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TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie1 he spied wi’ his e’e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett2 o’ her horse’s mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu’d aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee:
‘Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be.’
‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said,
‘That name does not belang to me;
I’m but the Queen o’ fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
‘Harp and carp,3 Thomas,’ she said;
‘Harp and carp along wi’ me;
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be.’
‘Betide me weal, betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunten me.’
Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
‘Now ye maun go wi’ me,’ she said,
‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi’ me;
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro’ weal or woe as may chance to be.’
She’s mounted on her milk-white steed,
She’s ta’en true Thomas up behind;
And aye, whene’er her bridle rang,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind;
Until they reach’d a desert wide,
And living land was left behind.
‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide ye there a little space,
And I will show you ferlies three.
‘O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers?
That is the Path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.
‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
That lies across the lily leven?4
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
‘And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the Road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.
‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;
For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,
Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’
O they rade on, and farther on,
And they waded rivers abune the knee;
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,
They waded thro’ red blude to the knee;
For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earth
Rins through the springs o’ that countrie.
Syne they came to a garden green,
And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:
‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;
It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’
‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said;
‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!
I neither dought5 to buy or sell
At fair or tryst where I might be.
‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer,
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’—
‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said,
‘For as I say, so must it be.’
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green;
And till seven years were gane and past,
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
3 harp and carp: play and recite (as a minstrel).
‘O I forbid you, maidens a’,II
That wear gowd on your hair,
To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.
‘For even about that knight’s middleIII
O’ siller bells are nine;
And nae maid comes to Carterhaugh
And a maid returns again.’
Fair Janet sat in her bonny bower,IV
Sewing her silken seam,
And wish’d to be in Carterhaugh
Amang the leaves sae green.
She’s lat her seam fa’ to her feet,V
The needle to her tae,1
And she’s awa’ to Carterhaugh
As fast as she could gae.
And she has kilted her green kirtleVI
A little abune her knee;
And she has braided her yellow hair
A little abune her bree;2
And she has gaen for Carterhaugh
As fast as she can hie.
She hadna pu’d a rose, a rose,VII
A rose but barely ane,
When up and started young Tam Lin;
Says, ‘Ladye, let alane.
‘What gars ye pu’ the rose, Janet?VIII
What gars ye break the tree?
What gars ye come to Carterhaugh
Without the leave o’ me?’
‘Weel may I pu’ the rose,’ she says,IX
‘And ask no leave at thee;
For Carterhaugh it is my ain,
My daddy gave it me.’
He’s ta’en her by the milk-white hand,X
And by the grass-green sleeve,
He’s led her to the fairy ground
At her he ask’d nae leave.
Janet has kilted her green kirtleXI
A little abune her knee,
And she has snooded her yellow hair
A little abune her bree,
And she is to her father’s ha’
As fast as she can hie.
But when she came to her father’s ha’,XII
She look’d sae wan and pale,
They thought the lady had gotten a fright,
Or with sickness she did ail.
Four and twenty ladies fairXIII
Were playing at the ba’,
And out then came fair Janet
Ance the flower amang them a’.
Four and twenty ladies fairXIV
Were playing at the chess,
And out then came fair Janet
As green as onie glass.
Out then spak’ an auld grey knightXV
Lay owre the Castle wa’,
And says, ‘Alas, fair Janet!
For thee we’ll be blamàed a’.’
‘Hauld your tongue, ye auld-faced knight,XVI
Some ill death may ye die!
Father my bairn on whom I will,
I’ll father nane on thee.
‘O if my love were an earthly knight,XVII
As he is an elfin gay,
I wadna gie my ain true-love
For nae laird that ye hae.
‘The steed that my true-love rides onXVIII
Is fleeter nor the wind;
Wi’ siller he is shod before,
Wi’ burning gold behind.’
Out then spak’ her brither dear—XIX
He meant to do her harm:
‘There grows an herb in Carterhaugh
Will twine3 you an’ the bairn.’
Janet has kilted her green kirtleXX
A little abune her knee,
And she has snooded her yellow hair
A little abune her bree,
And she’s awa’ to Carterhaugh
As fast as she can hie.
She hadna pu’d a leaf, a leaf,XXI
A leaf but only twae,
When up and started young Tam Lin,
Says, ‘Ladye, thou’s pu’ nae mae.
‘How dar’ ye pu’ a leaf?’ he says,XXII
‘How dar’ ye break the tree?
How dar’ ye scathe4 my babe,’ he says,
‘That’s between you and me?’
‘O tell me, tell me, Tam,’ she says,XXIII
‘For His sake that died on tree,
If ye were ever in holy chapel
Or sain’d5 in Christentie?’
‘The truth I’ll tell to thee, Janet,XXIV
Ae word I winna lee;
A knight me got, and a lady me bore,
As well as they did thee.
‘Roxburgh he was my grandfather,XXV
Took me with him to bide;
And ance it fell upon a day,
As hunting I did ride,
‘There came a wind out o’ the north,XXVI
A sharp wind an’ a snell,6
A dead sleep it came over me
And frae my horse I fell;
And the Queen o’ Fairies she took me
In yon green hill to dwell.
‘And pleasant is the fairy landXXVII
For those that in it dwell,
But ay at end of seven years
They pay a teind7 to hell;
I am sae fair and fu’ o’ flesh
I’m fear’d ’twill be mysell.
‘But the night is Hallowe’en, Janet,XXVIII
The morn is Hallowday;
Then win me, win me, an ye will,
For weel I wat ye may.
‘The night it is gude Hallowe’en,XXIX
The fairy folk do ride,
And they that wad their true-love win,
At Miles Cross they maun bide.’—
‘But how should I you ken, Tam Lin,XXX
How should I borrow8 you,
Amang a pack of uncouth9 knights
The like I never saw?’—
‘You’ll do you down to Miles CrossXXXI
Between twel’ hours and ane,
And fill your hands o’ the holy water
And cast your compass roun’.
‘The first company that passes by,XXXII
Say na, and let them gae;
The neist company that passes by,
Say na, and do right sae;
The third company that passes by,
Then I’ll be ane o’ thae.
‘O first let pass the black, ladye,XXXIII
And syne let pass the brown;
But quickly run to the milk-white steed,
Pu’ye his rider down.
‘For some ride on the black, ladye,XXXIV
And some ride on the brown;
But I ride on a milk-white steed,
A gowd star on my crown:
Because I was an earthly knight
They gie me that renown.
‘My right hand will be gloved, ladye,XXXV
My left hand will be bare,
And thae’s the tokens I gie thee:
Nae doubt I will be there.
‘Ye’ll tak’ my horse then by the headXXXVI
And let the bridle fa’;
The Queen o’ Elfin she’ll cry out
‘‘True Tam Lin he’s awa’!’’
‘They’ll turn me in your arms, ladye,XXXVII
An aske10 but and a snake;
But hauld me fast, let me na gae,
To be your warldis make.11
‘They’ll turn me in your arms, ladye,XXXVIII
But and a deer so wild;
But hauld me fast, let me na gae,
The father o’ your child.
‘They’ll shape me in your arms, ladye,XXXIX
A hot iron at the fire;
But hauld me fast, let me na gae,
To be your heart’s desire.
‘They’ll shape me last in your arms, Janet,XL
A mother-naked man;
Cast your green mantle over me,
And sae will I be won.’
Janet has kilted her green kirtleXLI
A little abune the knee;
And she has snooded her yellow hair
A little abune her bree,
And she is on to Miles Cross
As fast as she can hie.
About the dead hour o’ the nightXLII
She heard the bridles ring;
And Janet was as glad at that
As any earthly thing.
And first gaed by the black, black steed,XLIII
And syne gaed by the brown;
But fast she gript the milk-white steed
And pu’d the rider down.
She’s pu’d him frae the milk-white steed,XLIV
An’ loot12 the bridle fa’,
And up there rase an eldritch13 cry,
‘True Tam Lin he’s awa’!’
They shaped him in her arms twaXLV
An aske but and a snake;
But aye she grips and hau’ds him fast
To be her warldis make.
They shaped him in her arms twaXLVI
But and a deer sae wild;
But aye she grips and hau’ds him fast,
The father o’ her child.
They shaped him in her arms twaXLVII
A hot iron at the fire;
But aye she grips and hau’ds him fast
To be her heart’s desire.
They shaped him in her arms at lastXLVIII
A mother-naked man;
She cast her mantle over him,
And sae her love she wan.
Up then spak’ the Queen o’ Fairies,XLIX
Out o’ a bush o’ broom,
‘She that has borrow’d young Tam Lin
Has gotten a stately groom.’
Out then spak’ the Queen o’ Fairies,L
And an angry woman was she,
‘She’s ta’en awa’ the bonniest knight
In a’ my companie!
‘But what I ken this night, Tam Lin,LI
Gin I had kent yestreen,
I wad ta’en out thy heart o’ flesh,
And put in a heart o’ stane.
‘And adieu, Tam Lin! But gin I had kentLII
A ladye wad borrow’d thee,
I wad ta’en out thy twa grey e’en
Put in twa e’en o’ tree.14
‘And had I the wit yestreen, yestreen,
That I have coft15 this day,
I’d paid my teind seven times to hell
Ere you had been won away!’
I. The Sailing
THE king sits in Dunfermline town
Drinking the blude-red wine;
‘O whare will I get a skeely1 skipper
To sail this new ship o’ mine?’
O up and spak an eldern knight,
Sat at the king’s right knee;
‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sail’d the sea.’
Our king has written a braid letter,
And seal’d it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o’er the faem;
The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,
’Tis thou must bring her hame.’
The first word that Sir Patrick read
So loud, loud laugh’d he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read
The tear blinded his e’e.
‘O wha is this has done this deed
And tauld the king o’ me,
To send us out, at this time o’ year,
To sail upon the sea?
‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,
’Tis we must fetch her hame.’
They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn
Wi’ a’ the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.
II The Return
‘Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a’!
Our gude ship sails the morn.’
‘Now ever alack, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm.
‘I saw the new moon late yestreen
Wi’ the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we’ll come to harm.’
They hadna sail’d a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift2 grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,3
It was sic a deadly storm:
And the waves cam owre the broken ship
Till a’ her sides were torn.
‘Go fetch a web o’ the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,
And wap them into our ship’s side,
And let nae the sea come in.’
They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,
And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side,
But still the sea came in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To wet their cork-heel’d shoon!
But lang or a’ the play was play’d
They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather bed
That flatter’d4 on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord’s son
That never mair cam hame.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi’ their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi’ their gowd kames5 in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they’ll see nae mair.
Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
’Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!
LATE at een, drinkin’ the wine,
And ere they paid the lawin’,1
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawin’.
‘O stay at hame, my noble lord!
O stay at hame, my marrow!2
My cruel brother will you betray,
On the dowie3 houms4 o’ Yarrow.’
‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay!
O fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, tho’ I ne’er return
Frae the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’
She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As she had done before, O;
She belted on his noble brand,
An’ he’s awa to Yarrow.
O he’s gane up yon high, high hill—
I wat he gaed wi’ sorrow—
An’ in a den spied nine arm’d men,
I’ the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.
‘O are ye come to drink the wine,
As ye hae doon before, O?
Or are ye come to wield the brand,
On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow?’
‘I am no come to drink the wine,
As I hae don before, O,
But I am come to wield the brand,
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’
Four he hurt, an’ five he slew,
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow,
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
An’ ran his body thorrow.
‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,
An’ tell your sister Sarah
To come an’ lift her noble lord,
Who’s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.’
‘Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream;
I ken’d there wad be sorrow;
I dream’d I pu’d the heather green,
On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’
She gaed up yon high, high hill—
I wat she gaed wi’ sorrow—
An’ in a den spied nine dead men,
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.
She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As oft she did before, O;
She drank the red blood frae him ran,
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.
‘O haud your tongue, my douchter dear,
For what needs a’ this sorrow?
I’ll wed you on a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.’
‘O haud your tongue, my father dear,
An’ dinna grieve your Sarah;
A better lord was never born
Than him I lost on Yarrow.
‘Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye,
For they hae bred our sorrow;
I wiss that they had a’ gane mad
Whan they cam first to Yarrow.’
CLERK SAUNDERS and may Margaret
Walk’d owre yon garden green;
And deep 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!’
‘Then I’ll take the sword frae my scabbard
And slowly lift the pin;
And you may swear, and save your aith,
Ye ne’er let Clerk Saunders in.
‘Take you a napkin in your hand,
And tie up baith your bonnie 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:
When in and came her seven brothers,
Wi’ torches burning bright:
They said, ‘We hae but one sister,
And behold her lying with a knight!’
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 but 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 striped1 his bright brown brand
Out through Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye.
Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn’d
Into his arms as asleep she lay;
And sad and silent was the night
That was atween thir twae.
And they lay still and sleepit sound
Until the day began to daw’;
And kindly she to him did say,
‘It is time, true love, you were awa’.’
But he lay still, and sleepit sound,
Albeit the sun began to sheen;
She look’d atween her and the wa’,
And dull and drowsie were his e’en.
Then in and came her father dear;
Said, ‘Let a’ your mourning be;
I’ll carry the dead corse to the clay,
And I’ll come back and comfort thee.’
‘Comfort weel your seven sons,
For comforted I will 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, Marg’ret?’ 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,2
Until ye come within my bower,
And kiss me cheik and chin.’
‘My mouth it is full cold, Marg’ret;
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 sallna get,
And our true love sall never twin,
Until ye tell what comes o’ women,
I wot, who die in strong traivelling?’
‘Their beds are made in the heavens high,
Down at the foot of our good Lord’s knee,
Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers;
I wot, sweet company for to see.
‘O cocks are crowing a merry midnight;
I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
And I, ere now, will be miss’d away.’
Then she has taken a crystal wand,
And she has stroken her troth thereon;
She has given it him at the shot-window,
Wi’ mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.
‘I thank ye, Marg’ret; I thank ye, Marg’ret;
And ay I thank ye heartilie;
Gin ever the dead come for the quick,
Be sure, Marg’ret, I’ll come for thee.’
It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
She climb’d the wall, and follow’d 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?
Or 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 fu’ 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.
‘But plait a wand o’ bonny birk,
And lay it on my breast;
And shed a tear upon my grave,
And wish my saul gude rest.’
Then up and crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray:
‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ret,
That you were going away.
‘And fair Marg’ret, and rare Marg’ret,
And Marg’ret o’ veritie,
Gin e’er ye love another man,
Ne’er love him as ye did me.’
‘WHY does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
And why sae sad gang ye, O?’
‘O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
And I had nae mair but he, O.’
‘Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
Edward, Edward;
Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O.
‘O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
That erst was sae fair and free, O.’
‘Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
Some other dule ye dree,1 O.’
‘O I hae kill’d my father dear,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my father dear,
Alas, and wae is me, O!’
‘And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.’
‘I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mither, mither;
I’ll set my f eet in yonder boat,
And I’ll fare over the sea, O.’
‘And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
That were sae fair to see, O?’
‘I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
Mither, mither;
I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
For here never mair maun I be, O.’
‘And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
When ye gang owre the sea, O?’
‘The warld’s room: let them beg through life,
Mither, mither;
The warld’s room: let them beg through life;
For them never mair will I see, O.’
‘And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
My dear son, now tell me, O?’
‘The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
Mither, mither,
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:
Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!’
1 dule ye dree: grief you suffer.
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 listen’d 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 durstna 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.
O she has row’d1 it in her apron,
And set it on the sea—
‘Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe,
Ye’se get nae mair o’ me.’
Word is to the kitchen gane,
And word is to the ha’,
And word is to the noble room
Amang the ladies a’,
That Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed,
And the bonny babe’s miss’d and awa’.
Scarcely had she lain down again,
And scarcely fa’en asleep,
When up and started our gude Queen
Just at her bed-feet;
Saying—‘Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe?
For I am sure I heard it greet.2’
‘O no, O no, my noble Queen!
Think no sic 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 rase she up,
And slowly put she on;
And slowly rade 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.
‘Ride hooly, hooly,3 gentlemen,
Ride hooly now wi’ me!
For never, I am sure, a wearier burd
Rade in your companie.’—
But little wist Marie Hamilton,
When she rade on the brown,
That she was gaen to Edinburgh,
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 to see.’
When she gaed up the Tolbooth stairs,
The corks frae her heels did flee;
And lang or e’er she cam down again,
She was condemn’d to die.
When she cam to the Netherbow port,
She laugh’d loud laughters three;
But when she cam to the gallows foot
The tears blinded her e’e.
‘Yestreen the Queen had four Maries,
The night she’ll hae but three;
There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton,
And Marie Carmichael, and me.
‘O often have I dress’d my Queen
And put gowd upon her hair;
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
The gallows to be my share.
‘Often have I dress’d 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,
When ye sail owre the faem,
Let neither my father nor mother get wit
But that I’m coming hame.
‘I charge ye all, ye mariners,
That sail upon the sea,
That neither my father nor mother get wit
The 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!
THERE were twa sisters sat in a bour;
Binnorie, O Binnorie!
There cam a knight to be their wooer,
By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie.
He courted the eldest with glove and ring,
But he lo’ed the youngest abune a’ thing.
The eldest she was vexàed sair,
And sair envàied her sister fair.
Upon a morning fair and clear,
She cried upon her sister dear:
‘O sister, sister, tak my hand,
And let’s go down to the river-strand.’
She’s ta’en her by the lily hand,
And led her down to the river-strand.
The youngest stood upon a stane,
The eldest cam and push’d her in.
‘O sister, sister, reach your hand!
And ye sall be heir o’ half my land:
‘O sister, reach me but your glove!
And sweet William sall be your love.’
Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam,
Until she cam to the miller’s dam.
Out then cam the miller’s son,
And saw the fair maid soummin’1 in.
‘O father, father, draw your dam!
There’s either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.’
The miller hasted and drew his dam,
And there he found a drown’d womàan.
You couldna see her middle sma’,
Her gowden girdle was sae braw.
You couldna see her lily feet,
Her gowden fringes were sae deep.
All amang her yellow hair
A string o’ pearls was twisted rare.
You couldna see her fingers sma’,
Wi’ diamond rings they were cover’d a’.
And by there cam a harper fine,
That harpit to the king at dine.
And when he look’d that lady on,
He sigh’d and made a heavy moan.
He’s made a harp of her breast-bane,
Whose sound wad melt a heart of stane.
He’s ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair,
And withem strung his harp sae rare.
He went into her father’s hall,
And there was the court assembled all.
He laid his harp upon a stane,
And straight it began to play by lane.2
‘O yonder sits my father, the King,
And yonder sits my mother, the Queen;
‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh,
But by him my William, sweet and true.’
But the last tune that the harp play’d then—
Binnorie, O Binnorie!
Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helàen!’
By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie.
IT fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day,
When green grew aits and barley,
That there fell out a great dispute
Between Argyll and Airlie.
Argyll has raised an hunder men,
An hunder harness’d rarely,
And he’s awa’ by the back of Dunkell,
To plunder the castle of Airlie.
Lady Ogilvie looks o’er her bower-window,
And O but she looks warely!
And there she spied the great Argyll,
Come to plunder the bonnie house of Airlie.
‘Come down, come down, my Lady Ogilvie,
Come down and kiss me fairly’:
‘O I winna kiss the fause Argyll,
If he shouldna leave a standing stane in Airlie.’
He hath taken her by the left shoulder,
Says, ‘Dame, where lies thy dowry?’
‘O it’s east and west yon wan water side,
And it’s down by the banks of the Airlie.’
They hae sought it up, they hae sought it down,
They hae sought it maist severely,
Till they fand it in the fair plum-tree
That shines on the bowling-green of Airlie.
He hath taken her by the middle sae small,
And O but she grat sairly!
And laid her down by the bonnie burn-side,
Till they plunder’d the castle of Airlie.
‘Gif my gude lord war here this night,
As he is with King Charlie,
Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish lord,
Durst avow to the plundering of Airlie.
‘Gif my gude lord war now at hame,
As he is with his king,
There durst nae a Campbell in a’ Argyll
Set fit on Airlie green.
‘Ten bonnie sons I have borne unto him,
The eleventh ne’er saw his daddy;
But though I had an hunder mair,
I’d gie them a’ to King Charlie!’
THERE lived a wife at Usher’s well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them o’er the sea.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carline wife
That her sons she’d never see.
‘I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes2 in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood!’
It fell about the Martinmas,
When nights are lang and mirk,
The carline wife’s three sons came hame,
And their hats were o’ the birk.
It neither grew in syke3 nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh;4
But at the gates o’ Paradise
That birk grew fair eneugh.
‘Blow up the fire, my maidens!
Bring water from the well!
For a’ my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well.’
And she has made to them a bed,
She’s made it large and wide;
And she’s ta’en 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 craw’d but once,
And clapp’d his wings at a’,
When the youngest to the eldest said,
‘Brother, we must awa’.
‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin’5 worm doth chide;
Gin we be miss’d out o’ our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.’
‘Lie still, lie still but a little wee while,
Lie still but if we may;
Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes,
She’ll go mad ere it be day.’
‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother’s fire!’
THERE were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be.
The one of them said to his make,1
‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’
‘Down in yonder greene field
There lies a knight slain under his shield;
‘His hounds they lie down at his feet,
So well they can their master keep;
His hawks they flie so eagerly,
There’s no fowl dare come him nigh.’
Down there comes a fallow doe
As great with young as she might goe.
She lift up his bloudy head
And kist his wounds that were so red.
She gat him up upon her back
And carried him to earthen lake.
She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herself ere evensong time.
God send every gentleman
Such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman.
(SCOTTISH VERSION)
AS I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies1 making a mane:
The tane unto the tither did say,
‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’
‘—In behint yon auld fail2 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 anither mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause3-bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en:
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair
We’ll theek4 our nest when it grows bare.
‘Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,
—Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.
When thou from hence away art past,
—Every nighte and alle,
To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
—Every nighte and alle,
Sit thee down and put them on;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane
—Every nighte and alle,
The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thy saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou may’st pass,
—Every nighte and alle,
To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule .
From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st pass,
—Every nighte and alle,
To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
—Every nighte and alle,
The fire sall never make thee shrink;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If meat or drink thou ne’er gav’st nane,
—Every nighte and alle,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thy saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
—Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet1 and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.
A CAROL
ALL under the leaves and the leaves of life
I met with virgins seven,
And one of them was Mary mild,
Our Lord’s mother of Heaven.
‘O what are you seeking, you seven fair maids,
All under the leaves of life?
Come tell, come tell, what seek you
All under the leaves of life?’
‘We’re seeking for no leaves, Thomas,
But for a friend of thine;
We’re seeking for sweet Jesus Christ,
To be our guide and thine.’
‘Go down, go down, to yonder town,
And sit in the gallery,
And there you’ll see sweet Jesus Christ
Nail’d to a big yew-tree.’
So down they went to yonder town
As fast as foot could fall,
And many a grievous bitter tear
From the virgins’ eyes did fall.
‘O peace, Mother, O peace, Mother,
Your weeping doth me grieve:
I must suffer this,’ He said,
‘For Adam and for Eve.
‘O Mother, take you John Evangelist
All for to be your son,
And he will comfort you sometimes,
Mother, as I have done.’
‘O come, thou John Evangelist,
Thou’rt welcome unto me;
But more welcome my own dear Son,
Whom I nursed on my knee.’
Then He laid His head on His right shoulder,
Seeing death it struck Him nigh—
‘The Holy Ghost be with your soul,
I die, Mother dear, I die.’
O the rose, the gentle rose,
And the fennel that grows so green!
God give us grace in every place
To pray for our king and queen.
Furthermore for our enemies all
Our prayers they should be strong:
Amen, good Lord; your charity
Is the ending of my song.
SAYS Tweed to Till—
‘What gars ye rin sae still?’
Says Till to Tweed—
‘Though ye rin with speed
And I rin slaw,
For ae man that ye droon
I droon twa.’
MY blood so red
For thee was shed,
Come home again, come home again;
My own sweet heart, come home again!
You’ve gone astray
Out of your way,
Come home again, come home again!
who died 1650, aged 21
LET not Death boast his conquering power,
She’ll rise a star that fell a flower.
YE Highlands and ye Lawlands,
O where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl of Murray,
And hae laid him on the green.
Now wae be to thee, Huntley!
And whairfore did ye 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,
O he might hae been a king!
He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the ba’;
And the bonny Earl of Murray
Was the flower amang them a’!
He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the gluve;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
O he was the Queen’s luve!
O lang will his Lady
Look owre the Castle Downe,
Ere she see the Earl of Murray
Come sounding through the town!
I WISH I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirconnell lea!
Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!
O think na ye my heart was sair,
When my Love dropp’d and spak nae mair!
There did she swoon wi’ meikle care,
On fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell lea;I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hackàed him in pieces sma’,
I hackàed him in pieces sma’,
For her sake that died for me.O Helen fair, beyond compare!
O that I were where Helen lies!
I’ll mak a garland o’ thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I die!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, ‘Haste, and come to me!’
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I’d be blest,
Where thou lies low and taks thy rest,
On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn owre my e’en,
And I in Helen’s arms lying,
On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me.
O WALY, waly, up the bank,
And waly, waly, doun the brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn-side,
Where I and my Love wont to gae!
I lean’d my back unto an aik,
I thocht it was a trustie tree;
But first it bow’d and syne it brak—
Sae my true love did lichtlie me.
O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa’ like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my heid,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he’ll never lo’e me mair.
Now Arthur’s Seat sall be my bed,
The sheets sall ne’er be ’filed by me;
Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink;
Since my true Love has forsaken me.
Marti’mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie.
’Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie,
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;
But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me.
When we cam in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see;
My Love was clad in the black velvàet,
And I myself in cramasie.1
But had I wist, before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I had lock’d my heart in a case o’ gowd.
And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin.
And O! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse’s knee;
And I mysel were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!
IN Scarlet town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin’,
Made every youth cry Well-a-way!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merry month of May,
When green buds they were swellin’,
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man in to her then,
To the town where she was dwellin’,
‘O haste and come to my master dear,
If your name be Barbara Allen.’
So slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtain by—
‘Young man, I think you’re dyin’.’
‘O it’s I am sick and very very sick,
And it’s all for Barbara Allen.’
‘O the better for me ye’se never be,
Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’!
‘O dinna ye mind, young man,’ says she,
‘When the red wine ye were fillin’,
That ye made the healths go round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allen?’
He turn’d his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealin’:
‘Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allen!’
As she was walking o’er the fields,
She heard the dead-bell knellin’;
And every jow1 the dead-bell gave
Cried ‘Woe to Barbara Allen.’
‘O mother, mother, make my bed,
O make it saft and narrow:
My love has died for me to-day,
I’ll die for him to-morrow.
‘Farewell,’ she said, ‘ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.’
1 jow: beat, toll.
I
400 Pipe
and Can
THE Indian weed witheràed quite;
Green at morn, cut down at night;
Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.And when the smoke ascends on high,
Think thou behold’st the vanity
Of worldly stuff, gone with a puff:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.But when the pipe grows foul within,
Think of thy soul defiled with sin,
And that the fire doth it require:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.The ashes, that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind
That unto dust return thou must:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
II
WHEN as the chill Charokko1 blows,
And Winter tells a heavy tale;
When pyes and daws and rooks and crows
Sit cursing of the frosts and snows;
Then give me ale.
Ale in a Saxon rumkin then,
Such as will make grimalkin prate;
Bids valour burgeon in tall men,
Quickens the poet’s wit and pen,
Despises fate.
Ale, that the absent battle fights,
And frames the march of Swedish drum,
Disputes with princes, laws, and rights,
What’s done and past tells mortal wights,
And what’s to come.
Ale, that the plowman’s heart up-keeps
And equals it with tyrants’ thrones,
That wipes the eye that over-weeps,
And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps
Th’ o’er-wearied bones.
Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus’ daughter,
Wine’s emulous neighbour, though but stale,
Ennobling all the nymphs of water,
And filling each man’s heart with laughter—
Ha! give me ale!
OVER the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.
When there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie,
When there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
When the midge dares not venture
Lest herself fast she lay,
If Love come, he will enter
And will find out the way.
You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward for his flight;
But if she whom Love doth honour
Be conceal’d from the day—
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him
By having him confined;
And some do suppose him,
Poor heart! to be blind;
But if ne’er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that ye may,
Blind Love, if so ye call him,
He will find out his way.
You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The Phœnix of the east;
The lioness, you may move her
To give over her prey;
But you’ll ne’er stop a lover—
He will find out the way.
If the earth it should part him,
He would gallop it o’er;
If the seas should o’erthwart him,
He would swim to the shore;
Should his Love become a swallow,
Through the air to stray,
Love will lend wings to follow,
And will find out the way.
There is no striving
To cross his intent;
There is no contriving
His plots to prevent;
But if once the message greet him
That his True Love doth stay,
If Death should come and meet him,
Love will find out the way!
O WHAT a plague is love!
How shall I bear it?
She will inconstant prove,
I greatly fear it.
She so torments my mind
That my strength faileth,
And wavers with the wind
As a ship saileth.
Please her the best I may,
She loves still to gainsay;
Alack and well-a-day!
Phillada flouts me.
At the fair yesterday
She did pass by me;
She look’d another way
And would not spy me:
I woo’d her for to dine,
But could not get her;
Will had her to the wine—
He might entreat her.
With Daniel she did dance,
On me she look’d askance:
O thrice unhappy chance!
Phillada flouts me.
Fair maid, be not so coy,
Do not disdain me!
I am my mother’s joy:
Sweet, entertain me!
She’ll give me, when she dies,
All that is fitting:
Her poultry and her bees,
And her goose sitting,
A pair of mattrass beds,
And a bag full of shreds;
And yet, for all this guedes,1
Phillada flouts me!
She hath a clout of mine
Wrought with blue coventry,
Which she keeps for a sign
Of my fidelity:
But i’ faith, if she flinch
She shall not wear it;
To Tib, my t’other wench,
I mean to bear it.
And yet it grieves my heart
So soon from her to part:
Death strike me with his dart!
Phillada flouts me.
Thou shalt eat crudded cream
All the year lasting,
And drink the crystal stream
Pleasant in tasting;
Whig and whey whilst thou lust,
And bramble-berries,
Pie-lid and pastry-crust,
Pears, plums, and cherries.
Thy raiment shall be thin,
Made of a weevil’s skin—
Yet all’s not worth a pin!
Phillada flouts me.
In the last month of May
I made her posies;
I heard her often say
That she loved roses.
Cowslips and gillyflowers
And the white lily
I brought to deck the bowers
For my sweet Philly.
But she did all disdain,
And threw them back again;
Therefore ’tis flat and plain
Phillada flouts me.
Fair maiden, have a care,
And in time take me;
I can have those as fair
If you forsake me:
For Doll the dairy-maid
Laugh’d at me lately,
And wanton Winifred
Favours me greatly.
One throws milk on my clothes,
T’other plays with my nose;
What wanting signs are those?
—Phillada flouts me!
I cannot work nor sleep
At all in season:
Love wounds my heart so deep
Without all reason.
I ’gin to pine away
In my love’s shadow,
Like as a fat beast may,
Penn’d in a meadow.
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within this thousand year:
And all for that my dear
Phillada flouts me.
1guedes: goods, property of any kind.
O WOULD I were where I would be!
There would I be where I am not:
For where I am would I not be,
And where I would be I can not.
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