of one new-dead;

His voice is hollow as one that cries
In a dreary vault of stone;
And, on thin lips, his smile is grim,
For the trampled branches sound to him
Like the cracking of bare-bleached bone.

Ho, holla-ho! the game’s afoot!
He breaks for the open moor!
But hearts grow chill, as the pack cries shrill,
That ne’er felt fear before.

The horses sweat, they plunge and fret,
Tho’ the spur with blood drop fast—
Each man looks on his fellow’s face,
And sees it all aghast—

Aghast and pale, he knows not why—
But the king’s is red with wrath—
“How now, my masters! Shake like babes
To follow the grey wolfs path?”

And none spake word but the eldest lord:
“God shield us from the chase!
For the quarry crossed me as he ran,
And the eyes I saw were the eyes of a man,
Tho’ they looked from a grey wolfs face.”

Loud laughed the king; “A fitting tale
For doting age to tell!
Who lists turn back, but I follow the track
Tho’ it lead to the fires of hell.”

The king doth force his restless horse
Till like the deer he bounds,
Like a flying breath, o’er the windy heath
Behind the calling hounds.

The knightly train spur on amain
As fast as they may flee—
And two are down by the broken bank,
And one by the fallen tree.

Their shadows run in the wan low sun,
Like ghosts they flit beside—
And one is down where the snow lies late,
And two where the marsh is wide.

“Stay, stay, oh king! of all thy train
Alone I am left to follow!”
But the wind beat back the labouring breath
That rattled hoarse and hollow.

In the fearful flight each gallant knight
Lies cold, a broken corse;
By two, by one, the hounds drop dead;
But the king checks not, nor turns his head,
Nor curbs his foaming horse.

Among the lines of the sombre pines
He rides o’er moss and mire;
And lo! their boughs as a brooding smoke,
Their stems as a burning fire!

And had the red sun scorched his sight
Ere he entered the lonely wood?
For he saw in the air but a shifting glare
Like a floating pool of blood.

And was it but the sighing bough
That whispered in his ear
A boding thought, an evil breath?—
Till he could not tell for fear
Whether a fiend spake in his soul,
Or a voice spake in his ear.

In the heart of the wood, a darksome den
Where the lightning-blasted tree
Gleamed in the gloom like whitened bones,
He saw the quarry flee,

With lolling tongue and foaming jaws,
With faint and faltering pace,
And eyes like the eyes of a soul in pain,
Tho’ they looked from a grey wolf’s face.

Lo! with the crash of a falling tree,
The gallant steed drops dead!
But he loosed his foot from the stirrup-iron,
And fast and far he fled.

Thro’ grey twilight, thro’ falling night
Rang the tireless steps and fleet,
And the throb of his heart kept feverish time
To the falling of his feet.

Oh, thick and tall by the lone kirk-wall
Grew thistle and broom and bent;
The holy bell lay where it fell,
And the walls were riven and rent.

Like a fair white shroud on the altar-stone
Lay the late-lingering snow,
And in the window towards the east
The waning moon hung low.

Now, when the beast had reached the kirk,
It moaned like one in pain,
And swerved, but the hunter cried behind,
And drove it on again.

But when it came to the altar-stone,
It started, and leapt, and fell—
And the shout of the king as he gripped its throat
Mixed with its dying yell.

And lo! some evil ban was loosed
By the power of the holy place—
And the glazing eyes with ghastly gleam
Glared from a dead man’s face!

Black as a pall did darkness fall
As the moon hid in a cloud—
And still lay the king by that nameless thing,
Nor knew that he cried aloud,

Till the white face glimmered thro’ the gloom
As the moon stole out again;
When he dashed from his eyes the reeking blood
And stared upon the slain.

And who may tell, save those of hell,
Of the horror cold and grim
That he felt, who saw in that mirk midnight
His own face look at him?

His own dead face, with the haunting eyes
Of the wife his youth had won?
Woe, woe! in the were-wolf’s grisly guise,
Oh king, thou hast slain thy son!

BALLAD OF SIR HERLUIN

This is the rime of Sir Herluin,
A knight both true and tried,
Who rode from the fray at close of day
With a spear-thrust in his side.

“The Bread and Wine of the Feast Divine
Are all the food I crave:
And in all the land, six feet of sand,
To serve me for a grave.

“How oft, how blithe along the moor,
I’ve rid to the bugle’s sound!
But to-night ’tis I am the hunted deer
And Death the hateful hound,

“That followeth ever, pace by pace—
And Satan the hunter fell
That drives me down to the yawning grave,
And the burning flames of hell.”

Oh, he rode on, and on he rode
By heather and pine and birk,
By moss and moor, till he lighted down
All at the lonely kirk.

He stopped nor stayed where the dead were laid
In purple and in pall,
But he sought a mound at the wall’s far bound,
Where thistle and dock grew tall.

He hid his brow amid the grass,
And the words he spake were three:
“Oh, sweet Marg’ret, oh, dear Marg’ret,
Wake, wake, and speak to me!”

’Twas when the waning moon rose up,
And night waxed chill and cold,
That he heard a murmur from the grave
And a low voice from the mould.

Most like the moan of a mourning wind
That voice did speak and say:
“I had thought to lie in the kindly earth
Asleep till Judgment Day,

“With heart so still, and closèd eyne,
And hands across my breast—
There’s never a voice in the world but thine
Could call me from my rest.”

’Twas at the hour before the dawn,
When hushed was every sound,
That the dead corpse stirred within the grave,
And rose up out o’ the ground—

Rose up, and stood in the wan moonlight
All in her winding-sheet—
Sir Herluin, he hid his face,
And lay still at her feet.

“Oh Herluin! oh Herluin!
Didst hold my heart in fee—
And the grave’s not deep nor wide enough
To sunder me and thee.”

“Margaret, oh Margaret!
Can love be strong as death?”
“Love breaks not with the broken heart,
Nor flies with the fleeting breath.”

“Ah, love! The pain I cost thee
Was a bitter pain and fell;
And, but thou canst forgive it me,
’Twill hale my soul to hell.”

She kissed him where his brow was marked
With the bitter brand of dole—
“Herluin, oh Herluin!
God’s peace upon thy soul!

“Now lay thee down, oh Herluin,
And sleep i’ the kindly mould—
He rests full well whose heart is still,
Whose burning brow is cold.

“And sleep thou sound, oh Herluin,
Amid the song o’ the stream!
For I have heard a secret word
From an angel, in a dream.

“And I swear to thee by the ring of gold,
And I swear by cross and pall,
And I swear to thee by my broken heart,
That love is lord of all.”

This is the rime of Sir Herluin,
Who sleeps where he lay and died—
With a whin at his head, and a whin at his feet,
And the lean sand for a winding-sheet,
And a mourning pine beside.

BOTHWELL’S SOOTHSAYING

Oh, the goodwives they go out and in,
And gossip beside the well;
But the witless wife, she fares alone,
With never a tale to tell.

Oh, the goodwives go to the holy kirk,
And bow their knees to pray;
But the witless wife, she steeks her door,
And keeps no holy-day.

Oh, the lasses and lads run up and down,
Their gleeful games to tread,
And they fleer and flout at the witless wife
That goes with a shaking head.

But when she turns on them, lasses and lads,
They take to their heels and flee,
For they fear the curse of the witless wife
And the look of her blinking e’e.

When the owlet shrill called from the hill,
And night was dark and deep,
One came and knocked at her cottage door
And roused her from her sleep.

“Oh, the clink I hear of a gallant’s gear,
And the tread of steelèd shoon!
And he that knocks at my door so late
Is neither knave nor loon!”

“Come forth, come forth, thou witless wife,
And earn a goodly wage!
There’s a rune to read, and a spell to speed,
In the hold of Hermitage!”

“Now nay, now nay, thou black Bothwèll!
I dare not for deadly sin!
There’s a heavy spell on that cursed cell
That none may enter in.”

“Oh, the walls are rent, and the roof is riven,
And gone is the sealing stone;
And the night is deep, and all men sleep,
Save thou and I alone.”

“There’s an echo aloof in the riven roof
Of grisly grammarye!
And one that doth sleep where the dust lies deep
That brooks not a mortal’s eye!”

Black, black, I ween, grew Bothwell’s mien;
“If thou dost not my will
Thine ending shall be a nine-days’ tale
To the crowd on the Castle Hill!

“Faggot and fire, a goodly pyre,
Shall pay the witch her fee!
The leaping lowe shall send a glow
To the ships far out at sea!”

The witch-wife goes with shaking head—
Black Bothwell goes before—
To the secret cell where a heavy spell
Was laid by a lord of yore.

No light was there in earth or air,
No light in all the land,
Save the red torch, like an evil eye,
That glimmered in his hand.

When the owlet shrill called from the hill,
And all men were asleep,
Slow did they fare by the broken stair,
And down to the dungeon deep.

There was nought to see in the doleful vault
Save the mould and the mildew green—
But the hair stood up on Bothwell’s head
As he and the witch went in.

Oh, deep and still was the secret cell—
There was never a sound to hear
Save the echo aloof in the riven roof—
But his knees were loosed for fear.

Oh, thrice she bent, and thrice she bowed,
As she muttered the secret spell—
The grisly lore they learned of yore
That loosens the fiends of hell.

She rose on her feet, and she stood upright,
And high she reared her head;
Oh, her face was wan to look upon
As the face of one that’s dead.

And like the dead, in the torchlight red,
Her eyes were bleared and dim,
And her lips were still, yet ghostly shrill
The voice came forth from them.

Like an echo aloof in the riven roof
The eldritch voice made moan—
“Alas for my sleep in the dust so deep!
Alas for the sealing stone!”

“Now heed, now hark, thou spirit dark,
And look thou tell me true.
Say, is it meet, for a lady sweet,
A philtre fine to brew?”

“No philtre fine she needs o’ mine
To turn her heart to thee—
Thou hast set the spell on her thysel
With the glint o’ thy bold black e’e!”

“Dost see her dight in bridal white,
In satin of shimmering fold?
Does she go like a queen, amid the sheen
Of gems, and the red, red gold?”

“I see her dight in lily-white,
But not for the bridal-day—
And the red round the neck of that shimmer sark
Is not of the gold so gay!

“Oh, pay the fee that’s due to me,
The precious price of sin,
That I may dig a grave, a grave,
And lay me down therein!”

“Now hark, now heed! if thou indeed
Dost bend her to my will,
Thou shalt ask what fee thou wilt of me
And take it to thy fill.”

“Oh, a fearful fee I ask of thee,
And a bitter from thy bride—
For pay she must in her people’s trust
In pomp and place and pride.

“The hue so fair of bonnie brown hair—
The glint of gladsome e’e—
And lightsome step, and pride of youth,
She must pay for the love of thee!

“And as for thee, thou shalt know my fee
And curse me, in that day
When thou stretchest thine arms o’er the wan water
To the land that’s far away.”

His laughter rang in the riven roof—
“I shall not pale nor pine!
Each dog, they say, must have its day,
And shall I not have mine?”

He’s up and out of the doleful vault,
In the misty dawn so dim
That glimmers pale on his coat of mail—
And the witch steals after him.

Oh, her look is cowed, and her back is bowed,
And tottering is her tread—
And she’s but a witless wife again
That goes with a shaking head.

The queen sits wan in Jethart town
Beside her Maries three—
“Alas! for the wish I dare not name
Betwixt my heart and me!

“There’s a merry bird in the garden green
That lilts the livelong day;
And aye the ower-word of his song
Is the name I must not say!

“Oh, pride of youth, and high heart’s truth,
Were all too light a fee,
And the bitter tears of years on years,
To win his heart to me!”

The queen has mounted her palfry white,
And called her trusty page—
And she’s away o’er moss and moor
To the hold of Hermitage!

Note.—The vault referred to in this ballad is that beneath the castle of Hermitage in which the “Wicked Lord Soulis” practised his sorceries—the custody of which, at his execution, he committed to Redcap, his familiar demon. By the time (some three centuries later) that Bothwell, as Warden of the Marches, took up residence at Hermitage, I have ventured to suppose that the vault (always looked on with horror) might have become ruinous.

THE RIDING OF THE SHEE [B]

A BALLAD OF PRINCE CHARLIE
September 1745

They’ve stabled their steeds where the heather grows high
And the deer has ranging-room;
The prince has laid him down to rest
All under a bush of broom.

There was a breeze in the whispering fern,
And a star that danced in the stream,
When the Men of Peace came riding by
Betwixt a dream and a dream.

In mantle of green, on coal-black steed,
They passed, and he saw them plain;
Out of the mist or ever he wist,
And into the mist again.

(’Twixt Beltane fire and Hallow-e’en
Men that have sight may
The hosts who pass, nor stir the grass—
The riding of the Shee.)

“In the fields where never the dawn grows old
There’s a place of refuge still
From the weary strife of death and life,
The strife of good and ill.

“And this you shall have for a golden crown,
And this for a place of pride—
The star that shines where the sun goes down,
The peace where the hills spread wide.

“You shall have, for the clamour of men, the call
Of the free wind in your ears;
You shall have the stainless well-water
For the burning of salt, salt tears.

“Our saying for you is sooth and sad—
For the troth wherein you trust,
Yea, the shining sword, and the plighted word,
Are ashes, and dross, and dust.

“And this you shall have if you will not heed—
A road with never an end,
A bitter smart, and a broken heart,
And Death for your kindest friend.

“This you shall have as a sorrow in sleep—
A sigh that shall never be still—
The song of the burn in Scotland’s fern,
The cry of the horn on the hill.

“This shall be yours as a waking woe
That shall tear your heart in twain—
The faith forlorn, and the losing love
Of those that have hoped in vain.”

The prince he started in his sleep,
And spoke like one in mirth:
“Oh, dearer to me than fairy dreams
The chances and cheer of earth!

“This I will have—the fate of a man,
With my sword to be my friend,
And burning life, and love, and strife,
And Death to make an end.”

There was a cloud o’er the waning moon,
And never a stir in the grass,
When the Men of Peace rode over the hill,
And passed as the shadows pass.

“Out of the mist whenever we list,
And into the mist once more!
Oh, it’s hand to hilt, and the doomed to die,
As ever it was of yore!

“Oh, the Rose will soon be sere and sad
Beneath the winter rain!
Not all the blood in broad Scotlànd
Can make it bloom again.”