[B] Gaelic Duione Sidhe (shee) = fairy-folk.

BALLAD OF LONDON TOWN

A SONG OF THE FORTY-FIVE

Oh, London is a bonnie town
 Whose streets are paved with gold;
 And out o’ the North my friends came forth
 That gift to have and hold.
There was one who rode before us a’
 From Perth to Preston town,
 Wi’ winsome word and shining sword,
 To gain a golden crown.
Oh, his head was high, and his gallant brow
 Was blithe as a merry morn—
 But a’ we won for his father’s son
 Was a crown o’ piercing thorn.
The Chief led forth his Hielandmen
 Wi’ pipes a’ sounding shrill—
 And the gift he got was the grisly axe,
 Red-wet on Tower Hill.
Oh, I came forth fra’ the naked North
 Wi’ lord and loon and laird—
 And a’ the gold they gave to me
 Was the straw in Newgate yard.
The sun comes glinting thro’ the reek
 And gilds my galling chain;
 Oh, our lives are sold for fairy-gold,
 And glamour is a’ our gain!
Oh, I’d give my heart fra’ out of my breast,
 Or the fell fra’ my flesh, to see
 One little star of a’ the stars
 That shine on mine own countrie!
The wheels they groan on the paving stone—
 And I dream that their dreary din
 Is the song o’ the burn afar in the fern,
 Or the wind that wails in the whin.
Oh, the rat to his hole, and the bird to his nest,
 And the deer to the hills so free!—
 But I that drew sword at my king’s own word
 Must hang on a gallows-tree!

BALLAD OF THE TRAITOR’S HEAD

(1746)

Wasted and wan, under sun and star,
 Stares the head of the traitor on Temple Bar.
Sere are his sunken cheeks, and grim
 Is the leering laugh on the lips of him.
The lights are out; the silent street
 Echoes to the watchman’s feet.
Ho, cold comrade! sure the time
 Passes slow till morning-chime.
There are none but we that watch so late,
 I in my garret, thou on thy gate.
Hast forgot the trick of speech?
 Let’s hold converse, each with each—
For I see you, methinks, awake and aware,
 Now the wind from the north blows thro’ your hair.
Oh, he fares so far ere he blows on me,
 He can bring no word from mine own countrie.
Lithe now and listen, and tell me true,
 What are the world and its ways to you?
Do you not grudge when the men pass by?
 I shudder to think that such was I!
They fleer and they flout as they gaze on me—
 The traitor that died on the gallows-tree!
What is it to you when the ladies pass?
 You’d an eye, methinks, for a pretty lass.
What are they now to me, handsome and kind?
 Red rose-leaves blowing down the wind.
They shudder and shrink when they gaze on me—
 The traitor that died on the gallows-tree!
What do you hear in the running rain?
 Ten thousand tears all shed in vain.
What do you read in the misty moon?
 Loss of love, and sorrows’ swoon.
What is your dream in the driving dust?
 Of bodies that bleach and swords that rust.
What do you feel when the hailstones rattle?
 Spent shot, and the brunt of battle.
Oh, what do you say when the sun sinks down
 Behind the spires of London town?
The last red gleam, as he fails forlorn,
 Is the drooping fag of a cause outworn.
What do you see when the stars shine bright,
 Serried and still, in the vast o’ the night,
Above the wind as he wandereth?
 The souls of the brave that have done with death!
Lords and ladies, fair and fine,
 None of you see with these eyes of mine!
Prince and peer and potentate,
 Never a man of you keeps my state!
Mockers that mock and cowards that crawl,
 I have the laugh of you, one and all!
For fear and fraud, and lies and lust,
 I doffed them all with the doleful dust,
And Death must bonnet his head to me—
 The traitor that died on the gallows-tree!

Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.