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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9405-8.txt b/9405-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5383920 --- /dev/null +++ b/9405-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4476 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Old English Ballads, by +George Wharton Edwards + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Book of Old English Ballads + +Author: George Wharton Edwards + +Commentator: Hamilton W. Mabie + +Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9405] +Posting Date: August 3, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by John B. Hare + + + + + +A BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS + + +With an Accompaniment of Decorative Drawings + + +By George Wharton Edwards + + + +And an Introduction by Hamilton W. Mabie + + +[1896] + + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Introduction + + Chevy Chace + + King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid + + King Leir and his Three Daughters + + Fair Rosamond + + Phillida and Corydon + + Fair Margaret and Sweet William + + Annan Water + + The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington + + Barbara Allen's Cruelty + + The Douglas Tragedy + + Young Waters + + Flodden Field + + Helen of Kirkconnell + + Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale + + Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne + + Robin Hood's Death and Burial + + The Twa Corbies + + Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny + + The Nut-brown Maid + + The Fause Lover + + The Mermaid + + The Battle of Otterburn + + The Lament of the Border Widow + + The Banks o' Yarrow + + Hugh of Lincoln + + Sir Patrick Spens + + + + + +Introduction + + +Goethe, who saw so many things with such clearness of vision, +brought out the charm of the popular ballad for readers of a later +day in his remark that the value of these songs of the people is to +be found in the fact that their motives are drawn directly from +nature; and he added, that in the art of saying things compactly, +uneducated men have greater skill than those who are educated. It is +certainly true that no kind of verse is so completely out of the +atmosphere of modern writing as the popular ballad. No other form of +verse has, therefore, in so great a degree, the charm of freshness. +In material, treatment, and spirit, these bat lads are set in sharp +contrast with the poetry of the hour. They deal with historical +events or incidents, with local traditions, with personal adventure +or achievement. They are, almost without exception, entirely +objective. Contemporary poetry is, on the other hand, very largely +subjective; and even when it deals with events or incidents it +invests them to such a degree with personal emotion and imagination, +it so modifies and colours them with temperamental effects, that the +resulting poem is much more a study of subjective conditions than a +picture or drama of objective realities. This projection of the +inward upon the outward world, in such a degree that the dividing +line between the two is lost, is strikingly illustrated in +Maeterlinck's plays. Nothing could be in sharper contrast, for +instance, than the famous ballad of "The Hunting of the Cheviot" and +Maeterlinck's "Princess Maleine." There is no atmosphere, in a +strict use of the word, in the spirited and compact account of the +famous contention between the Percies and the Douglases, of which +Sir Philip Sidney said "that I found not my heart moved more than +with a Trumpet." It is a breathless, rushing narrative of a swift +succession of events, told with the most straight-forward +simplicity. In the "Princess Maleine," on the other hand, the +narrative is so charged with subjective feeling, the world in which +the action takes place is so deeply tinged with lights that never +rested on any actual landscape, that all sense of reality is lost. +The play depends for its effect mainly upon atmosphere. Certain +very definite impressions are produced with singular power, but +there is no clear, clean stamping of occurrences on the mind. The +imagination is skilfully awakened and made to do the work of +observation. + +The note of the popular ballad is its objectivity; it not only takes +us out of doors, but it also takes us out of the individual +consciousness. The manner is entirely subordinated to the matter; the +poet, if there was a poet in the case, obliterates himself. What we +get is a definite report of events which have taken place, not a +study of a man's mind nor an account of a man's feelings. The true +balladist is never introspective; he is concerned not with himself +but with his story. There is no self-disclosure in his song. To the +mood of Senancour and Amiel he was a stranger. Neither he nor the +men to whom he recited or sang would have understood that mood. +They were primarily and unreflectively absorbed in the world outside +of themselves. They saw far more than they meditated; they recorded +far more than they moralized. The popular ballads are, as a rule, +entirely free from didacticism in any form; that is one of the main +sources of their unfailing charm. They show not only a childlike +curiosity about the doings of the day and the things that befall +men, but a childlike indifference to moral inference and +justification. The bloodier the fray the better for ballad +purposes; no one feels the necessity of apology either for ruthless +aggression or for useless blood-letting; the scene is reported as it +was presented to the eye of the spectator, not to his moralizing +faculty. He is expected to see and to sing, not to scrutinize and +meditate. In those rare cases in which a moral inference is drawn, +it is always so obvious and elementary that it gives the impression +of having been fastened on at the end of the song, in deference to +ecclesiastical rather than popular feeling. + +The social and intellectual conditions which fostered +self-unconsciousness,--interest in things, incidents, and adventures +rather than in moods and inward experiences,--and the unmoral or non +moralizing attitude towards events, fostered also that delightful +naivete which contributes greatly to the charm of many of the best +ballads; a naivete which often heightens the pathos, and, at times, +softens it with touches of apparently unconscious humour; the naivete of +the child which has in it something of the freshness of a wildflower, +and yet has also a wonderful instinct for making the heart of the matter +plain. This quality has almost entirely disappeared from contemporary +verse among cultivated races; one must go to the peasants of remote +parts of the Continent to discover even a trace of its presence. It has +a real, but short-lived charm, like the freshness which shines on meadow +and garden in the brief dawn which hastens on to day. + +This frank, direct play of thought and feeling on an incident, or +series of incidents, compensates for the absence of a more perfect +art in the ballads; using the word "art" in its true sense as +including complete, adequate, and beautiful handling of +subject-matter, and masterly working out of its possibilities. These +popular songs, so dear to the hearts of the generations on whose lips +they were fashioned, and to all who care for the fresh note, the direct +word, the unrestrained emotion, rarely touch the highest points of +poetic achievement. Their charm lies, not in their perfection of form, +but in their spontaneity, sincerity, and graphic power. They are not +rivers of song, wide, deep, and swift; they are rather cool, clear +springs among the hills. In the reactions against sophisticated poetry +which set in from lime to time, the popular ballad--the true +folk-song--has often been exalted at the expense of other forms of +verse. It is idle to attempt to arrange the various forms of poetry in +an order of absolute values; it is enough that each has its own quality, +and, therefore, its own value. The drama, the epic, the ballad, the +lyric, each strikes its note in the complete expression of human emotion +and experience. Each belongs to a particular stage of development, and +each has the authority and the enduring charm which attach to every +authentic utterance of the spirit of man under the conditions of life. + +In this wide range of human expression the ballad follows the epic +as a kind of aftermath; a second and scattered harvest, springing +without regularity or nurture out of a rich and unexhausted soil. The +epic fastens upon some event of such commanding importance that it +marks a main current of history; some story, historic, or mythologic; +some incident susceptible of extended narrative treatment. It is +always, in its popular form, a matter of growth it is direct, simple, +free from didacticism; representing, as Aristotle says, "a single +action, entire and complete." It subordinates character to action; it +delights in episode and dialogue; it is content to tell the story as +a story, and leave the moralization to hearers or readers. The +popular ballad is so closely related to the popular epic that it may +be said to reproduce its qualities and characteristics within a +narrower compass, and on a smaller scale. It also is a piece of the +memory of the people, or a creation of the imagination of the people; +but the tradition or fact which it preserves is of local, rather +than national importance. It is indifferent to nice distinctions and +delicate gradations or shadings; its power springs from its +directness, vigour, and simplicity. It is often entirely occupied +with the narration or description of a single episode; it has no room +for dialogue, but it often secures the effect of the dialogue by its +unconventional freedom of phrase, and sometimes by the introduction +of brief and compact charge and denial, question and reply. Sometimes +the incidents upon which the ballad makers fastened, have a unity or +connection with each other which hints at a complete story. The +ballads which deal with Robin Hood are so numerous and so closely +related that they constantly suggest, not only the possibility, but +the probability of epic treatment. It is surprising that the richness +of the material, and its notable illustrative quality, did not +inspire some earlier Chaucer to combine the incidents in a sustained +narrative. But the epic poet did not appear, and the most +representative of English popular heroes remains the central figure +in a series of detached episodes and adventures, preserved in a long +line of disconnected ballads. + +This apparent arrest, in the ballad stage, of a story which seemed +destined to become an epic, naturally suggests the vexed question of +the author ship of the popular ballads. They are in a very real sense +the songs of the people; they make no claim to individual authorship; +on the contrary, the inference of what may be called community +authorship is, in many instances, irresistible. They are the product +of a social condition which, so to speak, holds song of this kind in +solution; of an age in which improvisation, singing, and dancing are +the most natural and familiar forms of expression. They deal almost +without exception with matters which belong to the community memory +or imagination; they constantly reappear with variations so +noticeable as to indicate free and common handling of themes of wide +local interest. All this is true of the popular ballad; but all this +does not decisively settle the question of authorship. What share did +the community have in the making of these songs, and what share fell +to individual singers? + +Herder, whose conception of the origin and function of literature +was so vitalizing in the general aridity of thinking about the +middle of the last century, and who did even more for ballad verse +in Germany than Bishop Percy did in England, laid emphasis almost +exclusively on community authorship. His profound instinct for +reality in all forms of art, his deep feeling for life, and the +immense importance he attached to spontaneity and unconsciousness in +the truest productivity made community authorship not only +attractive but inevitable to him. In his pronounced reaction +against the superficial ideas of literature so widely held in the +Germany of his time, he espoused the conception of community +authorship as the only possible explanation of the epics, ballads, +and other folk-songs. In nature and popular life, or universal +experience, he found the rich sources of the poetry whose charm he +felt so deeply, and whose power and beauty he did so much to reveal +to his contemporaries. Genius and nature are magical words with him, +because they suggested such depths of being under all forms of +expression; such unity of the whole being of a race in its thought, +its emotion, and its action; such entire unconsciousness of self or +of formulated aim, and such spontaneity of spirit and speech. The +language of those times, when words had not yet been divided into +nobles, middle-class, and plebeians, was, he said, the richest for +poetical purposes. "Our tongue, compared with the idiom of the +savage, seems adapted rather for reflection than for the senses or +imagination. The rhythm of popular verse is so delicate, so rapid, +so precise, that it is no easy matter to defect it with our eyes; +but do not imagine it to have been equally difficult for those +living populations who listened to, instead of reading it; who were +accustomed to the sound of it from their infancy; who themselves +sang it, and whose ear had been formed by its cadence." This +conception of poetry as arising in the hearts of the people and +taking form on their lips is still more definitely and strikingly +expressed in two sentences, which let us into, the heart of Herder's +philosophy of poetry: "Poetry in those happy days lived in the ears +of the people, on the lips and in the harps of living bards; it sang +of history, of the events of the day, of mysteries, miracles, and +signs. It was the flower of a nation's character, language, and +country; of its occupations, its prejudices, its passions, its +aspirations, and its soul." In these words, at once comprehensive +and vague, after the manner of Herder, we find ourselves face to +face with that conception not only of popular song in all its forms, +but with literature as a whole, which has revolutionized literary +study in this century, and revitalized it as well. For Herder was a +man of prophetic instinct; he sometimes felt more clearly than he saw; +he divined where he could not reach results by analysis. He was often +vague, fragmentary, and inconclusive, like all men of his type; but he +had a genius for getting at the heart of things. His statements often +need qualification, but he is almost always on the tight track. When he +says that the great traditions, in which both the memory and the +imagination of a race were engaged, and which were still living in +the mouths of the people, "of themselves took on poetic form," he is +using language which is too general to convey a definite impression +of method, but he is probably suggesting the deepest truth with +regard to these popular stories. They actually were of community +origin; they actually were common property; they were given a great +variety of forms by a great number of persons; the forms which have +come down to us are very likely the survivors of a kind of in formal +competition, which went on for years at the fireside and at the +festivals of a whole country side. + +Barger, whose "Lenore" is one of the most widely known of modern +ballads, held the same view of the origin of popular song, and was +even more definite in his confession of faith than Herder. He +declared in the most uncompromising terms that all real poetry must +have a popular origin; "can be and must be of the people, for that is +the seal of its perfection." And he comments on the delight with +which he has listened, in village street and home, to unwritten +songs; the poetry which finds its way in quiet rivulets to the +remotest peasant home. In like manner, Helene Vacaresco overheard the +songs of the Roumanian people; hiding in the maize to catch the +reaping songs; listening at spinning parties, at festivals, at +death-beds, at taverns; taking the songs down from the lips of peasant +women, fortune-tellers, gypsies, and all manner of humble folk who were +the custodians of this vagrant community verse. We have passed so +entirely out of the song-making period, and literature has become to us +so exclusively the work of a professional class, that we find it +difficult to imagine the intellectual and social conditions which +fostered improvisation on a great scale, and trained the ear of great +populations to the music of spoken poetry. It is almost impossible for +us to disassociate literature from writing. There is still, however, a +considerable volume of unwritten literature in the world in the form of +stories, songs, proverbs, and pithy phrases; a literature handed down in +large part from earlier times, but still receiving additions from +contemporary men and women. + +This unwritten literature is to be found, it is hardly necessary to +say, almost exclusively among country people remote from towns, and +whose mental attitude and community feeling reproduce, in a way, the +conditions under which the English and Scotch ballads were originally +composed. The Roumanian peasants sing their songs upon every +occasion of domestic or local interest; and sowing and harvesting, +birth, christening, marriage, the burial, these notable events in +the life of the country side are all celebrated by unknown poets; +or, rather, by improvisers who give definite form to sentiments, +phrases, and words which are on many lips. The Russian peasant +tells his stories as they were told to him; those heroic epics whose +life is believed, in some cases, to date back at least a thousand +years. These great popular stories form a kind of sacred +inheritance bequeathed by one generation to another as a possession +of the memory, and are almost entirely unrelated to the written +literature of the country. Miss Hapgood tells a very interesting +story of a government official, stationed on the western shore of +Lake Onega, who became so absorbed in the search for this +literature of the people that he followed singers and reciters from +place to place, eager to learn from their lips the most widely known +of these folk tales. On such an expedition of discovery he found +himself, one stormy night, on an island in the lake. The hut of +refuge was already full of stormbound peasants when he entered. +Having made himself some tea, and spread his blanket in a vacant +place, he fell asleep. He was presently awakened by a murmur of +recurring sounds. Sitting up, he found the group of peasants +hanging on the words of an old man, of kindly face, expressive eyes, +and melodious voice, from whose lips flowed a marvellous song; grave +and gay by turns, monotonous and passionate in succession; but +wonderfully fresh, picturesque, and fascinating. The listener soon +became aware that he was hearing, for the first time, the famous +story of "Sadko, the Merchant of Novgorod." It was like being +present at the birth of a piece of literature! + +The fact that unwritten songs and stories still exist in great +numbers among remote country-folk of our own time, and that additions +are still made to them, help us to understand the probable origin of +our own popular ballads, and what community authorship may really +mean. To put ourselves, even in thought, in touch with the +ballad-making period in English and Scotch history, we must dismiss from +our minds all modern ideas of authorship; all notions of individual +origination and ownership of any form of words. Professor ten Brink +tells us that in the ballad-making age there was no production; there +was only reproduction. There was a stock of traditions, memories, +experiences, held in common by large populations, in constant use on the +lips of numberless persons; told and retold in many forms, with +countless changes, variations, and modifications; without conscious +artistic purpose, with no sense of personal control or possession, with +no constructive aim either in plot or treatment; no composition in the +modern sense of the term. Such a mass of poetic material in the +possession of a large community was, in a sense, fluid, and ran into a +thousand forms almost without direction or premeditation. Constant use +of such rich material gave a poetic turn of thought and speech to +countless persons who, under other conditions, would have given no sign +of the possession of the faculty of imagination. + +There was not only the stimulus to the faculty which sees events and +occurrences with the eyes of the imagination, but there was also +constant and familiar use of the language of poetry. To speak +metrically or rhythmically is no difficult matter if one is in the +atmosphere or habit of verse-making; and there is nothing surprising +either in the feats of memory or of improvisation performed by the +minstrels and balladists of the old time. The faculty of +improvising was easily developed and was very generally used by +people of all classes. This facility is still possessed by rural +populations, among whom songs are still composed as they are sting, +each member of the company contributing a new verse or a variation, +suggested by local conditions, of a well-known stanza. When to the +possession of a mass of traditions and stories and of facility of +improvisation is added the habit of singing and dancing, it is not +difficult to reconstruct in our own thought the conditions under +which popular poetry came into being, nor to understand in what +sense a community can make its own songs. In the brave days when +ballads were made, the rustic peoples were not mute, as they are +to-day; nor sad, as they have become in so many parts of England. +They sang and they danced by instinct and as an expression of social +feeling. Originally the ballads were not only sung, but they gave +measure to the dance; they grew from mouth to mouth in the very act +of dancing; individual dancers adding verse to verse, and the +frequent refrain coming in as a kind of chorus. Gesture and, to a +certain extent, acting would naturally accompany so free and general +an expression of community feeling. There was no poet, because all +were poets. To quote Professor ten Brink once more:-- + +"Song and playing were cultivated by peasants, and even by freedmen +and serfs. At beer-feasts the harp went from hand to hand. Herein +lies the essential difference between that age and our own. The +result of poetical activity was not the property and was not the +production of a single person, but of the community. The work of the +individual endured only as long as its delivery lasted. He gained +personal distinction only as a virtuoso. The permanent elements of +what he presented, the material, the ideas, even the style and metre, +already existed. 'The work of the singer was only a ripple in the +stream of national poetry. Who can say how much the individual +contributed to it, or where in his poetical recitation memory ceased +and creative impulse began! In any case the work of the individual +lived on only as the ideal possession of the aggregate body of the +people, and it soon lost the stamp of originality. In view of such +a development of poetry, we must assume a time when the collective +consciousness of a people or race is paramount in its unity; when +the intellectual life of each is nourished from the same treasury of +views and associations, of myths and sagas; when similar interests +stir each breast; and the ethical judgment of all applies itself to +the same standard. In such an age the form of poetical expression +will also be common to all, necessarily solemn, earnest, and simple." + +When the conditions which produced the popular ballads become clear +to the imagination, their depth of rootage, not only in the community +life but in the community love, becomes also clear. We under stand +the charm which these old songs have for us of a later age, and the +spell which they cast upon men and women who knew the secret of +their birth; we understand why the minstrels of the lime, when +popular poetry was in its best estate, were held in such honour, why +Taillefer sang the song of Roland at the head of the advancing +Normans on the day of Hastings, and why good Bishop Aldhelm, when he +wanted to get the ears of his people, stood on the bridge and sang a +ballad! These old songs were the flowering of the imagination of +the people; they drew their life as directly from the general +experience, the common memory, the universal feelings, as did the +Greek dramas in those primitive times, when they were part of rustic +festivity and worship. The popular ballads have passed away with +the conditions which produced them. Modern poets have, in several +instances, written ballads of striking picturesqueness and power, +but as unlike the ballad of popular origin as the world of to-day is +unlike the world in which "Chevy Chase" was first sung. These +modern ballads are not necessarily better or worse than their +predecessors; but they are necessarily different. It is idle to +exalt the wild flower at the expense of the garden flower; each has +its fragrance, its beauty, its sentiment; and the world is wide! + +In the selection of the ballads which appear in this volume, no +attempt has been made to follow a chronological order or to enforce a +rigid principle of selection of any kind. The aim has been to bring +within moderate compass a collection of these songs of the people +which should fairly represent the range, the descriptive felicity, +the dramatic power, and the genuine poetic feeling of a body of verse +which is still, it is to be feared, unfamiliar to a large number of +those to whom it would bring refreshment and delight. + + +HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE + + + + + + +Chevy Chace + + + + God prosper long our noble king, + Our liffes and safetyes all; + A woefull hunting once there did + In Chevy-Chace befall. + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Erle Percy took his way; + The child may rue that is unborne + The hunting of that day. + + The stout Erle of Northumberland + A vow to God did make, + His pleasure in the Scottish woods + Three summers days to take; + + The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace + To kill and beare away: + These tydings to Erle Douglas came, + In Scotland where he lay. + + Who sent Erie Percy present word, + He wold prevent his sport; + The English Erle not fearing that, + Did to the woods resort, + + With fifteen hundred bow-men bold, + All chosen men of might, + Who knew full well in time of neede + To ayme their shafts arright. + + The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, + To chase the fallow deere; + On Munday they began to hunt, + Ere day-light did appeare; + + And long before high noone they had + An hundred fat buckes slaine; + Then having din'd, the drovyers went + To rouze the deare againe. + + The bow-men mustered on the hills, + Well able to endure; + Theire backsides all, with speciall care, + That day were guarded sure. + + The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, + The nimble deere to take, + That with their cryes the hills and dales + An eccho shrill did make. + + Lord Percy to the quarry went, + To view the tender deere; + Quoth he, "Erle Douglas promised + This day to meet me heere; + + "But if I thought he wold not come, + Noe longer wold I stay." + With that, a brave younge gentleman + Thus to the Erle did say: + + "Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, + His men in armour bright; + Full twenty hundred Scottish speres, + All marching in our sight. + + "All men of pleasant Tivydale, + Fast by the river Tweede:" + "O cease your sport," Erle Percy said, + "And take your bowes with speede. + + "And now with me, my countrymen, + Your courage forth advance; + For never was there champion yett + In Scotland or in France, + + "That ever did on horsebacke come, + But, if my hap it were, + I durst encounter man for man, + With him to breake a spere." + + Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, + Most like a baron bold, + Rode formost of his company, + Whose armour shone like gold. + + "Show me," sayd hee, "whose men you bee, + That hunt soe boldly heere, + That, without my consent, doe chase + And kill my fallow-deere." + + The man that first did answer make + Was noble Percy hee; + Who sayd, "Wee list not to declare, + Nor shew whose men wee bee. + + "Yet will wee spend our deerest blood, + Thy cheefest harts to slay;" + Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, + And thus in rage did say; + + "Ere thus I will out-braved bee, + One of us two shall dye: + I know thee well, an erle thou art; + Lord Percy, soe am I. + + "But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, + And great offence, to kill + Any of these our guiltlesse men, + For they have done no ill. + + "Let thou and I the battell trye, + And set our men aside." + "Accurst bee he," Erle Percy sayd, + "By whome this is denyed." + + Then stept a gallant squier forth, + Witherington was his name, + Who said, "I wold not have it told + To Henry our king for shame, + + "That ere my captaine fought on foote, + And I stood looking on: + You bee two erles," sayd Witherington, + "And I a squier alone. + + "Ile doe the best that doe I may, + While I have power to stand; + While I have power to weeld my sword, + Ile fight with hart and hand." + + Our English archers bent their bowes, + Their harts were good and trew; + Att the first flight of arrowes sent, + Full four-score Scots they slew. + + [Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, + As Chieftain stout and good, + As valiant Captain, all unmov'd + The shock he firmly stood. + + His host he parted had in three, + As Leader ware and try'd, + And soon his spearmen on their foes + Bare down on every side. + + Throughout the English archery + They dealt full many a wound; + But still our valiant Englishmen + All firmly kept their ground. + + And throwing strait their bows away, + They grasp'd their swords so bright: + And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, + On shields and helmets light.] + + They clos'd full fast on everye side, + Noe slacknes there was found; + And many a gallant gentleman + Lay gasping on the ground. + + O Christ! it was a griefe to see, + And likewise for to heare, + The cries of men lying in their gore, + And scattered here and there. + + At last these two stout erles did meet, + Like captaines of great might; + Like lyons wood they layd on lode, + And made a cruell fight. + + They fought, untill they both did sweat, + With swords of tempered steele; + Until the blood, like drops of rain, + They trickling downe did feele. + + "Yeeld thee, Lord Percy," Douglas sayd + "In faith I will thee bringe, + Where thou shalt high advanced bee + By James our Scottish king. + + "Thy ransom I will freely give, + And thus report of thee, + Thou art the most couragious knight + That ever I did see." + + "Noe, Douglas," quoth Erle Percy then, + "Thy proffer I doe scorne + I will not yeelde to any Scott, + That ever yett was borne." + + With that, there came an arrow keene + Out of an English bow, + Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, + A deepe and deadlye blow: + + Who never spake more words than these, + "Fight on, my merry men all; + For why, my life is at an end: + Lord Percy sees my fall." + + Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke + The dead man by the hand; + And said, "Erle Douglas, for thy life + Wold I had lost my land! + + "O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed + With sorrow for thy sake; + For sure, a more renowned knight + Mischance cold never take." + + A knight amongst the Scotts there was, + Which saw Erle Douglas dye, + Who streight in wrath did vow revenge + Upon the Lord Percye; + + Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he call'd, + Who, with a spere most bright, + Well-mounted on a gallant steed, + Ran fiercely through the fight; + + And past the English archers all, + Without all dread or feare, + And through Earl Percyes body then + He thrust his hatefull spere + + With such a vehement force and might + He did his body gore, + The speare ran through the other side + A large cloth-yard, and more. + + So thus did both these nobles dye, + Whose courage none could staine; + An English archer then perceiv'd + The noble erle was slaine. + + He had a bow bent in his hand, + Made of a trusty tree; + An arrow of a cloth-yard long + Up to the head drew hee. + + Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + So right the shaft he sett, + The grey goose-wing that was thereon + In his harts bloode was wett. + + This fight did last from breake of day + Till setting of the sun; + For when they rung the evening bell, + The battel scarce was done. + + With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine, + Sir John of Egerton, + Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, + Sir James, that bold Bar n. + + And with Sir George and stout Sir James, + Both knights of good account, + Good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slaine, + Whose prowesse did surmount. + + For Witherington needs must I wayle, + As one in doleful dumpes; + For when his legs were smitten off, + He fought upon his stumpes. + + And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine + Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld + One foote wold never flee. + + Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, + His sisters sonne was hee; + Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, + Yet saved cold not bee. + + And the Lord Maxwell in like case + Did with Erle Douglas dye; + Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, + Scarce fifty-five did flye. + + Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, + Went home but fifty-three; + The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, + Under the greene wood tree. + + Next day did many widowes come, + Their husbands to bewayle; + They washt their wounds in brinish teares, + But all wold not prevayle. + + Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple blood, + They bore with them away: + They kist them dead a thousand times, + Ere they were cladd in clay. + + This newes was brought to Eddenborrow, + Where Scotlands king did raigne, + That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye + Was with an arrow slaine. + + "O heavy newes," King James did say; + "Scottland can witnesse bee, + I have not any captaine more + Of such account as hee." + + Like tydings to King Henry came, + Within as short a space, + That Percy of Northumberland + Was slaine in Chevy-Chace. + + "Now God be with him," said our king, + "Sith it will noe better bee; + I trust I have, within my realme, + Five hundred as good as hee. + + "Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, + But I will vengeance take, + I'll be revenged on them all, + For brave Erle Percyes sake." + + This vow full well the king perform'd + After, at Humbledowne; + In one day, fifty knights were slayne, + With lordes of great renowne. + + And of the rest, of small account, + Did many thousands dye: + Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy-Chace, + Made by the Erle Percy. + + God save our king, and bless this land + In plentye, joy, and peace; + And grant henceforth, that foule debate + 'Twixt noblemen may cease! + + + + + +King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid + + + + I read that once in Affrica + A princely wight did raine, + Who had to name Cophetua, + As poets they did faine. + From natures lawes he did decline, + For sure he was not of my minde, + He cared not for women-kind + But did them all disdaine. + But marke what hapned on a day; + As he out of his window lay, + He saw a beggar all in gray. + The which did cause his paine. + + The blinded boy that shootes so trim + From heaven downe did hie, + He drew a dart and shot at him, + In place where he did lye: + Which soone did pierse him to the quicke, + And when he felt the arrow pricke, + Which in his tender heart did sticke, + He looketh as he would dye. + "What sudden chance is this," quoth he, + "That I to love must subject be, + Which never thereto would agree, + But still did it defie?" + + Then from the window he did come, + And laid him on his bed; + A thousand heapes of care did runne + Within his troubled head. + For now he meanes to crave her love, + And now he seekes which way to proove + How he his fancie might remoove, + And not this beggar wed. + But Cupid had him so in snare, + That this poor begger must prepare + A salve to cure him of his care, + Or els he would be dead. + + And as he musing thus did lye, + He thought for to devise + How he might have her companye, + That so did 'maze his eyes. + "In thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; + For surely thou shalt be my wife, + Or else this hand with bloody knife, + The Gods shall sure suffice." + Then from his bed he soon arose, + And to his pallace gate he goes; + Full little then this begger knowes + When she the king espies. + + "The gods preserve your majesty," + The beggers all gan cry; + "Vouchsafe to give your charity, + Our childrens food to buy." + The king to them his purse did cast, + And they to part it made great haste; + This silly woman was the last + That after them did hye. + The king he cal'd her back againe, + And unto her he gave his chaine; + And said, "With us you shal remaine + Till such time as we dye. + + "For thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, + And honoured for my queene; + With thee I meane to lead my life, + As shortly shall be seene: + Our wedding shall appointed be, + And every thing in its degree; + Come on," quoth he, "and follow me, + Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. + What is thy name, faire maid?" quoth he. + "Penelophon, O King," quoth she; + With that she made a lowe courtsey; + A trim one as I weene. + + Thus hand in hand along they walke + Unto the king's pallace: + The king with courteous, comly talke + This begger doth embrace. + The begger blusheth scarlet red, + And straight againe as pale as lead, + But not a word at all she said, + She was in such amaze. + At last she spake with trembling voyce, + And said, "O King, I doe rejoyce + That you wil take me for your choyce, + And my degree so base." + + And when the wedding day was come, + The king commanded strait + The noblemen, both all and some, + Upon the queene to wait. + And she behaved herself that day + As if she had never walkt the way; + She had forgot her gowne of gray, + Which she did weare of late. + The proverbe old is come to passe, + The priest, when he begins his masse, + Forgets that ever clerke he was + He knowth not his estate. + + Here you may read Cophetua, + Through long time fancie-fed, + Compelled by the blinded boy + The begger for to wed: + He that did lovers lookes disdaine, + To do the same was glad and faine, + Or else he would himselfe have slaine, + In storie, as we read. + Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, + But pitty now thy servant heere, + Least that it hap to thee this yeare, + As to that king it did. + + And thus they led a quiet life + During their princely raine, + And in a tombe were buried both, + As writers sheweth plaine. + The lords they tooke it grievously, + The ladies tooke it heavily, + The commons cryed pitiously, + Their death to them was paine. + Their fame did sound so passingly, + That it did pierce the starry sky, + And throughout all the world did flye + To every princes realme. + + + + + +King Leir and his Three Daughters + + + + King Leir once ruled in this land + With princely power and peace, + And had all things with hearts content, + That might his joys increase. + Amongst those things that nature gave, + Three daughters fair had he, + So princely seeming beautiful, + As fairer could not be. + + So on a time it pleas'd the king + A question thus to move, + Which of his daughters to his grace + Could shew the dearest love: + "For to my age you bring content," + Quoth he, "then let me hear, + Which of you three in plighted troth + The kindest will appear." + + To whom the eldest thus began: + "Dear father, mind," quoth she, + "Before your face, to do you good, + My blood shall render'd be. + And for your sake my bleeding heart + Shall here be cut in twain, + Ere that I see your reverend age + The smallest grief sustain." + + "And so will I," the second said; + "Dear father, for your sake, + The worst of all extremities + I'll gently undertake: + And serve your highness night and day + With diligence and love; + That sweet content and quietness + Discomforts may remove." + + "In doing so, you glad my soul," + The aged king reply'd; + "But what sayst thou, my youngest girl, + How is thy love ally'd?" + "My love" (quoth young Cordelia then), + "Which to your grace I owe, + Shall be the duty of a child, + And that is all I'll show." + + "And wilt thou shew no more," quoth he, + "Than doth thy duty bind? + I well perceive thy love is small, + When as no more I find. + Henceforth I banish thee my court; + Thou art no child of mine; + Nor any part of this my realm + By favour shall be thine. + + "Thy elder sisters' loves are more + Than well I can demand; + To whom I equally bestow + My kingdome and my land, + My pompal state and all my goods, + That lovingly I may + With those thy sisters be maintain'd + Until my dying day." + + Thus flattering speeches won renown, + By these two sisters here; + The third had causeless banishment, + Yet was her love more dear. + For poor Cordelia patiently + Went wandring up and down, + Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, + Through many an English town: + + Untill at last in famous France + She gentler fortunes found; + Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd + The fairest on the ground: + Where when the king her virtues heard, + And this fair lady seen, + With full consent of all his court + He made his wife and queen. + + Her father, old King Leir, this while + With his two daughters staid; + Forgetful of their promis'd loves, + Full soon the same decay'd; + And living in Queen Ragan's court, + The eldest of the twain, + She took from him his chiefest means, + And most of all his train. + + For whereas twenty men were wont + To wait with bended knee, + She gave allowance but to ten, + And after scarce to three, + Nay, one she thought too much for him; + So took she all away, + In hope that in her court, good king, + He would no longer stay. + + "Am I rewarded thus," quoth he, + "In giving all I have + Unto my children, and to beg + For what I lately gave? + I'll go unto my Gonorell: + My second child, I know, + Will be more kind and pitiful, + And will relieve my woe." + + Full fast he hies then to her court; + Where when she heard his moan, + Return'd him answer, that she griev'd + That all his means were gone, + But no way could relieve his wants; + Yet if that he would stay + Within her kitchen, he should have + What scullions gave away. + + When he had heard, with bitter tears, + He made his answer then; + "In what I did, let me be made + Example to all men. + I will return again," quoth he, + "Unto my Ragan's court; + She will not use me thus, I hope, + But in a kinder sort." + + Where when he came, she gave command + To drive him thence away: + When he was well within her court, + (She said) he would not stay. + Then back again to Gonorel + The woeful king did hie, + That in her kitchen he might have + What scullion boys set by. + + But there of that he was deny'd + Which she had promis'd late + For once refusing, he should not, + Come after to her gate. + Thus twixt his daughters for relief + He wandred up and down, + Being glad to feed on beggars' food + That lately wore a crown. + + And calling to remembrance then + His youngest daughters words, + That said, the duty of a child + Was all that love affords-- + But doubting to repair to her, + Whom he had ban'sh'd so, + Grew frantic mad; for in his mind + He bore the wounds of woe. + + Which made him rend his milk-white locks + And tresses from his head, + And all with blood bestain his cheeks, + With age and honour spread. + To hills and woods and watry founts, + He made his hourly moan, + Till hills and woods and senseless things + Did seem to sigh and groan. + + Even thus possest with discontents, + He passed o'er to France, + In hopes from fair Cordelia there + To find some gentler chance. + Most virtuous dame! which, when she heard + Of this her father's grief, + As duty bound, she quickly sent + Him comfort and relief. + + And by a train of noble peers, + In brave and gallant sort, + She gave in charge he should be brought + To Aganippus' court; + Whose royal king, with noble mind, + So freely gave consent + To muster up his knights at arms, + To fame and courage bent. + + And so to England came with speed, + To repossesse King Leir, + And drive his daughters from their thrones + By his Cordelia dear. + Where she, true-hearted, noble queen, + Was in the battel stain; + Yet he, good king, in his old days, + Possest his crown again. + + But when he heard Cordelia's death, + Who died indeed for love + Of her dear father, in whose cause + She did this battle move, + He swooning fell upon her breast, + From whence he never parted; + But on her bosom left his life + That was so truly hearted. + + The lords and nobles, when they saw + The end of these events, + The other sisters unto death + They doomed by consents; + And being dead, their crowns they left + Unto the next of kin: + Thus have you seen the fall of pride, + And disobedient sin. + + + + + +Fair Rosamond + + + + When as King Henry rulde this land, + The second of that name, + Besides the queene, he dearly lovde + A faire and comely dame. + + Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, + Her favour, and her face; + A sweeter creature in this worlde + Could never prince embrace. + + Her crisped lockes like threads of golde, + Appeard to each man's sight; + Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, + Did cast a heavenlye light. + + The blood within her crystal cheekes + Did such a colour drive, + As though the lillye and the rose + For mastership did strive. + + Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde, + Her name was called so, + To whom our queene, Dame Ellinor, + Was known a deadlye foe. + + The king therefore, for her defence + Against the furious queene, + At Woodstocke builded such a bower, + The like was never seene. + + Most curiously that bower was built, + Of stone and timber strong; + An hundered and fifty doors + Did to this bower belong: + + And they so cunninglye contriv'd, + With turnings round about, + That none but with a clue of thread + Could enter in or out. + + And for his love and ladyes sake, + That was so faire and brighte, + The keeping of this bower he gave + Unto a valiant knighte. + + But fortune, that doth often frowne + Where she before did smile, + The kinges delighte and ladyes joy + Full soon shee did beguile: + + For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, + Whom he did high advance, + Against his father raised warres + Within the realme of France. + + But yet before our comelye king + The English land forsooke, + Of Rosamond, his lady faire, + His farewelle thus he tooke: + + "My Rosamonde, my only Rose, + That pleasest best mine eye, + The fairest flower in all the worlde + To feed my fantasye,-- + + "The flower of mine affected heart, + Whose sweetness doth excelle, + My royal Rose, a thousand times + I bid thee nowe farwelle! + + "For I must leave my fairest flower, + My sweetest Rose, a space, + And cross the seas to famous France, + Proud rebelles to abase. + + "But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt + My coming shortlye see, + And in my heart, when hence I am, + Ile beare my Rose with mee." + + When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, + Did heare the king saye soe, + The sorrowe of her grieved heart + Her outward lookes did showe. + + And from her cleare and crystall eyes + The teares gusht out apace, + Which, like the silver-pearled dewe, + Ranne downe her comely face. + + Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, + Did waxe both wan and pale, + And for the sorrow she conceivde + Her vitall spirits faile. + + And falling downe all in a swoone + Before King Henryes face, + Full oft he in his princelye armes + Her bodye did embrace. + + And twentye times, with watery eyes, + He kist her tender cheeke, + Untill he had revivde againe + Her senses milde and meeke. + + "Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?" + The king did often say: + "Because," quoth shee, "to bloodye warres + My lord must part awaye. + + "But since your Grace on forrayne coastes, + Amonge your foes unkinde, + Must goe to hazard life and limbe, + Why should I staye behinde? + + "Nay, rather let me, like a page, + Your sworde and target beare; + That on my breast the blowes may lighte, + Which would offend you there. + + "Or lett mee, in your royal tent, + Prepare your bed at nighte, + And with sweete baths refresh your grace, + At your returne from fighte. + + "So I your presence may enjoye + No toil I will refuse; + But wanting you, my life is death: + Nay, death Ild rather chuse." + + "Content thy self, my dearest love, + Thy rest at home shall bee, + In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle; + For travell fits not thee. + + "Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; + Soft peace their sexe delightes; + Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; + Gay feastes, not cruell fightes. + + "My Rose shall safely here abide, + With musicke passe the daye, + Whilst I amonge the piercing pikes + My foes seeke far awaye. + + "My Rose shall shine in pearle and golde, + Whilst Ime in armour dighte; + Gay galliards here my love shall dance, + Whilst I my foes goe fighte. + + "And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste + To bee my loves defence, + Be carefull of my gallant Rose + When I am parted hence." + + And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, + As though his heart would breake; + And Rosamonde, for very griefe, + Not one plaine word could speake. + + And at their parting well they mighte + In heart be grieved sore: + After that daye, faire Rosamonde + The king did see no more. + + For when his Grace had past the seas, + And into France was gone, + With envious heart, Queene Ellinor + To Woodstocke came anone. + + And forth she calls this trustye knighte + In an unhappy houre, + Who, with his clue of twined-thread, + Came from this famous bower. + + And when that they had wounded him, + The queene this thread did gette, + And wente where Ladye Rosamonde + Was like an angell sette. + + But when the queene with stedfast eye + Beheld her beauteous face, + She was amazed in her minde + At her exceeding grace. + + "Cast off from thee those robes," she said, + "That riche and costlye bee; + And drinke thou up this deadlye draught + Which I have brought to thee." + + Then presentlye upon her knees + Sweet Rosamonde did falle; + And pardon of the queene she crav'd + For her offences all. + + "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares," + Faire Rosamonde did crye; + "And lett mee not with poison stronge + Enforced bee to dye. + + "I will renounce my sinfull life, + And in some cloyster bide; + Or else be banisht, if you please, + To range the world soe wide. + + "And for the fault which I have done, + Though I was forc'd theretoe, + Preserve my life, and punish mee + As you thinke meet to doe." + + And with these words, her lillie handes + She wrunge full often there; + And downe along her lovely face + Did trickle many a teare. + + But nothing could this furious queene + Therewith appeased bee; + The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, + As she knelt on her knee, + + She gave this comelye dame to drinke; + Who tooke it in her hand, + And from her bended knee arose, + And on her feet did stand, + + And casting up her eyes to heaven, + Shee did for mercye calle; + And drinking up the poison stronge, + Her life she lost withalle. + + And when that death through everye limbe + Had showde its greatest spite, + Her chiefest foes did plain confesse + Shee was a glorious wight. + + Her body then they did entomb, + When life was fled away, + At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, + As may be seene this day. + + + + + +Phillida and Corydon + + + + In the merrie moneth of Maye, + In a morne by break of daye, + With a troope of damselles playing + Forthe 'I yode' forsooth a maying; + + When anon by a wood side, + Where that Maye was in his pride, + I espied all alone + Phillida and Corydon. + + Much adoe there was, God wot: + He wold love, and she wold not. + She sayde, "Never man was trewe;" + He sayes, "None was false to you." + + He sayde, hee had lovde her longe; + She sayes, love should have no wronge. + Corydon wold kisse her then; + She sayes, "Maydes must kisse no men, + + "Tyll they doe for good and all." + When she made the shepperde call + All the heavens to wytnes truthe, + Never loved a truer youthe. + + Then with manie a prettie othe, + Yea and nay, and faithe and trothe, + Suche as seelie shepperdes use + When they will not love abuse, + + Love, that had bene long deluded, + Was with kisses sweete concluded; + And Phillida with garlands gaye + Was made the lady of the Maye. + + + + + +Fair Margaret and Sweet William + + + + As it fell out on a long summer's day, + Two lovers they sat on a hill; + They sat together that long summer's day, + And could not talk their fill. + + "I see no harm by you, Margaret, + And you see none by mee; + Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock + A rich wedding you shall see." + + Fair Margaret sat in her bower-wind w, + Combing her yellow hair; + There she spyed sweet William and his bride, + As they were a riding near. + + Then down she layd her ivory combe, + And braided her hair in twain: + She went alive out of her bower, + But ne'er came alive in't again. + + When day was gone, and night was come, + And all men fast asleep, + Then came the spirit of Fair Marg'ret, + And stood at William's feet. + + "Are you awake, sweet William?" shee said, + "Or, sweet William, are you asleep? + God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, + And me of my winding sheet." + + When day was come, and night was gone, + And all men wak'd from sleep, + Sweet William to his lady sayd, + "My dear, I have cause to weep. + + "I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, + Such dreames are never good: + I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,' + And my bride-bed full of blood." + + "Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, + They never do prove good; + To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,' + And thy bride-bed full of blood." + + He called up his merry men all, + By one, by two, and by three; + Saying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower, + By the leave of my ladie." + + And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower, + He knocked at the ring; + And who so ready as her seven brethren + To let sweet William in. + + Then he turned up the covering-sheet; + "Pray let me see the dead; + Methinks she looks all pale and wan. + She hath lost her cherry red. + + "I'll do more for thee, Margaret, + Than any of thy kin: + For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, + Though a smile I cannot win." + + With that bespake the seven brethren, + Making most piteous mone, + "You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, + And let our sister alone." + + "If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, + I do but what is right; + I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, + By day, nor yet by night. + + "Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, + Deal on your cake and your wine: + For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, + Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine." + + Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, + Sweet William dyed the morrow: + Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love, + Sweet William dyed for sorrow. + + Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, + And William in the higher: + Out of her brest there sprang a rose, + And out of his a briar. + + They grew till they grew unto the church top, + And then they could grow no higher; + And there they tyed in a true lover's knot, + Which made all the people admire. + + Then came the clerk of the parish, + As you the truth shall hear, + And by misfortune cut them down, + Or they had now been there. + + + + + +Annan Water + + + + "Annan Water's wading deep, + And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; + I will keep my tryst to-night, + And win the heart o' lovely Annie." + + He's loupen on his bonny grey, + He rade the right gate and the ready', + For a' the storm he wadna stay, + For seeking o' his bonny lady. + + And he has ridden o'er field and fell, + Through muir and moss, and stones and mire; + His spurs o' steel were sair to bide, + And frae her four feet flew the fire. + + "My bonny grey, noo play your part! + Gin ye be the steed that wins my dearie, + Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, + And never spur sail mak' you wearie." + + The grey was a mare, and a right gude mare: + But when she wan the Annan Water, + She couldna hae found the ford that night + Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. + + "O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, + Put off your boat for gouden money!" + But for a' the goud in fair Scotland, + He dared na tak' him through to Annie. + + "O I was sworn sae late yestreen, + Not by a single aith, but mony. + I'll cross the drumly stream to-night, + Or never could I face my honey." + + The side was stey, and the bottom deep, + Frae bank to brae the water pouring; + The bonny grey mare she swat for fear, + For she heard the water-kelpy roaring. + + He spurred her forth into the flood, + I wot she swam both strong and steady; + But the stream was broad, her strength did fail, + And he never saw his bonny lady. + + O wae betide the frush saugh wand! + And wae betide the bush of brier! + That bent and brake into his hand, + When strength of man and horse did tire. + + And wae betide ye, Annan Water! + This night ye are a drumly river; + But over thee we'll build a brig, + That ye nae mair true love may sever. + + + + + +The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington + + + + There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, + And he was a squire's son; + He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, + That lived in Islington. + + Yet she was coye, and would not believe + That he did love her soe, + Noe nor at any time would she + Any countenance to him showe. + + But when his friendes did understand + His fond and foolish minde, + They sent him up to faire London, + An apprentice for to binde. + + And when he had been seven long yeares, + And never his love could see,-- + "Many a teare have I shed for her sake, + When she little thought of mee." + + Then all the maids of Islington + Went forth to sport and playe, + All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; + She secretly stole awaye. + + She pulled off her gowne of greene, + And put on ragged attire, + And to faire London she would go + Her true love to enquire. + + And as she went along the high road, + The weather being hot and drye, + She sat her downe upon a green bank, + And her true love came riding bye. + + She started up, with a colour soe redd, + Catching hold of his bridle-reine; + "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, + "Will ease me of much paine." + + "Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, + Praye tell me where you were borne." + "At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, + "Where I have had many a scorne." + + "I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, + O tell me, whether you knowe + The bayliffes daughter of Islington." + "She is dead, sir, long agoe." + + "If she be dead, then take my horse, + My saddle and bridle also; + For I will into some farr countrye, + Where noe man shall me knowe." + + "O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, + She standeth by thy side; + She is here alive, she is not dead, + And readye to be thy bride." + + "O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, + Ten thousand times therefore; + For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, + Whom I thought I should never see more." + + + + + +Barbara Allen's Cruelty + + + + All in the merry month of May, + When green buds they were swelling, + Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay + For love o' Barbara Allen. + + He sent his man unto her then, + To the town where she was dwelling: + "O haste and come to my master dear, + If your name be Barbara Allen." + + Slowly, slowly rase she up, + And she cam' where he was lying; + And when she drew the curtain by, + Says, "Young man, I think you're dying." + + "O it's I am sick, and very, very sick, + And it's a' for Barbara Allen." + "O the better for me ye'se never be, + Tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling! + + "O dinna ye min', young man," she says, + "When the red wine ye were filling, + That ye made the healths gae round and round + And ye slighted Barbara Allen?" + + He turn'd his face unto the wa', + And death was wi' him dealing: + "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'; + Be kind to Barbara Allen." + + As she was walking o'er the fields, + She heard the dead-bell knelling; + + And every jow the dead-bell gave, + It cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!" + + "O mother, mother, mak' my bed, + To lay me down in sorrow. + My love has died for me to-day, + I'll die for him to-morrow." + + + + + +The Douglas Tragedy + + + + "Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, + "And put on your armour so bright; + Sweet William will hae Lady Margaret awi' + Before that it be light. + + "Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, + And put on your armour so bright, + And take better care of your youngest sister, + For your eldest's awa' the last night." + + He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, + And himself on a dapple grey, + With a buglet horn hung down by his side + And lightly they rode away. + + Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, + To see what he could see, + And there he spied her seven brethren bold + Come riding o'er the lea. + + "Light down, light down, Lady Margaret," he said, + "And hold my steed in your hand, + Until that against your seven brethren bold, + And your father I make a stand." + + She held his steed in her milk-white hand, + And never shed one tear, + Until that she saw her seven brethren fa' + And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. + + "O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, + "For your strokes they are wondrous sair; + True lovers I can get many a ane, + But a father I can never get mair." + + O, she's ta'en out her handkerchief, + It was o' the holland sae fine, + And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, + That were redder than the wine. + + "O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margaret," he said, + "O whether will ye gang or bide?" + "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, + "For you have left me nae other guide." + + He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, + And himself on a dapple grey, + With a buglet horn hung down by his side, + And slowly they baith rade away. + + O they rade on, and on they rade, + And a' by the light of the moon, + Until they came to yon wan water, + And there they lighted down. + + They lighted down to tak a drink + Of the spring that ran sae clear; + And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, + And sair she 'gan to fear. + + "Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, + "For I fear that you are slain!" + "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, + That shines in the water sae plain." + + O they rade on, and on they rade, + And a' by the light of the moon, + Until they came to his mother's ha' door, + And there they lighted down. + + "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, + "Get up, and let me in! + Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, + "For this night my fair lady I've win. + + "O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, + "O mak it braid and deep! + And lay Lady Margaret close at my back, + And the sounder I will sleep." + + Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, + Lady Margaret lang ere day: + And all true lovers that go thegither, + May they have mair luck than they! + + Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk, + Lady Margaret in Marie's quire; + Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, + And out o' the knight's a brier. + + And they twa met, and they twa plat + And fain they wad be near; + And a' the world might ken right weel, + They were twa lovers dear. + + But bye and rade the black Douglas + And wow but he was rough! + For he pulled up the bonny brier, + And flanged in St. Marie's Loch. + + + + + +Young Waters + + + + About Yule, when the wind blew cool; + And the round tables began, + A' there is come to our king's court + Mony a well-favoured man. + + The queen looked o'er the castle wa', + Beheld baith dale and down, + And then she saw young Waters + Come riding to the town. + + His footmen they did rin before, + His horsemen rade behind; + Ane mantle of the burning gowd + Did keep him frae the wind. + + Gowden graith'd[FN#1] his horse before, + And siller shod behind; + The horse young Waters rade upon + Was fleeter than the wind. + + + [FN#1] Graitih'd, girthed. + + + + Out then spake a wily lord, + Unto the queen said he: + "O tell me wha's the fairest face + Rides in the company?" + + "I've seen lord, and I've seen laird, + And knights of high degree, + But a fairer face than young Waters + Mine eyen did never see." + + Out then spake the jealous king + And an angry man was he: + "O if he had been twice as fair, + You might have excepted me." + + "You're neither laird nor lord," she says, + "But the king that wears the crown; + There is not a knight in fair Scotland, + But to thee maun bow down." + + For a' that she could do or say, + Appeased he wad nae be; + But for the words which she had said, + Young Waters he maun dee. + + They hae ta'en young Waters, + And put fetters to his feet; + They hae ta'en young Waters, + And thrown him in dungeon deep. + + "Aft I have ridden thro' Stirling town, + In the wind but and the weet; + But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town + Wi' fetters at my feet. + + "Aft have I ridden thro' Stirling town, + In the wind but and the rain; + But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town + Ne'er to return again." + + They hae ta'en to the heading-hill + His young son in his cradle; + And they hae ta'en to the heading-hill + His horse but and his saddle. + + They hae ta'en to the heading-hill + His lady fair to see; + And for the words the queen had spoke + Young Waters he did dee. + + + + + +Flodden Field + + + + King Jamie hath made a vow, + Keepe it well if he may: + That he will be at lovely London + Upon Saint James his day. + + Upon Saint James his day at noone, + At faire London will I be, + And all the lords in merrie Scotland, + They shall dine there with me. + + "March out, march out, my merry men, + Of hie or low degree; + I'le weare the crowne in London towne, + And that you soon shall be." + + Then bespake good Queene Margaret, + The teares fell from her eye: + "Leave off these warres, most noble King, + Keepe your fidelitie. + + "The water runnes swift, and wondrous deepe, + From bottome unto the brimme; + My brother Henry hath men good enough; + England is hard to winne." + + "Away" quoth he "with this silly foole! + In prison fast let her lie: + For she is come of the English bloud, + And for these words she shall dye." + + With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard, + The Queenes chamberlaine that day: + "If that you put Queene Margaret to death, + Scotland shall rue it alway." + + Then in a rage King Jamie did say, + "Away with this foolish mome; + He shall be hanged, and the other be burned, + So soone as I come home." + + At Flodden Field the Scots came in, + Which made our English men faine; + At Bramstone Greene this battaile was seene, + There was King Jamie slaine. + + His bodie never could be found, + When he was over throwne, + And he that wore faire Scotland's crowne + That day could not be knowne. + + Then presently the Scot did flie, + Their cannons they left behind; + Their ensignes gay were won all away, + Our souldiers did beate them blinde. + + To tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine, + That to the fight did stand, + And many prisoners tooke that day, + The best in all Scotland. + + That day made many [a] fatherlesse child, + And many a widow poore, + And many a Scottish gay lady + Sate weeping in her bower. + + Jack with a feather was lapt all in leather, + His boastings were all in vaine; + He had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance + He never went home againe. + + -------- + + This was written to adapt the ballad to the seventeenth century. + + + Now heaven we laude that never more + Such biding shall come to hand; + Our King, by othe, is King of both + England and faire Scotland. + + + + + +Helen of Kirkconnell + + + + I wad I were where Helen lies; + Night and day on me she cries; + O that I were where Helen lies, + On fair Kirkconnell 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 but my heart was sair + When my Love dropt and spak nae mair! + I laid her down wi' meikle care, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + As I went down the water side, + Nane but my foe to be my guide, + Nane but my foe to be my guide, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + I lighted down my sword to draw, + I hacked him in pieces sma', + I hacked him in pieces sma', + For her sake that died for me. + + O Helen fair, beyond compare! + I'll make a garland of thy hair, + Shall bind my heart for evermair, + Until the day I dee! + + O that I were where Helen lies + 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 were blest, + Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + I wad my grave were growing green, + A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, + And I in Helen's arms lying, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + I wad I were where Helen lies! + Night and day on me she cries, + And I am weary of the skies, + Since my Love died for me. + + + + + +Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale + + + + Come listen to me, you gallants so free, + All you that love mirth for to hear, + And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, + That lived in Nottinghamshire. + + As Robin Hood in the forest stood + All under the greenwood tree, + There he was aware of a brave young man, + As fine as fine might be. + + The youngster was clad in scarlet red, + In scarlet fine and gay + And he did frisk it over the plain, + And chaunted a roundelay. + + As Robin Hood next morning stood + Amongst the leaves so gay, + There did he espy the same young man + Come drooping along the way. + + The scarlet he wore the day before + It was clean cast away; + And at every step he fetched a sigh, + "Alas! and a well-a-day!" + + Then stepped forth brave Little John, + And Midge, the miller's son; + Which made the young man bend his bow, + When as he see them come. + + "Stand off! stand off!" the young man said, + "What is your will with me?" + "You must come before our master straight, + Under yon greenwood tree." + + And when he came bold Robin before, + Robin asked him courteously, + O, hast thou any money to spare, + For my merry men and me? + + "I have no money," the young man said, + "But five shillings and a ring; + And that I have kept this seven long years, + To have at my wedding. + + "Yesterday I should have married a maid, + But she was from me ta'en, + And chosen to be an old knight's delight, + Whereby my poor heart is slain." + + "What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood, + "Come tell me, without any fail." + "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, + "My name it is Allen-a-Dale." + + "What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, + "In ready gold or fee, + To help thee to thy true love again, + And deliver her unto thee?" + + "I have no money," then quoth the young man, + "No ready gold nor fee, + But I will swear upon a book + Thy true servant for to be." + + "How many miles is it to thy true love? + Come tell me without guile." + "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, + "It is but five little mile." + + Then Robin he hasted over the plain, + He did neither stint nor lin, + Until he came unto the church + Where Allen should keep his weddin'. + + "What hast thou here?" the bishop then said, + "I prithee now tell unto me." + "I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, + "And the best in the north country." + + "O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said, + "That music best pleaseth me." + "You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, + "Till the bride and bridegroom I see." + + With that came in a wealthy knight, + Which was both grave and old; + And after him a finikin lass, + Did shine like the glistering gold. + + "This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, + "That you do seem to make here; + For since we are come into the church, + The bride shall chuse her own dear." + + Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, + And blew blasts two and three; + When four-and-twenty bowmen bold + Came leaping over the lea. + + And when they came into the church-yard, + Marching all in a row, + The first man was Allen-a-Dale, + To give bold Robin his bow. + + "This is thy true love," Robin he said, + Young Allen, as I hear say; + And you shall be married this same time, + Before we depart away." + + "That shall not be," the bishop he cried, + "For thy word shall not stand; + They shall be three times asked in the church, + As the law is of our land." + + Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat, + And put it upon Little John; + "By the faith of my body," then Robin said, + "This cloth doth make thee a man." + + When Little John went into the quire, + The people began to laugh; + He asked them seven times into church, + Lest three times should not be enough. + + "Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, + Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; + And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, + Full dearly he shall her buy." + + And then having ended this merry wedding, + The bride looked like a queen; + And so they returned to the merry greenwood, + Amongst the leaves so green. + + + + + +Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne + + + + When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, + And leaves both large and longe, + Itt is merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest + To heare the small birdes songe. + + The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, + Sitting upon the spraye, + Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, + In the greenwood where he lay. + + "Now, by my faye," sayd jollye Robin, + "A sweaven I had this night; + I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, + That fast with me can fight. + + "Methought they did mee beate and binde, + And tooke my bow mee froe; + Iff I be Robin alive in this lande, + Ile be wroken on them towe." + + "Sweavens are swift, master," quoth John, + "As the wind that blowes ore the hill; + For if itt be never so loude this night, + To-morrow it may be still." + + "Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, + And John shall goe with mee, + For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, + In greenwood where the bee." + + Then they cast on their gownes of grene, + And tooke theyr bowes each one; + And they away to the greene forrest + A shooting forth are gone; + + Untill they came to the merry greenwood, + Where they had gladdest to bee; + There were they ware of a wight yeoman, + His body leaned to a tree. + + A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, + Of manye a man the bane; + And he was clad in his capull hyde, + Topp and tayll and mayne. + + "Stand you still, master," quoth Little John, + "Under this tree so grene, + And I will go to yond wight yeoman + To know what he doth meane." + + "Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, + And that I farley finde: + How offt send I my men beffore, + And tarry my selfe behinde! + + "It is no cunning a knave to ken, + And a man but heare him speake; + And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, + John, I thy head wold breake." + + As often wordes they breeden bale, + So they parted Robin and John; + And John is gone to Barnesdale; + The gates he knoweth eche one. + + But when he came to Barnesdale, + Great heavinesse there hee hadd, + For he found tow of his owne fell wes + Were slaine both in a slade. + + And Scarlette he was flying a-foote + Faste over stocke and stone, + For the sheriffe with seven score men + Fast after him is gone. + + "One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John, + "With Christ his might and mayne; + Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, + To stopp he shall be fayne." + + Then John bent up his long bende-bowe, + And fetteled him to shoote: + The bow was made of tender boughe, + And fell down to his foote. + + "Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, + That ere thou grew on a tree; + For now this day thou art my bale, + My boote when thou shold bee." + + His shoote it was but loosely shott, + Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, + For itt mett one of the sherriffes men, + Good William a Trent was slaine. + + It had bene better of William a Trent + To have bene abed with sorrowe, + Than to be that day in the green-wood slade + To meet with Little Johns arrowe. + + But as it is said, when men be mett + Fyve can doe more than three, + The sheriffe hath taken Little John, + And bound him fast to a tree. + + "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, + And hanged hye on a hill." + "But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth John, + "If itt be Christ his will." + + Lett us leave talking of Little John, + And thinke of Robin Hood, + How he is gone to the wight yeoman, + Where under the leaves he stood. + + "Good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd Robin so fayre, + "Good morrowe, good fellow," quoth he. + "Methinks by this bowe thou beares in thy hande, + A good archere thou sholdst bee." + + "I am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeoman, + "And of my morning tyde:" + "Ile lead thee through the wood," sayd Robin, + "Good fellow, Ile be thy guide." + + "I seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd, + "Men call him Robin Hood; + Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe + Than fortye pound soe good." + + "Now come with me, thou wight yeman, + And Robin thou soone shalt see; + But first let us some pastime find + Under the greenwood tree. + + "First let us some masterye make + Among the woods so even; + We may chance to meet with Robin Hood + Here att some unsett steven." + + They cutt them down two summer shroggs, + That grew both under a breere, + And set them threescore rood in twaine, + To shoote the prickes y-fere. + + "Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood, + "Leade on, I doe bidd thee." + "Nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd, + "My leader thou shalt bee." + + The first time Robin shot at the pricke, + He mist but an inch it fro; + The yeoman he was an archer good, + But he cold never shoote soe. + + The second shoote had the wightye yeoman, + He shote within the garlande; + But Robin he shott far better than hee, + For he clave the good pricke-wande. + + "A blessing upon thy heart," he sayd, + "Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode + For an thy hart be as good as thy hand, + Thou wert better then Robin Hoode. + + Now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he, + "Under the leaves of lyne." + "Nay, by my faith," quoth bolde Robin, + "Till thou have told me thine." + + "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee, + "And Robin to take Ime sworne; + And when I am called by my right name, + I am Guy of good Gisbrne." + + "My dwelling is in this wood," sayes Robin, + "By thee I set right nought: + I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale, + Whom thou so long hast sought." + + He that had neither beene kithe nor kin, + Might have seen a full fayre sight, + To see how together these yeomen went + With blades both browne and bright: + + To see how these yeomen together they fought + Two howres of a summers day, + Yett neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy + Them fettled to flye away. + + Robin was reachles on a roote, + And stumbled at that tyde; + And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all, + And hitt him ore the left side. + + "Ah, deere Lady," sayd Robin Hood tho, + "Thou art but mother and may'; + I think it was never mans destinye + To dye before his day." + + Robin thought on Our Ladye deere, + And soone leapt up againe, + And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke, + And he Sir Guy hath slayne. + + He took Sir Guy's head by the hayre, + And stuck itt upon his bowes end: + "Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, + Which thing must have an end." + + Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, + And nicked Sir Guy in the face, + That he was never on woman born + Cold tell whose head it was. + + Sayes, "Lye there, lye there now, Sir Guy, + And with me be not wrothe; + Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand, + Thou shalt have the better clothe." + + Robin did off his gowne of greene, + And on Sir Guy did throwe, + And hee put on that capull hyde, + That cladd him topp to toe. + + "The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, + Now with me I will beare; + For I will away to Barnesdale, + To see how my men doe fare." + + Robin Hood sett Guy's horne to his mouth, + And a loud blast in it did blow: + That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, + As he leaned under a lowe. + + "Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe, + "I heare nowe tydings good, + For yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, + And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. + + "Yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, + Itt blowes soe well in tyde, + And yonder comes that wightye yeoman, + Cladd in his capull hyde. + + "Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy, + Aske what thou wilt of mee." + "O I will none of thy gold," sayd Robin, + "Nor I will none of thy fee. + + "But now I have slaine the master," he sayes, + "Let me goe strike the knave; + For this is all the rewarde I aske. + Nor noe other will I have." + + "Thou art a madman," said the sheriffe, + "Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee; + But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, + Well granted it shale be." + + When Little John heard his master speake, + Well knewe he it was his steven; + "Now shall I be looset," quoth Little John, + "With Christ his might in heaven." + + Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John, + He thought to loose him belive: + The sheriffe and all his companye + Fast after him can drive. + + "Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin; + "Why draw you mee so neere? + Itt was never the use in our countrye, + Ones shrift another shold heere." + + But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife, + And losed John hand and foote, + And gave him Sir Guy's bow into his hand, + And bade it be his boote. + + Then John he took Guy's bow in his hand, + His boltes and arrowes eche one: + When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, + He fettled him to be gone. + + Towards his house in Nottingham towne + He fled full fast away, + And soe did all the companye, + Not one behind wold stay. + + But he cold neither runne soe fast, + Nor away soe fast cold ryde, + But Little John with an arrowe soe broad + He shott him into the 'backe'-syde. + + + + + +Robin Hood's Death and Burial + + + + When Robin Hood and Little John + Down a down, a down, a down, + Went o'er yon bank of broom, + Said Robin Hood to Little John, + "We have shot for many a pound: + Hey down, a down, a down. + + "But I am not able to shoot one shot more, + My arrows will not flee; + But I have a cousin lives down below, + Please God, she will bleed me." + + Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, + As fast as he can win; + But before he came there, as we do hear, + He was taken very ill. + + And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, + He knocked all at the ring, + But none was so ready as his cousin herself + For to let bold Robin in. + + "Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, + "And drink some beer with me?" + "No, I will neither eat nor drink, + Till I am blooded by thee." + + "Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, + "Which you did never see; + And if you please to walk therein, + You blooded by me shall be." + + She took him by the lily-white hand, + And led him to a private room; + And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, + Whilst one drop of blood would run. + + She blooded him in the vein of the arm, + And locked him up in the room; + There did he bleed all the live-long day, + Until the next day at noon. + + He then bethought him of a casement door, + Thinking for to begone; + He was so weak he could not leap, + Nor he could not get down. + + He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, + Which hung low down to his knee, + He set his horn unto his mouth, + And blew out weak blasts three. + + Then Little John, when hearing him, + As he sat under the tree, + "I fear my master is near dead, + He blows so wearily." + + Then Little John to Fair Kirkley is gone, + As fast as he can dree; + But when he came to Kirkley-hall, + He broke locks two or three; + + Until he came bold Robin to, + Then he fell on his knee; + "A boon, a boon," cries Little John, + "Master, I beg of thee." + + "What is that boon," quoth Robin Hood, + "Little John, thou begst of me?" + "It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, + And all their nunnery." + + "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, + "That boon I'll not grant thee; + I never hurt woman in all my life, + Nor man in woman's company. + + "I never hurt fair maid in all my time, + Nor at my end shall it be; + But give me my bent bow in my hand, + And a broad arrow I'll let flee; + And where this arrow is taken up, + There shall my grave digged be. + + "Lay me a green sod under my head, + And another under my feet; + And lay my bent bow by my side, + Which was my music sweet; + And make my grave of gravel and green, + Which is most right and meet. + + "Let me have length and breadth enough, + With a green sod under my head; + That they may say when I am dead, + Here lies bold Robin Hood." + + These words they readily promised him, + Which did bold Robin please; + And there they buried bold Robin Hood, + Near to the fair Kirkleys. + + + + + +The Twa Corbies + + + + As I was walking all alane, + I heard twa corbies making a maen: + The tane unto the t'ither did say, + "Whaur shall we gang and dine the day?" + + "O doun beside yon auld fail dyke, + I wot there lies a new-slain knight; + And naebody kens that he lies there + But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. + + "His hound is to the hunting gane, + His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, + His lady's ta'en another mate, + Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. + + "O we'll sit on his white hause bane, + And I'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en; + Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair + We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. + + "Mony a ane for him makes maen, + But nane shall ken whaur he is gane. + Over his banes when they are bare, + The wind shall blaw for evermair." + + + + + +Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny + + + + A SCOTTISH SONG + + + O waly, waly up the bank, + And waly, waly down the brae, + And waly, waly yon burn side, + Where I and my love were wont to gae. + I leant my back unto an aik, + I thought it was a trusty tree; + But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, + Sae my true love did lichtly me. + + O waly, waly, but gin love be bonny, + A little time while it is new; + But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, + And fades awa' like morning dew. + O wherfore shuld I busk my head? + Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair? + For my true love has me forsook, + And says he'll never loe me mair. + + Now Arthur-Seat sall be my bed, + The sheets shall neir be prest 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 cum? + For of my life I am wearýe. + + 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, + Nor blawing snaws inclemencýe; + 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, + But my love's heart grown cauld to me. + Whan we came in by Glasgow town, + We were a comely sight to see; + My love was clad in black velvet, + And I myself in cramasýe. + + But had I wist, before I kist, + That love had been sae ill to win, + I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, + And pinnd it with a siller pin. + And, oh! that my young babe were born, + And set upon the nurse's knee, + And I myself were dead and gane! + And the green grass growing over me. + + + + + +The Nut-brown Maid + + + + Be it right, or wrong, these men among + On women do complain; + Affirming this, how that it is + A labour spent in vain + To love them wele; for never a dele + They love a man again: + For let a man do what he can, + Their favour to attain, + Yet, if a new do them pursue, + Their first true lover then + Laboureth for nought; for from her thought + He is a banished man. + + I say not nay, but that all day + It is both writ and said + That woman's faith is, as who saith, + All utterly decayed; + But, nevertheless, right good witness + In this case might be laid, + That they love true, and continue, + Record the Nut-brown Maid: + Which, when her love came, her to prove, + To her to make his moan, + Would not depart; for in her heart + She loved but him alone. + + Then between us let us discuss + What was all the manere + Between them two: we will also + Tell all the pain, and fere, + That she was in. Now I begin, + So that ye me answere; + Wherefore, all ye, that present be + I pray you, give an ear. + I am the knight; I come by night, + As secret as I can; + Saying,' Alas! thus standeth the case, + I am a banished man.' + + + SHE + + And I your will for to fulfil + In this will not refuse; + Trusting to shew, in wordes few, + That men have an ill use + (To their own shame) women to blame, + And causeless them accuse: + Therefore to you I answer now, + All women to excuse,-- + Mine own heart dear, with you what chere? + I pray you, tell anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + It standeth so; a dede is do + Whereof great harm shall grow + My destiny is for to die + A shameful death, I trowe; + Or else to flee: the one must be. + None other way I know, + But to withdraw as an outlaw, + And take me to my bow. + Wherefore, adieu, my own heart true! + None other rede I can: + For I must to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + O Lord, what is this worldys bliss, + That changeth as the moon! + My summer's day in lusty May + Is darked before the noon. + I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay, + We depart not so soon. + Why say ye so? wheder will ye go? + Alas! what have ye done? + All my welfare to sorrow and care + Should change, if ye were gone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + I can believe, it shall you grieve, + And somewhat you distrain; + But, afterward, your paines hard + Within a day or twain + Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take + Comfort to you again. + Why should ye ought? for, to make thought + Your labour were in vain. + And thus I do; and pray you to, + As heartily as I can; + For I must to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Now, sith that ye have shewed to me + The secret of your mind, + I shall be plain to you again, + Like as ye shall me find. + Sith it is so, that ye will go, + I wolle not leave behind; + Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid + Was to her love unkind: + Make you ready, for so am I, + Although it were anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Yet I you rede to take good heed + What men will think and say: + Of young and old it shall be told, + That ye be gone away, + Your wanton will for to fulfil, + In green wood you to play; + And that ye might from your delight + No longer make delay. + Rather than ye should thus for me + Be called an ill woman, + Yet would I to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Though it be sung of old and young, + That I should be to blame, + Theirs be the charge, that speak so large + In hurting of my name: + For I will prove, that, faithful love + It is devoid of shame; + In your distress, and heaviness, + To part with you, the same: + And sure all tho, that do not so, + True lovers are they none; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + I counsel you, remember how, + It is no maiden's law, + Nothing to doubt, but to renne out + To wood with an outlaw: + For ye must there in your hand bear + A bow, ready to draw; + And, as a thief, thus must you live, + Ever in dread and awe; + Whereby to you great harm might grow: + Yet had I lever than, + That I had to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + I think not nay, but as ye say, + It is no maiden's lore; + But love may make me for your sake, + As I have said before, + To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot + To get us meat in store; + For so that I your company + May have, I ask no more: + From which to part, it maketh my heart + As cold as any stone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + For an outlaw this is the law, + That men him take and bind; + Without pity, hanged to be, + And waver with the wind. + If I had nede, (as God forbede!) + What rescue could ye find? + Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow + For fear would draw behind: + And no mervayle: for little avail + Were in your counsel then: + Wherefore I will to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Right well know ye, that women be + But feeble for to fight; + No womanhede it is indeed + To be bold as a knight: + Yet, in such fear if that ye were + With enemies day or night, + I would withstand, with bow in hand, + To greve them as I might, + And you to save; as women have + From death men many a one: + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Yet take good hede; for ever I drede + That ye could not sustain + The thorny ways, the deep valleys, + The snow, the frost, the rain, + The cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, + We must lodge on the plain; + And, us above, none other roof + But a brake bush, or twain; + Which soon should grieve you, I believe, + And ye would gladly then + That I had to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Sith I have here been partynere + With you of joy and bliss, + I must als part of your woe + Endure, as reason is: + Yet am I sure of one pleasure; + And, shortly, it is this: + That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde, + I could not fare amiss. + Without more speech, I you beseech + That we were soon agone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + If ye go thyder, ye must consider, + When ye have lust to dine, + There shall no meat be for you gete, + Nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine. + No shetes clean, to lie between, + Made of thread and twine; + None other house, but leaves and boughs, + To cover your head and mine; + O mine heart sweet, this evil diete + Should make you pale and wan; + Wherefore I will to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Among the wild dere, such an archere, + As men say that ye be, + Ne may not fail of good vitayle, + Where is so great plenty: + And water clear of the ryvere + Shall be full sweet to me; + With which in hele I shall right wele + Endure, as ye shall see; + And, or we go, a bed or two + I can provide anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Lo! yet, before, ye must do more, + If ye will go with me: + As cut your hair up by your ear, + Your kirtle by the knee; + With bow in hand, for to withstand + Your enemies, if need be: + And this same night before day-light, + To wood-ward will I flee. + If that ye will all this fulfil, + Do it shortly as ye can + Else will I to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + I shall as now do more for you + Than 'longeth to womanhede; + To shorte my hair, a bow to bear, + To shoot in time of need. + O my sweet mother, before all other + For you I have most drede: + But now, adieu! I must ensue, + Where fortune doth me lead. + All this make ye: Now let us flee; + The day cometh fast upon; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, + And I shall tell ye why,-- + Your appetite is to be light + Of love, I wele espy: + For, like as ye have said to me, + In like wise hardely + Ye would answere whosoever it were + In way of company. + It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold + And so is a woman. + Wherefore I to the wood will go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + If ye take heed, it is no need + Such words to say by me; + For oft ye prayed, and long assayed, + Or I you loved, parde: + And though that I of ancestry + A baron's daughter be, + Yet have you proved how I you loved + A squire of low degree; + And ever shall, whatso befall; + To die therefore anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + A baron's child to be beguiled! + It were a cursed dede; + To be felawe with an outlawe! + Almighty God forbede! + Yet better were, the poor squyere + Alone to forest yede, + Than ye should say another day, + That, by my cursed dede, + Ye were betrayed: Wherefore, good maid, + The best rede that I can, + Is, that I to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Whatever befall, I never shall + Of this thing you upbraid: + But if ye go, and leave me so, + Then have ye me betrayed. + Remember you wele, how that ye dele; + For, if ye, as ye said, + Be so unkind, to leave behind, + Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, + Trust me truly, that I shall die + Soon after ye be gone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + If that ye went, ye should repent; + For in the forest now + I have purvayed me of a maid, + Whom I love more than you; + Another fayrere, than ever ye were, + I dare it wele avow; + And of you both each should be wroth + With other, as I trow: + It were mine ease, to live in peace; + So will I, if I can; + Wherefore I to the wood will go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Though in the wood I understood + Ye had a paramour, + All this may nought remove my thought, + But that I will be your: + And she shall find me soft and kind, + And courteys every hour; + Glad to fulfil all that she will + Command me to my power: + For had ye, lo! an hundred mo, + Of them I would be one; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Mine own dear love, I see the proof + That ye be kind and true; + Of maid, and wife, in all my life, + The best that ever I knew. + Be merry and glad, be no more sad, + The case is changed new; + For it were ruth, that, for your truth, + Ye should have cause to rue. + Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said + To you, when I began; + I will not to the green wood go, + I am no banished man. + + + SHE + + These tidings be more glad to me, + Than to be made a queen, + If I were sure they should endure: + But it is often seen, + When men will break promise, they speak + The wordes on the splene. + Ye shape some wile me to beguile, + And steal from me, I ween: + Then, were the case worse than it was, + And I more wo-begone: + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Ye shall not nede further to drede; + I will not disparage + You, (God defend!) sith ye descend + Of so great a lineage. + Now understand; to Westmoreland, + Which is mine heritage, + I will you bring; and with a ring, + By way of marriage + I will you take, and lady make, + As shortly as I can: + Thus have you won an erly's son, + And not a banished man. + + + AUTHOR + + Here may ye see, that women be + In love, meek, kind, and stable; + Let never man reprove them then, + Or call them variable; + But, rather, pray God that we may + To them be comfortable; + Which sometime proveth such, as he loveth, + If they be charitable. + For sith men would that women should + Be meek to them each one; + Much more ought they to God obey, + And serve but Him alone. + + + + + +The Fause Lover + + + + A fair maid sat in her bower door, + Wringing her lily hands; + And by it came a sprightly youth, + Fast tripping o'er the strands. + + "Where gang ye, young John," she says, + "Sae early in the day? + It gars me think, by your fast trip, + Your journey's far away." + + He turn'd about wi' surly look, + And said, "What's that to thee? + I'm ga'en to see a lovely maid, + Mair fairer far than ye." + + "Now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, + In simmer, 'mid the flowers? + I shall repay ye back again, + In winter, 'mid the showers." + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, + Will ye not turn again? + For as ye look to ither women, + I shall do to other men." + + "Make your choice o' whom you please, + For I my choice will have; + I've chosen a maid more fair than thee, + I never will deceive." + + But she's kilt up her claithing fine, + And after him gaed she; + But aye he said, "Ye'll turn again, + Nae farder gae wi' me." + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, + Will ye never love me again? + Alas! for loving you sae well, + And you na me again." + + The firstan' town that they came till, + He bought her brooch and ring; + But aye he bade her turn again, + And gang nae farder wi' him. + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + + The nextan' town that they came till, + He bought her muff and gloves; + But aye he bade her turn again, + And choose some other loves. + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + + The nextan' town that they came till, + His heart it grew mair fain; + And he was deep in love wi' her. + As she was ower again. + + The nextan' town that they came till, + He bought her wedding gown; + And made her lady o' ha's and bowers, + In sweet Berwick town. + + + + + +The Mermaid + + + + To yon fause stream that, near the sea, + Hides mony an elf and plum, + And rives wi' fearful din the stanes, + A witless knicht did come. + + The day shines clear--far in he's gane + Whar shells are silver bright, + Fishes war loupin' a' aroun', + And sparklin' to the light. + + Whan, as he laved, sounds cam sae sweet + Frae ilka rock an' tree; + The brief was out, 'twas him it doomed + The mermaid's face to see. + + Frae 'neath a rock, sune, sune she rose, + And stately on she swam, + Stopped i' the midst, and becked and sang + To him to stretch his han'. + + Gowden glist the yellow links + That round her neck she'd twine; + Her een war o' the skyie blue, + Her lips did mock the wine; + + The smile upon her bonnie cheek + Was sweeter than the bee; + Her voice excelled the birdie's sang + Upon the birchen tree. + + Sae couthie, couthie did she look, + And meikle had she fleeched; + Out shot his hand--alas! alas! + Fast in the swirl he screeched. + + The mermaid leuch, her brief was gane, + And kelpie's blast was blawin', + Fu' low she duked, ne'er raise again, + For deep, deep was the fawin'. + + Aboon the stream his wraith was seen, + Warlochs tirled lang at gloamin'; + That e'en was coarse, the blast blew hoarse, + Ere lang the waves war foamin'. + + + + + +The Battle of Otterburn + + + + THE FIRST FYTTE + + + It fell about the Lammas tide, + When husbands winn their hay, + The doughty Douglas bound him to ride + Into England to take a prey. + + The Earl of Fife, withouten strife, + He bound him over Solway; + The great would ever together ride + That race they may rue for aye. + + Over Ottercap hill they came in, + And so down by Rotheley crag, + Upon Green Leighton they lighted down, + Styrande many a stag; + + And boldly brente Northumberland, + And harried many a town; + They did our Englishmen great wrong + To battle that were not bown. + + Then spake a berne upon the bent, + Of comfort that was not cold, + And said, "We have brente Northumberland, + We have all wealth in holde. + + "Now we have harried all Bamborough shire + All the wealth in the world have we; + I rede we ride to Newcastle, + So still and stalworthlye." + + Upon the morrow, when it was day, + The standards shone full bright; + To the Newcastle they took the way, + And thither they came full right. + + Sir Henry Percy lay at the Newcastle, + I tell you, withouten dread; + He has been a March-man all his days, + And kept Berwick upon Tweed. + + To the Newcastle when they came, + The Scots they cried on hyght: + "Sir Harry Percy, an thou bist within, + Come to the field and fight: + + "For we have brente Northumberland, + Thy heritage good and right; + And syne my lodging I have take, + With my brand dubbed many a knight." + + Sir Harry Percy came to the walls, + The Scottish host for to see: + "And thou hast brente Northumberland, + Full sore it rueth me. + + "If thou hast harried all Bamborough shire, + Thou hast done me great envy; + For the trespass thou hast me done, + The one of us shall die." + + "Where shall I bide thee?" said the Douglas; + "Or where wilt thou come to me?" + "At Otterburn in the high way, + There mayst thou well lodged be. + + "The roe full reckless there she runs, + To make thee game and glee; + The falcon and the pheasant both, + Among the holtes on hee. + + "There mayst thou have thy wealth at will, + Well lodged there mayst thou be; + It shall not be long ere I come thee till," + Said Sir Harry Percye. + + "There shall I bide thee," said the Douglas, + "By the faith of my body." + "Thither shall I come," said Sir Harry Percy, + "My troth I plight to thee." + + A pipe of wine he gave them over the walls, + For sooth, as I you say; + There he made the Douglas drink, + And all his host that day. + + The Douglas turned him homeward again, + For sooth withouten nay; + He took his lodging at Otterburn + Upon a Wednesday; + + And there he pyght his standard down. + His getting more and less; + And syne he warned his men to go + And get their geldings gress. + + A Scottish knight hoved upon the bent, + A watch I dare well say; + So was he ware on the noble Percy + In the dawning of the day. + + He pricked to his pavilion door, + As fast as he might ronne; + "Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, + "For His love that sits in throne. + + "Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, + "For thou mayst waken with wynne; + Yonder have I spied the proud Percy, + And seven standards with him." + + "Nay, by my troth," the Douglas said, + "It is but a feigned tale; + He durst not look on my broad banner, + For all England so hayle. + + "Was I not yesterday at the Newcastle, + That stands so fair on Tyne? + For all the men the Percy had, + He could not garre me once to dyne." + + He stepped out at his pavilion door, + To look, and it were less; + "Array you, lordyngs, one and all, + For here begins no peace. + + "The Earl of Menteith, thou art my eme, + The forward I give to thee; + The Earl of Huntley cawte and keen, + He shall with thee be. + + "The Lord of Buchan, in armour bright, + On the other hand he shall be; + Lord Johnstone, and Lord Maxwell, + They two shall be with me. + + "Swynton fair field upon your pride + To battle make you bowen; + Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, + Sir John of Agerstone." + + + + THE SECOND FYTTE + + + The Percy came before his host, + Which ever was a gentle knight, + Upon the Douglas loud did he cry, + "I will hold that I have hight; + + "For thou hast brente Northumberland, + And done me great envy; + For this trespass thou hast me done + The one of us shall die." + + The Douglas answered him again, + With great words up on hee, + And said, "I have twenty against thy one, + Behold, and thou mayst see." + + With that the Percy was grieved sore, + For sooth as I you say; + He lighted down upon his foot, + And shot his horse clean away. + + Every man saw that he did so, + That ryall was ever in rout; + Every man shot his horse him fro, + And light him round about. + + Thus Sir Harry Percy took the field, + For sooth as I you say, + Jesu Christ in heaven on high, + Did help him well that day. + + But nine thousand, there was no more, + If chronicle will not layne; + Forty thousand Scots and four + That day fought them again, + + But when the battle began to join, + In haste there came a knight, + Then letters fair forth hath he ta'en, + And thus he said full right: + + "My lord, your father he greets you well, + With many a noble knight; + He desires you to bide, + That he may see this fight. + + "The baron of Grastock is come out of the west, + With him a noble company; + All they lodge at your father's this night, + And the battle fain would they see." + + "For Jesu's love," said Sir Harry Percy, + "That died for you and me, + Wend to my lord, my father, again, + And say thou saw me not with ee; + + "My troth is plight to yon Scottish knight, + It needs me not to layne, + That I should bide him upon this bent, + And I have his troth again; + + "And if that I wend off this ground, + For sooth unfoughten away, + He would me call but a coward knight, + In his land another day. + + "Yet had I lever to be rynde and rent, + By Mary that mykel may, + Than ever my manhood should be reproved + With a Scot another day. + + "Wherefore shoot, archers, for my sake, + And let sharp arrows flee; + Minstrels, play up for your warison, + And well quit it shall be. + + "Every man think on his true love, + And mark him to the Trinity; + For to God I make mine a-vow + This day will I not flee." + + The bloody heart in the Douglas' arms, + His standard stood on high, + That every man might full well know; + Beside stood starres three. + + The white Li n on the English part, + For sooth as I you sayne, + The luces and the crescents both + The Scots fought them again. + + Upon Saint Andrew loud did they cry, + And thrice they shout on hyght, + And syne marked them on our Englishmen, + As I have told you right. + + Saint George the bright, our Lady's knight, + To name they were full fain, + Our Englishmen they cried on hyght, + And thrice they shout again. + + With that sharp arrows began to flee, + I tell you in certain; + Men of arms began to join; + Many a doughty man was there slain. + + The Percy and the Douglas met, + That either of them was fain; + They schapped together, while that they sweat, + With swords of fine Collayne; + + Till the blood from their basenets ran + As the roke doth in the rain. + "Yield thee to me," said the Douglas, + "Or else thou shalt be slain; + + "For I see by thy bright basenet, + Thou art some man of might; + And so I do by thy burnished brand, + Thou art an earl, or else a knight." + + "By my good faith," said the noble Percy, + "Now hast thou rede full right; + Yet will I never yield me to thee, + While I may stand and fight." + + They swapped together, while that they sweat, + With swordes sharp and long; + Each on other so fast they beat, + Till their helms came in pieces down. + + The Percy was a man of strength, + I tell you in this stound + He smote the Douglas at the sword's length, + That he felled him to the ground. + + The sword was sharp, and sore did byte, + I tell you in certain; + To the heart he did him smite, + Thus was the Douglas slain. + + The standards stood still on each side; + With many a grievous groan, + There they fought the day, and all the night, + And many a doughty man was slone. + + There was no freyke that there would fly, + But stiffly in stour did stand, + Echone hewing on other while they might dry, + With many a baleful brand. + + There was slain upon the Scottes side, + For sooth and certainly, + Sir James of Douglas there was slain, + That day that he did die. + + The Earl of Menteith he was slain. + Grysely groaned upon the ground; + Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, + Sir John of Agerstone. + + Sir Charles Murray in that place, + That never a foot would fly; + Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was, + With the Douglas did he die. + + There was slain upon the Scottes side, + For sooth as I you say, + Of four and forty thousand Scots, + Went but eighteen away. + + There was slain upon the English side, + For sooth and certainly, + A gentle knight, Sir John Fitzhugh, + It was the more pity. + + Sir James Harebotell there was slain, + For him their hearts were sore + The gentle Lovel there was slain, + That the Percy's standard bore. + + There was slain upon the English side, + For sooth as I you say, + Of nine thousand Englishmen, + Five hundred came away; + + The others were slayne in the field, + Christ keep their souls from woe, + Seeing there were so few friends + Against so many a foe! + + Then on the morn they made them biers + Of birch and hazel gray; + Many a widow with weeping tears + Their makes they fetch away. + + This fray began at Otterburn, + Between the night and the day; + There the Douglas lost his life, + And the Percy was led away. + + Then was there a Scottish prisoner ta'en, + Sir Hugh Montgomery was his name, + For sooth as I you say, + He borrowed the Percy home again. + + Now let us all for the Percy pray, + To Jesu most of might, + To bring his soul to the bliss of heaven, + For he was a gentle knight. + + + + + +The Lament of the Border Widow + + + + My love he built me a bonny bower, + And clad it a' wi' a lilye flower, + A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, + Than my true love he built for me. + + There came a man, by middle day, + He spied his sport and went away, + And brought the king that very night, + Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. + + He slew my knight, to me so dear; + He slew my knight, and poined his gear; + My servants all for life did flee, + And left me in extremitie. + + I sewed his sheet, making my mane; + I watched the corpse, myself alane; + I watched his body, night and day; + No living creature came that way. + + I took his body on my back, + And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat, + I digged a grave, and laid him in, + And happed him with the sod so green. + + But think na ye my heart was sair, + When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair; + Think na ye my heart was wae, + When I turned about, away to gae? + + Nae living man I'll love again, + Since that my lovely knight is slain; + W? ae lock of his yellow hair + I'll chain my heart for evermair. + + + + + +The Banks o' Yarrow + + + + 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. + + "What though ye be my sister's lord, + We'll cross our swords to-morrow." + "What though my wife your sister be, + I'll meet ye then on Yarrow." + + "O stay at hame, my ain gude lord! + O stay, my ain dear marrow! + My cruel brither will you betray + On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + + "O fare ye weel, my lady dear! + And put aside your sorrow; + For if I gae, I'll sune return + Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + + She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, + As oft she'd done before, O; + She belted him wi' his gude brand, + And he's awa' to Yarrow. + + When he gaed up the Tennies bank, + As he gaed mony a morrow, + Nine armed men lay in a den, + On the dowie braes o' Yarrow. + + "O come ye here to hunt or hawk + The bonny Forest thorough? + Or come ye here to wield your brand + Upon the banks o' Yarrow?" + + "I come not here to hunt or hawk, + As oft I've dune before, O, + But I come here to wield my brand + Upon the banks o' Yarrow. + + "If ye attack me nine to ane, + Then may God send ye sorrow!-- + Yet will I fight while stand I may, + On the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + + Two has he hurt, and three has slain, + On the bloody braes o' Yarrow; + But the stubborn knight crept in behind, + And pierced his body thorough. + + "Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John, + And tell your sister sorrow,-- + To come and lift her leafu' lord + On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + + Her brither John gaed ower yon hill, + As oft he'd dune before, O; + There he met his sister dear, + Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow. + + "I dreamt a dream last night," she says, + "I wish it binna sorrow; + I dreamt I pu'd the heather green + Wi' my true love on Yarrow." + + "I'll read your dream, sister," he says, + "I'll read it into sorrow; + Ye're bidden go take up your love, + He's sleeping sound on Yarrow." + + She's torn the ribbons frae her head + That were baith braid and narrow; + She's kilted up her lang claithing, + And she's awa' to Yarrow. + + She's ta'en him in her arms twa, + And gi'en him kisses thorough; + She sought to bind his mony wounds, + But he lay dead on Yarrow. + + "O haud your tongue," her father says, + "And let be a' your sorrow; + I'll wed you to a better lord + Than him ye lost on Yarrow." + + "O haud your tongue, father," she says, + "Far warse ye mak' my sorrow; + A better lord could never be + Than him that lies on Yarrow." + + She kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair, + As aft she had dune before, O; + And there wi' grief her heart did break, + Upon the banks o' Yarrow. + + + + + +Hugh of Lincoln + + + + SHOWING THE CRUELTY OF A JEW'S DAUGHTER + + + Four and twenty bonny boys + Were playing at the ba', + And up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh, + The flower among them a'. + + He kicked the ba' there wi' his foot, + And keppit it wi' his knee, + Till even in at the Jew's window + He gart the bonny ba' flee. + + "Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, + Cast out the ba' to me." + "Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter, + Till ye come up to me." + + "Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, + Come up and get the ba'." + "I winna come, I mayna come, + Without my bonny boys a'." + + She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden, + Where the grass grew lang and green, + She's pu'd an apple red and white, + To wyle the bonny boy in. + + She's wyled him in through ae chamber, + She's wyled him in through twa, + She's wyled him into the third chamber, + And that was the warst o' a'. + + She's tied the little boy, hands and feet, + She's pierced him wi' a knife, + She's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup, + And twinn'd him o' his life. + + She row'd him in a cake o' lead, + Bade him lie still and sleep, + She cast him in a deep draw-well + Was fifty fathom deep. + + When bells were rung, and mass was sung, + And every bairn went hame, + Then ilka lady had her young son, + But Lady Helen had nane. + + She row'd her mantle her about, + And sair, sair 'gan she weep; + And she ran unto the Jew's house, + When they were all asleep. + + "My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh, + I pray thee to me speak!" + "Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-well + 'Gin ye your son wad seek." + + Lady Helen ran to the deep draw-well, + And knelt upon her knee: + "My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here, + I pray thee speak to me!" + + "The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, + The well is wondrous deep; + A keen penknife sticks in my heart, + It is hard for me to speak. + + "Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, + Fetch me my winding-sheet; + And at the back o' merry Lincoln, + It's there we twa sall meet." + + Now Lady Helen she's gane hame, + Made him a winding-sheet; + And at the back o' merry Lincoln, + The dead corpse did her meet. + + And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln + Without men's hands were rung; + And a' the books o' merry Lincoln + Were read without men's tongue: + Never was such a burial + Sin' Adam's days begun. + + + + + +Sir Patrick Spens + + + + The king sits in Dunfermline town, + Drinking the blude-red wine; + "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, + To sail this new ship of mine?" + + O up and spak' an eldern knight, + Sat at the king's right knee, + "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, + That ever sailed the sea." + + Our king has written a braid letter, + And seated 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 of Noroway + 'Tis thou maun bring her hame." + + The first word that Sir Patrick read, + Sae loud loud laughed he; + The neist word that Sir Patrick read, + The tear blinded his ee. + + "O wha is this has done this deed, + And tauld the king o' me, + To send us out at this time of the 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 of Noroway, + 'Tis we must fetch her hame." + + They hoysed their sails an Moneday morn, + Wi' a' the speed they may; + They hae landed in Noroway, + Upon a Wednesday. + + They hadna been a week, a week, + In Noroway, but twae, + When that the lords o' Noroway + Began aloud to say: + + "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, + And a' our queen's fee." + "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! + Fu' loud I hear ye lie; + + "For I brought as much white monie, + As gane my men and me, + And I brought a half-fou of gude red goud, + Out o'er the sea wi' me. + + "Make ready, make ready, my merry men a', + Our gude ship sails the morn." + "Now, ever alake, my master dear, + I fear a deadly storm! + + "I saw the new moon, late yestreen, + Wi' the old moon in her arm; + And, if we gang to sea, master, + I fear we'll come to harm." + + They hadna sailed a league, a league, + A league but barely three, + When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud + And gurly grew the sea. + + The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, + It was sic a deadly storm; + And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, + Till a' her sides were torn. + + "O where will I get a gude sail'r, + To take my helm in hand, + Till I get up to the tall top-mast, + To see if I can spy land?" + + "O here am I, a sailor gude, + To take the helm in hand, + Till you go up to the tall top-mast; + But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." + + He hadna gane a step, a step, + A step but barely ane, + When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, + And the salt sea it cam in. + + "Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith, + Another o' the twine, + And wap them into our ship's side, + And let nae the sea come in." + + They fetched a web o' the silken claith, + Another o' the twine, + And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, + But still the sea cam in. + + O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords + To weet their cork-heeled shoon! + But lang or a' the play was played, + They wat their hats aboon. + + And mony was the feather bed, + That flattered on the faem; + And mony was the gude lord's son, + That never mair cam hame. + + The ladies wrang their fingers white, + The maidens tore their hair, + A' for the sake of their true loves + For them they'll see nae mair. + + 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, + With their goud kaims in their hair + A' waiting for their ain dear loves, + For them they'll see nae mair! + + O forty miles off Aberdeen, + 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, + And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens + Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Old English Ballads, by +George Wharton Edwards + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + +***** This file should be named 9405-8.txt or 9405-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/4/0/9405/ + +Produced by John B. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/9405-8.zip b/9405-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..49af543 --- /dev/null +++ b/9405-8.zip diff --git a/9405-h.zip b/9405-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..63e5a26 --- /dev/null +++ b/9405-h.zip diff --git a/9405-h/9405-h.htm b/9405-h/9405-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d51d41b --- /dev/null +++ b/9405-h/9405-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4635 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + A Book of Old English Ballads, by George Wharton Edwards + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Old English Ballads, by +George Wharton Edwards + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Book of Old English Ballads + +Author: George Wharton Edwards + +Commentator: Hamilton W. Mabie + +Release Date: August 3, 2009 [EBook #9405] +Last Updated: January 26, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by John B. Hare, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + A BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS + </h1> + <h4> + With an Accompaniment of Decorative Drawings + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By George Wharton Edwards + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + And an Introduction by Hamilton W. Mabie + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + 1896 + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_INTR"> Introduction </a><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkchevy"> Chevy Chace </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> King Leir and his Three Daughters </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> Fair Rosamond </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Phillida and Corydon </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Fair Margaret and Sweet William </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> Annan Water </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Barbara Allen's Cruelty </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> The Douglas Tragedy </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Young Waters </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Flodden Field </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Helen of Kirkconnell </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Robin Hood's Death and Burial </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Twa Corbies </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> The Nut-brown Maid </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Fause Lover </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> The Mermaid </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> The Battle of Otterburn </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> The Lament of the Border Widow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> The Banks o' Yarrow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> Hugh of Lincoln </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Sir Patrick Spens </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + Introduction + </h2> + <p> + Goethe, who saw so many things with such clearness of vision, brought out + the charm of the popular ballad for readers of a later day in his remark + that the value of these songs of the people is to be found in the fact + that their motives are drawn directly from nature; and he added, that in + the art of saying things compactly, uneducated men have greater skill than + those who are educated. It is certainly true that no kind of verse is so + completely out of the atmosphere of modern writing as the popular ballad. + No other form of verse has, therefore, in so great a degree, the charm of + freshness. In material, treatment, and spirit, these bat lads are set in + sharp contrast with the poetry of the hour. They deal with historical + events or incidents, with local traditions, with personal adventure or + achievement. They are, almost without exception, entirely objective. + Contemporary poetry is, on the other hand, very largely subjective; and + even when it deals with events or incidents it invests them to such a + degree with personal emotion and imagination, it so modifies and colours + them with temperamental effects, that the resulting poem is much more a + study of subjective conditions than a picture or drama of objective + realities. This projection of the inward upon the outward world, in such a + degree that the dividing line between the two is lost, is strikingly + illustrated in Maeterlinck's plays. Nothing could be in sharper contrast, + for instance, than the famous ballad of "The Hunting of the Cheviot" and + Maeterlinck's "Princess Maleine." There is no atmosphere, in a strict use + of the word, in the spirited and compact account of the famous contention + between the Percies and the Douglases, of which Sir Philip Sidney said + "that I found not my heart moved more than with a Trumpet." It is a + breathless, rushing narrative of a swift succession of events, told with + the most straight-forward simplicity. In the "Princess Maleine," on the + other hand, the narrative is so charged with subjective feeling, the world + in which the action takes place is so deeply tinged with lights that never + rested on any actual landscape, that all sense of reality is lost. The + play depends for its effect mainly upon atmosphere. Certain very definite + impressions are produced with singular power, but there is no clear, clean + stamping of occurrences on the mind. The imagination is skilfully awakened + and made to do the work of observation. + </p> + <p> + The note of the popular ballad is its objectivity; it not only takes us + out of doors, but it also takes us out of the individual consciousness. + The manner is entirely subordinated to the matter; the poet, if there was + a poet in the case, obliterates himself. What we get is a definite report + of events which have taken place, not a study of a man's mind nor an + account of a man's feelings. The true balladist is never introspective; he + is concerned not with himself but with his story. There is no + self-disclosure in his song. To the mood of Senancour and Amiel he was a + stranger. Neither he nor the men to whom he recited or sang would have + understood that mood. They were primarily and unreflectively absorbed in + the world outside of themselves. They saw far more than they meditated; + they recorded far more than they moralized. The popular ballads are, as a + rule, entirely free from didacticism in any form; that is one of the main + sources of their unfailing charm. They show not only a childlike curiosity + about the doings of the day and the things that befall men, but a + childlike indifference to moral inference and justification. The bloodier + the fray the better for ballad purposes; no one feels the necessity of + apology either for ruthless aggression or for useless blood-letting; the + scene is reported as it was presented to the eye of the spectator, not to + his moralizing faculty. He is expected to see and to sing, not to + scrutinize and meditate. In those rare cases in which a moral inference is + drawn, it is always so obvious and elementary that it gives the impression + of having been fastened on at the end of the song, in deference to + ecclesiastical rather than popular feeling. + </p> + <p> + The social and intellectual conditions which fostered + self-unconsciousness,—interest in things, incidents, and adventures + rather than in moods and inward experiences,—and the unmoral or non + moralizing attitude towards events, fostered also that delightful naivete + which contributes greatly to the charm of many of the best ballads; a + naivete which often heightens the pathos, and, at times, softens it with + touches of apparently unconscious humour; the naivete of the child which + has in it something of the freshness of a wildflower, and yet has also a + wonderful instinct for making the heart of the matter plain. This quality + has almost entirely disappeared from contemporary verse among cultivated + races; one must go to the peasants of remote parts of the Continent to + discover even a trace of its presence. It has a real, but short-lived + charm, like the freshness which shines on meadow and garden in the brief + dawn which hastens on to day. + </p> + <p> + This frank, direct play of thought and feeling on an incident, or series + of incidents, compensates for the absence of a more perfect art in the + ballads; using the word "art" in its true sense as including complete, + adequate, and beautiful handling of subject-matter, and masterly working + out of its possibilities. These popular songs, so dear to the hearts of + the generations on whose lips they were fashioned, and to all who care for + the fresh note, the direct word, the unrestrained emotion, rarely touch + the highest points of poetic achievement. Their charm lies, not in their + perfection of form, but in their spontaneity, sincerity, and graphic + power. They are not rivers of song, wide, deep, and swift; they are rather + cool, clear springs among the hills. In the reactions against + sophisticated poetry which set in from lime to time, the popular ballad—the + true folk-song—has often been exalted at the expense of other forms + of verse. It is idle to attempt to arrange the various forms of poetry in + an order of absolute values; it is enough that each has its own quality, + and, therefore, its own value. The drama, the epic, the ballad, the lyric, + each strikes its note in the complete expression of human emotion and + experience. Each belongs to a particular stage of development, and each + has the authority and the enduring charm which attach to every authentic + utterance of the spirit of man under the conditions of life. + </p> + <p> + In this wide range of human expression the ballad follows the epic as a + kind of aftermath; a second and scattered harvest, springing without + regularity or nurture out of a rich and unexhausted soil. The epic fastens + upon some event of such commanding importance that it marks a main current + of history; some story, historic, or mythologic; some incident susceptible + of extended narrative treatment. It is always, in its popular form, a + matter of growth it is direct, simple, free from didacticism; + representing, as Aristotle says, "a single action, entire and complete." + It subordinates character to action; it delights in episode and dialogue; + it is content to tell the story as a story, and leave the moralization to + hearers or readers. The popular ballad is so closely related to the + popular epic that it may be said to reproduce its qualities and + characteristics within a narrower compass, and on a smaller scale. It also + is a piece of the memory of the people, or a creation of the imagination + of the people; but the tradition or fact which it preserves is of local, + rather than national importance. It is indifferent to nice distinctions + and delicate gradations or shadings; its power springs from its + directness, vigour, and simplicity. It is often entirely occupied with the + narration or description of a single episode; it has no room for dialogue, + but it often secures the effect of the dialogue by its unconventional + freedom of phrase, and sometimes by the introduction of brief and compact + charge and denial, question and reply. Sometimes the incidents upon which + the ballad makers fastened, have a unity or connection with each other + which hints at a complete story. The ballads which deal with Robin Hood + are so numerous and so closely related that they constantly suggest, not + only the possibility, but the probability of epic treatment. It is + surprising that the richness of the material, and its notable illustrative + quality, did not inspire some earlier Chaucer to combine the incidents in + a sustained narrative. But the epic poet did not appear, and the most + representative of English popular heroes remains the central figure in a + series of detached episodes and adventures, preserved in a long line of + disconnected ballads. + </p> + <p> + This apparent arrest, in the ballad stage, of a story which seemed + destined to become an epic, naturally suggests the vexed question of the + author ship of the popular ballads. They are in a very real sense the + songs of the people; they make no claim to individual authorship; on the + contrary, the inference of what may be called community authorship is, in + many instances, irresistible. They are the product of a social condition + which, so to speak, holds song of this kind in solution; of an age in + which improvisation, singing, and dancing are the most natural and + familiar forms of expression. They deal almost without exception with + matters which belong to the community memory or imagination; they + constantly reappear with variations so noticeable as to indicate free and + common handling of themes of wide local interest. All this is true of the + popular ballad; but all this does not decisively settle the question of + authorship. What share did the community have in the making of these + songs, and what share fell to individual singers? + </p> + <p> + Herder, whose conception of the origin and function of literature was so + vitalizing in the general aridity of thinking about the middle of the last + century, and who did even more for ballad verse in Germany than Bishop + Percy did in England, laid emphasis almost exclusively on community + authorship. His profound instinct for reality in all forms of art, his + deep feeling for life, and the immense importance he attached to + spontaneity and unconsciousness in the truest productivity made community + authorship not only attractive but inevitable to him. In his pronounced + reaction against the superficial ideas of literature so widely held in the + Germany of his time, he espoused the conception of community authorship as + the only possible explanation of the epics, ballads, and other folk-songs. + In nature and popular life, or universal experience, he found the rich + sources of the poetry whose charm he felt so deeply, and whose power and + beauty he did so much to reveal to his contemporaries. Genius and nature + are magical words with him, because they suggested such depths of being + under all forms of expression; such unity of the whole being of a race in + its thought, its emotion, and its action; such entire unconsciousness of + self or of formulated aim, and such spontaneity of spirit and speech. The + language of those times, when words had not yet been divided into nobles, + middle-class, and plebeians, was, he said, the richest for poetical + purposes. "Our tongue, compared with the idiom of the savage, seems + adapted rather for reflection than for the senses or imagination. The + rhythm of popular verse is so delicate, so rapid, so precise, that it is + no easy matter to defect it with our eyes; but do not imagine it to have + been equally difficult for those living populations who listened to, + instead of reading it; who were accustomed to the sound of it from their + infancy; who themselves sang it, and whose ear had been formed by its + cadence." This conception of poetry as arising in the hearts of the people + and taking form on their lips is still more definitely and strikingly + expressed in two sentences, which let us into, the heart of Herder's + philosophy of poetry: "Poetry in those happy days lived in the ears of the + people, on the lips and in the harps of living bards; it sang of history, + of the events of the day, of mysteries, miracles, and signs. It was the + flower of a nation's character, language, and country; of its occupations, + its prejudices, its passions, its aspirations, and its soul." In these + words, at once comprehensive and vague, after the manner of Herder, we + find ourselves face to face with that conception not only of popular song + in all its forms, but with literature as a whole, which has revolutionized + literary study in this century, and revitalized it as well. For Herder was + a man of prophetic instinct; he sometimes felt more clearly than he saw; + he divined where he could not reach results by analysis. He was often + vague, fragmentary, and inconclusive, like all men of his type; but he had + a genius for getting at the heart of things. His statements often need + qualification, but he is almost always on the tight track. When he says + that the great traditions, in which both the memory and the imagination of + a race were engaged, and which were still living in the mouths of the + people, "of themselves took on poetic form," he is using language which is + too general to convey a definite impression of method, but he is probably + suggesting the deepest truth with regard to these popular stories. They + actually were of community origin; they actually were common property; + they were given a great variety of forms by a great number of persons; the + forms which have come down to us are very likely the survivors of a kind + of in formal competition, which went on for years at the fireside and at + the festivals of a whole country side. + </p> + <p> + Barger, whose "Lenore" is one of the most widely known of modern ballads, + held the same view of the origin of popular song, and was even more + definite in his confession of faith than Herder. He declared in the most + uncompromising terms that all real poetry must have a popular origin; "can + be and must be of the people, for that is the seal of its perfection." And + he comments on the delight with which he has listened, in village street + and home, to unwritten songs; the poetry which finds its way in quiet + rivulets to the remotest peasant home. In like manner, Helene Vacaresco + overheard the songs of the Roumanian people; hiding in the maize to catch + the reaping songs; listening at spinning parties, at festivals, at + death-beds, at taverns; taking the songs down from the lips of peasant + women, fortune-tellers, gypsies, and all manner of humble folk who were + the custodians of this vagrant community verse. We have passed so entirely + out of the song-making period, and literature has become to us so + exclusively the work of a professional class, that we find it difficult to + imagine the intellectual and social conditions which fostered + improvisation on a great scale, and trained the ear of great populations + to the music of spoken poetry. It is almost impossible for us to + disassociate literature from writing. There is still, however, a + considerable volume of unwritten literature in the world in the form of + stories, songs, proverbs, and pithy phrases; a literature handed down in + large part from earlier times, but still receiving additions from + contemporary men and women. + </p> + <p> + This unwritten literature is to be found, it is hardly necessary to say, + almost exclusively among country people remote from towns, and whose + mental attitude and community feeling reproduce, in a way, the conditions + under which the English and Scotch ballads were originally composed. The + Roumanian peasants sing their songs upon every occasion of domestic or + local interest; and sowing and harvesting, birth, christening, marriage, + the burial, these notable events in the life of the country side are all + celebrated by unknown poets; or, rather, by improvisers who give definite + form to sentiments, phrases, and words which are on many lips. The Russian + peasant tells his stories as they were told to him; those heroic epics + whose life is believed, in some cases, to date back at least a thousand + years. These great popular stories form a kind of sacred inheritance + bequeathed by one generation to another as a possession of the memory, and + are almost entirely unrelated to the written literature of the country. + Miss Hapgood tells a very interesting story of a government official, + stationed on the western shore of Lake Onega, who became so absorbed in + the search for this literature of the people that he followed singers and + reciters from place to place, eager to learn from their lips the most + widely known of these folk tales. On such an expedition of discovery he + found himself, one stormy night, on an island in the lake. The hut of + refuge was already full of stormbound peasants when he entered. Having + made himself some tea, and spread his blanket in a vacant place, he fell + asleep. He was presently awakened by a murmur of recurring sounds. Sitting + up, he found the group of peasants hanging on the words of an old man, of + kindly face, expressive eyes, and melodious voice, from whose lips flowed + a marvellous song; grave and gay by turns, monotonous and passionate in + succession; but wonderfully fresh, picturesque, and fascinating. The + listener soon became aware that he was hearing, for the first time, the + famous story of "Sadko, the Merchant of Novgorod." It was like being + present at the birth of a piece of literature! + </p> + <p> + The fact that unwritten songs and stories still exist in great numbers + among remote country-folk of our own time, and that additions are still + made to them, help us to understand the probable origin of our own popular + ballads, and what community authorship may really mean. To put ourselves, + even in thought, in touch with the ballad-making period in English and + Scotch history, we must dismiss from our minds all modern ideas of + authorship; all notions of individual origination and ownership of any + form of words. Professor ten Brink tells us that in the ballad-making age + there was no production; there was only reproduction. There was a stock of + traditions, memories, experiences, held in common by large populations, in + constant use on the lips of numberless persons; told and retold in many + forms, with countless changes, variations, and modifications; without + conscious artistic purpose, with no sense of personal control or + possession, with no constructive aim either in plot or treatment; no + composition in the modern sense of the term. Such a mass of poetic + material in the possession of a large community was, in a sense, fluid, + and ran into a thousand forms almost without direction or premeditation. + Constant use of such rich material gave a poetic turn of thought and + speech to countless persons who, under other conditions, would have given + no sign of the possession of the faculty of imagination. + </p> + <p> + There was not only the stimulus to the faculty which sees events and + occurrences with the eyes of the imagination, but there was also constant + and familiar use of the language of poetry. To speak metrically or + rhythmically is no difficult matter if one is in the atmosphere or habit + of verse-making; and there is nothing surprising either in the feats of + memory or of improvisation performed by the minstrels and balladists of + the old time. The faculty of improvising was easily developed and was very + generally used by people of all classes. This facility is still possessed + by rural populations, among whom songs are still composed as they are + sting, each member of the company contributing a new verse or a variation, + suggested by local conditions, of a well-known stanza. When to the + possession of a mass of traditions and stories and of facility of + improvisation is added the habit of singing and dancing, it is not + difficult to reconstruct in our own thought the conditions under which + popular poetry came into being, nor to understand in what sense a + community can make its own songs. In the brave days when ballads were + made, the rustic peoples were not mute, as they are to-day; nor sad, as + they have become in so many parts of England. They sang and they danced by + instinct and as an expression of social feeling. Originally the ballads + were not only sung, but they gave measure to the dance; they grew from + mouth to mouth in the very act of dancing; individual dancers adding verse + to verse, and the frequent refrain coming in as a kind of chorus. Gesture + and, to a certain extent, acting would naturally accompany so free and + general an expression of community feeling. There was no poet, because all + were poets. To quote Professor ten Brink once more:— + </p> + <p> + "Song and playing were cultivated by peasants, and even by freedmen and + serfs. At beer-feasts the harp went from hand to hand. Herein lies the + essential difference between that age and our own. The result of poetical + activity was not the property and was not the production of a single + person, but of the community. The work of the individual endured only as + long as its delivery lasted. He gained personal distinction only as a + virtuoso. The permanent elements of what he presented, the material, the + ideas, even the style and metre, already existed. 'The work of the singer + was only a ripple in the stream of national poetry. Who can say how much + the individual contributed to it, or where in his poetical recitation + memory ceased and creative impulse began! In any case the work of the + individual lived on only as the ideal possession of the aggregate body of + the people, and it soon lost the stamp of originality. In view of such a + development of poetry, we must assume a time when the collective + consciousness of a people or race is paramount in its unity; when the + intellectual life of each is nourished from the same treasury of views and + associations, of myths and sagas; when similar interests stir each breast; + and the ethical judgment of all applies itself to the same standard. In + such an age the form of poetical expression will also be common to all, + necessarily solemn, earnest, and simple." + </p> + <p> + When the conditions which produced the popular ballads become clear to the + imagination, their depth of rootage, not only in the community life but in + the community love, becomes also clear. We under stand the charm which + these old songs have for us of a later age, and the spell which they cast + upon men and women who knew the secret of their birth; we understand why + the minstrels of the lime, when popular poetry was in its best estate, + were held in such honour, why Taillefer sang the song of Roland at the + head of the advancing Normans on the day of Hastings, and why good Bishop + Aldhelm, when he wanted to get the ears of his people, stood on the bridge + and sang a ballad! These old songs were the flowering of the imagination + of the people; they drew their life as directly from the general + experience, the common memory, the universal feelings, as did the Greek + dramas in those primitive times, when they were part of rustic festivity + and worship. The popular ballads have passed away with the conditions + which produced them. Modern poets have, in several instances, written + ballads of striking picturesqueness and power, but as unlike the ballad of + popular origin as the world of to-day is unlike the world in which "Chevy + Chase" was first sung. These modern ballads are not necessarily better or + worse than their predecessors; but they are necessarily different. It is + idle to exalt the wild flower at the expense of the garden flower; each + has its fragrance, its beauty, its sentiment; and the world is wide! + </p> + <p> + In the selection of the ballads which appear in this volume, no attempt + has been made to follow a chronological order or to enforce a rigid + principle of selection of any kind. The aim has been to bring within + moderate compass a collection of these songs of the people which should + fairly represent the range, the descriptive felicity, the dramatic power, + and the genuine poetic feeling of a body of verse which is still, it is to + be feared, unfamiliar to a large number of those to whom it would bring + refreshment and delight. + </p> + <p> + HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><a name="linkchevy" id="linkchevy"></a> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Chevy Chace + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God prosper long our noble king, + Our liffes and safetyes all; + A woefull hunting once there did + In Chevy-Chace befall. + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Erle Percy took his way; + The child may rue that is unborne + The hunting of that day. + + The stout Erle of Northumberland + A vow to God did make, + His pleasure in the Scottish woods + Three summers days to take; + + The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace + To kill and beare away: + These tydings to Erle Douglas came, + In Scotland where he lay. + + Who sent Erie Percy present word, + He wold prevent his sport; + The English Erle not fearing that, + Did to the woods resort, + + With fifteen hundred bow-men bold, + All chosen men of might, + Who knew full well in time of neede + To ayme their shafts arright. + + The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, + To chase the fallow deere; + On Munday they began to hunt, + Ere day-light did appeare; + + And long before high noone they had + An hundred fat buckes slaine; + Then having din'd, the drovyers went + To rouze the deare againe. + + The bow-men mustered on the hills, + Well able to endure; + Theire backsides all, with speciall care, + That day were guarded sure. + + The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, + The nimble deere to take, + That with their cryes the hills and dales + An eccho shrill did make. + + Lord Percy to the quarry went, + To view the tender deere; + Quoth he, "Erle Douglas promised + This day to meet me heere; + + "But if I thought he wold not come, + Noe longer wold I stay." + With that, a brave younge gentleman + Thus to the Erle did say: + + "Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, + His men in armour bright; + Full twenty hundred Scottish speres, + All marching in our sight. + + "All men of pleasant Tivydale, + Fast by the river Tweede:" + "O cease your sport," Erle Percy said, + "And take your bowes with speede. + + "And now with me, my countrymen, + Your courage forth advance; + For never was there champion yett + In Scotland or in France, + + "That ever did on horsebacke come, + But, if my hap it were, + I durst encounter man for man, + With him to breake a spere." + + Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, + Most like a baron bold, + Rode formost of his company, + Whose armour shone like gold. + + "Show me," sayd hee, "whose men you bee, + That hunt soe boldly heere, + That, without my consent, doe chase + And kill my fallow-deere." + + The man that first did answer make + Was noble Percy hee; + Who sayd, "Wee list not to declare, + Nor shew whose men wee bee. + + "Yet will wee spend our deerest blood, + Thy cheefest harts to slay;" + Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, + And thus in rage did say; + + "Ere thus I will out-braved bee, + One of us two shall dye: + I know thee well, an erle thou art; + Lord Percy, soe am I. + + "But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, + And great offence, to kill + Any of these our guiltlesse men, + For they have done no ill. + + "Let thou and I the battell trye, + And set our men aside." + "Accurst bee he," Erle Percy sayd, + "By whome this is denyed." + + Then stept a gallant squier forth, + Witherington was his name, + Who said, "I wold not have it told + To Henry our king for shame, + + "That ere my captaine fought on foote, + And I stood looking on: + You bee two erles," sayd Witherington, + "And I a squier alone. + + "Ile doe the best that doe I may, + While I have power to stand; + While I have power to weeld my sword, + Ile fight with hart and hand." + + Our English archers bent their bowes, + Their harts were good and trew; + Att the first flight of arrowes sent, + Full four-score Scots they slew. + + [Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, + As Chieftain stout and good, + As valiant Captain, all unmov'd + The shock he firmly stood. + + His host he parted had in three, + As Leader ware and try'd, + And soon his spearmen on their foes + Bare down on every side. + + Throughout the English archery + They dealt full many a wound; + But still our valiant Englishmen + All firmly kept their ground. + + And throwing strait their bows away, + They grasp'd their swords so bright: + And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, + On shields and helmets light.] + + They clos'd full fast on everye side, + Noe slacknes there was found; + And many a gallant gentleman + Lay gasping on the ground. + + O Christ! it was a griefe to see, + And likewise for to heare, + The cries of men lying in their gore, + And scattered here and there. + + At last these two stout erles did meet, + Like captaines of great might; + Like lyons wood they layd on lode, + And made a cruell fight. + + They fought, untill they both did sweat, + With swords of tempered steele; + Until the blood, like drops of rain, + They trickling downe did feele. + + "Yeeld thee, Lord Percy," Douglas sayd + "In faith I will thee bringe, + Where thou shalt high advanced bee + By James our Scottish king. + + "Thy ransom I will freely give, + And thus report of thee, + Thou art the most couragious knight + That ever I did see." + + "Noe, Douglas," quoth Erle Percy then, + "Thy proffer I doe scorne + I will not yeelde to any Scott, + That ever yett was borne." + + With that, there came an arrow keene + Out of an English bow, + Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, + A deepe and deadlye blow: + + Who never spake more words than these, + "Fight on, my merry men all; + For why, my life is at an end: + Lord Percy sees my fall." + + Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke + The dead man by the hand; + And said, "Erle Douglas, for thy life + Wold I had lost my land! + + "O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed + With sorrow for thy sake; + For sure, a more renowned knight + Mischance cold never take." + + A knight amongst the Scotts there was, + Which saw Erle Douglas dye, + Who streight in wrath did vow revenge + Upon the Lord Percye; + + Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he call'd, + Who, with a spere most bright, + Well-mounted on a gallant steed, + Ran fiercely through the fight; + + And past the English archers all, + Without all dread or feare, + And through Earl Percyes body then + He thrust his hatefull spere + + With such a vehement force and might + He did his body gore, + The speare ran through the other side + A large cloth-yard, and more. + + So thus did both these nobles dye, + Whose courage none could staine; + An English archer then perceiv'd + The noble erle was slaine. + + He had a bow bent in his hand, + Made of a trusty tree; + An arrow of a cloth-yard long + Up to the head drew hee. + + Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + So right the shaft he sett, + The grey goose-wing that was thereon + In his harts bloode was wett. + + This fight did last from breake of day + Till setting of the sun; + For when they rung the evening bell, + The battel scarce was done. + + With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine, + Sir John of Egerton, + Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, + Sir James, that bold Bar n. + + And with Sir George and stout Sir James, + Both knights of good account, + Good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slaine, + Whose prowesse did surmount. + + For Witherington needs must I wayle, + As one in doleful dumpes; + For when his legs were smitten off, + He fought upon his stumpes. + + And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine + Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld + One foote wold never flee. + + Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, + His sisters sonne was hee; + Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, + Yet saved cold not bee. + + And the Lord Maxwell in like case + Did with Erle Douglas dye; + Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, + Scarce fifty-five did flye. + + Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, + Went home but fifty-three; + The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, + Under the greene wood tree. + + Next day did many widowes come, + Their husbands to bewayle; + They washt their wounds in brinish teares, + But all wold not prevayle. + + Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple blood, + They bore with them away: + They kist them dead a thousand times, + Ere they were cladd in clay. + + This newes was brought to Eddenborrow, + Where Scotlands king did raigne, + That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye + Was with an arrow slaine. + + "O heavy newes," King James did say; + "Scottland can witnesse bee, + I have not any captaine more + Of such account as hee." + + Like tydings to King Henry came, + Within as short a space, + That Percy of Northumberland + Was slaine in Chevy-Chace. + + "Now God be with him," said our king, + "Sith it will noe better bee; + I trust I have, within my realme, + Five hundred as good as hee. + + "Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, + But I will vengeance take, + I'll be revenged on them all, + For brave Erle Percyes sake." + + This vow full well the king perform'd + After, at Humbledowne; + In one day, fifty knights were slayne, + With lordes of great renowne. + + And of the rest, of small account, + Did many thousands dye: + Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy-Chace, + Made by the Erle Percy. + + God save our king, and bless this land + In plentye, joy, and peace; + And grant henceforth, that foule debate + 'Twixt noblemen may cease! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I read that once in Affrica + A princely wight did raine, + Who had to name Cophetua, + As poets they did faine. + From natures lawes he did decline, + For sure he was not of my minde, + He cared not for women-kind + But did them all disdaine. + But marke what hapned on a day; + As he out of his window lay, + He saw a beggar all in gray. + The which did cause his paine. + + The blinded boy that shootes so trim + From heaven downe did hie, + He drew a dart and shot at him, + In place where he did lye: + Which soone did pierse him to the quicke, + And when he felt the arrow pricke, + Which in his tender heart did sticke, + He looketh as he would dye. + "What sudden chance is this," quoth he, + "That I to love must subject be, + Which never thereto would agree, + But still did it defie?" + + Then from the window he did come, + And laid him on his bed; + A thousand heapes of care did runne + Within his troubled head. + For now he meanes to crave her love, + And now he seekes which way to proove + How he his fancie might remoove, + And not this beggar wed. + But Cupid had him so in snare, + That this poor begger must prepare + A salve to cure him of his care, + Or els he would be dead. + + And as he musing thus did lye, + He thought for to devise + How he might have her companye, + That so did 'maze his eyes. + "In thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; + For surely thou shalt be my wife, + Or else this hand with bloody knife, + The Gods shall sure suffice." + Then from his bed he soon arose, + And to his pallace gate he goes; + Full little then this begger knowes + When she the king espies. + + "The gods preserve your majesty," + The beggers all gan cry; + "Vouchsafe to give your charity, + Our childrens food to buy." + The king to them his purse did cast, + And they to part it made great haste; + This silly woman was the last + That after them did hye. + The king he cal'd her back againe, + And unto her he gave his chaine; + And said, "With us you shal remaine + Till such time as we dye. + + "For thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, + And honoured for my queene; + With thee I meane to lead my life, + As shortly shall be seene: + Our wedding shall appointed be, + And every thing in its degree; + Come on," quoth he, "and follow me, + Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. + What is thy name, faire maid?" quoth he. + "Penelophon, O King," quoth she; + With that she made a lowe courtsey; + A trim one as I weene. + + Thus hand in hand along they walke + Unto the king's pallace: + The king with courteous, comly talke + This begger doth embrace. + The begger blusheth scarlet red, + And straight againe as pale as lead, + But not a word at all she said, + She was in such amaze. + At last she spake with trembling voyce, + And said, "O King, I doe rejoyce + That you wil take me for your choyce, + And my degree so base." + + And when the wedding day was come, + The king commanded strait + The noblemen, both all and some, + Upon the queene to wait. + And she behaved herself that day + As if she had never walkt the way; + She had forgot her gowne of gray, + Which she did weare of late. + The proverbe old is come to passe, + The priest, when he begins his masse, + Forgets that ever clerke he was + He knowth not his estate. + + Here you may read Cophetua, + Through long time fancie-fed, + Compelled by the blinded boy + The begger for to wed: + He that did lovers lookes disdaine, + To do the same was glad and faine, + Or else he would himselfe have slaine, + In storie, as we read. + Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, + But pitty now thy servant heere, + Least that it hap to thee this yeare, + As to that king it did. + + And thus they led a quiet life + During their princely raine, + And in a tombe were buried both, + As writers sheweth plaine. + The lords they tooke it grievously, + The ladies tooke it heavily, + The commons cryed pitiously, + Their death to them was paine. + Their fame did sound so passingly, + That it did pierce the starry sky, + And throughout all the world did flye + To every princes realme. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + King Leir and his Three Daughters + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + King Leir once ruled in this land + With princely power and peace, + And had all things with hearts content, + That might his joys increase. + Amongst those things that nature gave, + Three daughters fair had he, + So princely seeming beautiful, + As fairer could not be. + + So on a time it pleas'd the king + A question thus to move, + Which of his daughters to his grace + Could shew the dearest love: + "For to my age you bring content," + Quoth he, "then let me hear, + Which of you three in plighted troth + The kindest will appear." + + To whom the eldest thus began: + "Dear father, mind," quoth she, + "Before your face, to do you good, + My blood shall render'd be. + And for your sake my bleeding heart + Shall here be cut in twain, + Ere that I see your reverend age + The smallest grief sustain." + + "And so will I," the second said; + "Dear father, for your sake, + The worst of all extremities + I'll gently undertake: + And serve your highness night and day + With diligence and love; + That sweet content and quietness + Discomforts may remove." + + "In doing so, you glad my soul," + The aged king reply'd; + "But what sayst thou, my youngest girl, + How is thy love ally'd?" + "My love" (quoth young Cordelia then), + "Which to your grace I owe, + Shall be the duty of a child, + And that is all I'll show." + + "And wilt thou shew no more," quoth he, + "Than doth thy duty bind? + I well perceive thy love is small, + When as no more I find. + Henceforth I banish thee my court; + Thou art no child of mine; + Nor any part of this my realm + By favour shall be thine. + + "Thy elder sisters' loves are more + Than well I can demand; + To whom I equally bestow + My kingdome and my land, + My pompal state and all my goods, + That lovingly I may + With those thy sisters be maintain'd + Until my dying day." + + Thus flattering speeches won renown, + By these two sisters here; + The third had causeless banishment, + Yet was her love more dear. + For poor Cordelia patiently + Went wandring up and down, + Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, + Through many an English town: + + Untill at last in famous France + She gentler fortunes found; + Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd + The fairest on the ground: + Where when the king her virtues heard, + And this fair lady seen, + With full consent of all his court + He made his wife and queen. + + Her father, old King Leir, this while + With his two daughters staid; + Forgetful of their promis'd loves, + Full soon the same decay'd; + And living in Queen Ragan's court, + The eldest of the twain, + She took from him his chiefest means, + And most of all his train. + + For whereas twenty men were wont + To wait with bended knee, + She gave allowance but to ten, + And after scarce to three, + Nay, one she thought too much for him; + So took she all away, + In hope that in her court, good king, + He would no longer stay. + + "Am I rewarded thus," quoth he, + "In giving all I have + Unto my children, and to beg + For what I lately gave? + I'll go unto my Gonorell: + My second child, I know, + Will be more kind and pitiful, + And will relieve my woe." + + Full fast he hies then to her court; + Where when she heard his moan, + Return'd him answer, that she griev'd + That all his means were gone, + But no way could relieve his wants; + Yet if that he would stay + Within her kitchen, he should have + What scullions gave away. + + When he had heard, with bitter tears, + He made his answer then; + "In what I did, let me be made + Example to all men. + I will return again," quoth he, + "Unto my Ragan's court; + She will not use me thus, I hope, + But in a kinder sort." + + Where when he came, she gave command + To drive him thence away: + When he was well within her court, + (She said) he would not stay. + Then back again to Gonorel + The woeful king did hie, + That in her kitchen he might have + What scullion boys set by. + + But there of that he was deny'd + Which she had promis'd late + For once refusing, he should not, + Come after to her gate. + Thus twixt his daughters for relief + He wandred up and down, + Being glad to feed on beggars' food + That lately wore a crown. + + And calling to remembrance then + His youngest daughters words, + That said, the duty of a child + Was all that love affords— + But doubting to repair to her, + Whom he had ban'sh'd so, + Grew frantic mad; for in his mind + He bore the wounds of woe. + + Which made him rend his milk-white locks + And tresses from his head, + And all with blood bestain his cheeks, + With age and honour spread. + To hills and woods and watry founts, + He made his hourly moan, + Till hills and woods and senseless things + Did seem to sigh and groan. + + Even thus possest with discontents, + He passed o'er to France, + In hopes from fair Cordelia there + To find some gentler chance. + Most virtuous dame! which, when she heard + Of this her father's grief, + As duty bound, she quickly sent + Him comfort and relief. + + And by a train of noble peers, + In brave and gallant sort, + She gave in charge he should be brought + To Aganippus' court; + Whose royal king, with noble mind, + So freely gave consent + To muster up his knights at arms, + To fame and courage bent. + + And so to England came with speed, + To repossesse King Leir, + And drive his daughters from their thrones + By his Cordelia dear. + Where she, true-hearted, noble queen, + Was in the battel stain; + Yet he, good king, in his old days, + Possest his crown again. + + But when he heard Cordelia's death, + Who died indeed for love + Of her dear father, in whose cause + She did this battle move, + He swooning fell upon her breast, + From whence he never parted; + But on her bosom left his life + That was so truly hearted. + + The lords and nobles, when they saw + The end of these events, + The other sisters unto death + They doomed by consents; + And being dead, their crowns they left + Unto the next of kin: + Thus have you seen the fall of pride, + And disobedient sin. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Fair Rosamond + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When as King Henry rulde this land, + The second of that name, + Besides the queene, he dearly lovde + A faire and comely dame. + + Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, + Her favour, and her face; + A sweeter creature in this worlde + Could never prince embrace. + + Her crisped lockes like threads of golde, + Appeard to each man's sight; + Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, + Did cast a heavenlye light. + + The blood within her crystal cheekes + Did such a colour drive, + As though the lillye and the rose + For mastership did strive. + + Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde, + Her name was called so, + To whom our queene, Dame Ellinor, + Was known a deadlye foe. + + The king therefore, for her defence + Against the furious queene, + At Woodstocke builded such a bower, + The like was never seene. + + Most curiously that bower was built, + Of stone and timber strong; + An hundered and fifty doors + Did to this bower belong: + + And they so cunninglye contriv'd, + With turnings round about, + That none but with a clue of thread + Could enter in or out. + + And for his love and ladyes sake, + That was so faire and brighte, + The keeping of this bower he gave + Unto a valiant knighte. + + But fortune, that doth often frowne + Where she before did smile, + The kinges delighte and ladyes joy + Full soon shee did beguile: + + For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, + Whom he did high advance, + Against his father raised warres + Within the realme of France. + + But yet before our comelye king + The English land forsooke, + Of Rosamond, his lady faire, + His farewelle thus he tooke: + + "My Rosamonde, my only Rose, + That pleasest best mine eye, + The fairest flower in all the worlde + To feed my fantasye,— + + "The flower of mine affected heart, + Whose sweetness doth excelle, + My royal Rose, a thousand times + I bid thee nowe farwelle! + + "For I must leave my fairest flower, + My sweetest Rose, a space, + And cross the seas to famous France, + Proud rebelles to abase. + + "But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt + My coming shortlye see, + And in my heart, when hence I am, + Ile beare my Rose with mee." + + When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, + Did heare the king saye soe, + The sorrowe of her grieved heart + Her outward lookes did showe. + + And from her cleare and crystall eyes + The teares gusht out apace, + Which, like the silver-pearled dewe, + Ranne downe her comely face. + + Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, + Did waxe both wan and pale, + And for the sorrow she conceivde + Her vitall spirits faile. + + And falling downe all in a swoone + Before King Henryes face, + Full oft he in his princelye armes + Her bodye did embrace. + + And twentye times, with watery eyes, + He kist her tender cheeke, + Untill he had revivde againe + Her senses milde and meeke. + + "Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?" + The king did often say: + "Because," quoth shee, "to bloodye warres + My lord must part awaye. + + "But since your Grace on forrayne coastes, + Amonge your foes unkinde, + Must goe to hazard life and limbe, + Why should I staye behinde? + + "Nay, rather let me, like a page, + Your sworde and target beare; + That on my breast the blowes may lighte, + Which would offend you there. + + "Or lett mee, in your royal tent, + Prepare your bed at nighte, + And with sweete baths refresh your grace, + At your returne from fighte. + + "So I your presence may enjoye + No toil I will refuse; + But wanting you, my life is death: + Nay, death Ild rather chuse." + + "Content thy self, my dearest love, + Thy rest at home shall bee, + In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle; + For travell fits not thee. + + "Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; + Soft peace their sexe delightes; + Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; + Gay feastes, not cruell fightes. + + "My Rose shall safely here abide, + With musicke passe the daye, + Whilst I amonge the piercing pikes + My foes seeke far awaye. + + "My Rose shall shine in pearle and golde, + Whilst Ime in armour dighte; + Gay galliards here my love shall dance, + Whilst I my foes goe fighte. + + "And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste + To bee my loves defence, + Be carefull of my gallant Rose + When I am parted hence." + + And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, + As though his heart would breake; + And Rosamonde, for very griefe, + Not one plaine word could speake. + + And at their parting well they mighte + In heart be grieved sore: + After that daye, faire Rosamonde + The king did see no more. + + For when his Grace had past the seas, + And into France was gone, + With envious heart, Queene Ellinor + To Woodstocke came anone. + + And forth she calls this trustye knighte + In an unhappy houre, + Who, with his clue of twined-thread, + Came from this famous bower. + + And when that they had wounded him, + The queene this thread did gette, + And wente where Ladye Rosamonde + Was like an angell sette. + + But when the queene with stedfast eye + Beheld her beauteous face, + She was amazed in her minde + At her exceeding grace. + + "Cast off from thee those robes," she said, + "That riche and costlye bee; + And drinke thou up this deadlye draught + Which I have brought to thee." + + Then presentlye upon her knees + Sweet Rosamonde did falle; + And pardon of the queene she crav'd + For her offences all. + + "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares," + Faire Rosamonde did crye; + "And lett mee not with poison stronge + Enforced bee to dye. + + "I will renounce my sinfull life, + And in some cloyster bide; + Or else be banisht, if you please, + To range the world soe wide. + + "And for the fault which I have done, + Though I was forc'd theretoe, + Preserve my life, and punish mee + As you thinke meet to doe." + + And with these words, her lillie handes + She wrunge full often there; + And downe along her lovely face + Did trickle many a teare. + + But nothing could this furious queene + Therewith appeased bee; + The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, + As she knelt on her knee, + + She gave this comelye dame to drinke; + Who tooke it in her hand, + And from her bended knee arose, + And on her feet did stand, + + And casting up her eyes to heaven, + Shee did for mercye calle; + And drinking up the poison stronge, + Her life she lost withalle. + + And when that death through everye limbe + Had showde its greatest spite, + Her chiefest foes did plain confesse + Shee was a glorious wight. + + Her body then they did entomb, + When life was fled away, + At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, + As may be seene this day. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Phillida and Corydon + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the merrie moneth of Maye, + In a morne by break of daye, + With a troope of damselles playing + Forthe 'I yode' forsooth a maying; + + When anon by a wood side, + Where that Maye was in his pride, + I espied all alone + Phillida and Corydon. + + Much adoe there was, God wot: + He wold love, and she wold not. + She sayde, "Never man was trewe;" + He sayes, "None was false to you." + + He sayde, hee had lovde her longe; + She sayes, love should have no wronge. + Corydon wold kisse her then; + She sayes, "Maydes must kisse no men, + + "Tyll they doe for good and all." + When she made the shepperde call + All the heavens to wytnes truthe, + Never loved a truer youthe. + + Then with manie a prettie othe, + Yea and nay, and faithe and trothe, + Suche as seelie shepperdes use + When they will not love abuse, + + Love, that had bene long deluded, + Was with kisses sweete concluded; + And Phillida with garlands gaye + Was made the lady of the Maye. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Fair Margaret and Sweet William + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As it fell out on a long summer's day, + Two lovers they sat on a hill; + They sat together that long summer's day, + And could not talk their fill. + + "I see no harm by you, Margaret, + And you see none by mee; + Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock + A rich wedding you shall see." + + Fair Margaret sat in her bower-wind w, + Combing her yellow hair; + There she spyed sweet William and his bride, + As they were a riding near. + + Then down she layd her ivory combe, + And braided her hair in twain: + She went alive out of her bower, + But ne'er came alive in't again. + + When day was gone, and night was come, + And all men fast asleep, + Then came the spirit of Fair Marg'ret, + And stood at William's feet. + + "Are you awake, sweet William?" shee said, + "Or, sweet William, are you asleep? + God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, + And me of my winding sheet." + + When day was come, and night was gone, + And all men wak'd from sleep, + Sweet William to his lady sayd, + "My dear, I have cause to weep. + + "I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, + Such dreames are never good: + I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,' + And my bride-bed full of blood." + + "Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, + They never do prove good; + To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,' + And thy bride-bed full of blood." + + He called up his merry men all, + By one, by two, and by three; + Saying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower, + By the leave of my ladie." + + And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower, + He knocked at the ring; + And who so ready as her seven brethren + To let sweet William in. + + Then he turned up the covering-sheet; + "Pray let me see the dead; + Methinks she looks all pale and wan. + She hath lost her cherry red. + + "I'll do more for thee, Margaret, + Than any of thy kin: + For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, + Though a smile I cannot win." + + With that bespake the seven brethren, + Making most piteous mone, + "You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, + And let our sister alone." + + "If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, + I do but what is right; + I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, + By day, nor yet by night. + + "Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, + Deal on your cake and your wine: + For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, + Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine." + + Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, + Sweet William dyed the morrow: + Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love, + Sweet William dyed for sorrow. + + Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, + And William in the higher: + Out of her brest there sprang a rose, + And out of his a briar. + + They grew till they grew unto the church top, + And then they could grow no higher; + And there they tyed in a true lover's knot, + Which made all the people admire. + + Then came the clerk of the parish, + As you the truth shall hear, + And by misfortune cut them down, + Or they had now been there. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Annan Water + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Annan Water's wading deep, + And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; + I will keep my tryst to-night, + And win the heart o' lovely Annie." + + He's loupen on his bonny grey, + He rade the right gate and the ready', + For a' the storm he wadna stay, + For seeking o' his bonny lady. + + And he has ridden o'er field and fell, + Through muir and moss, and stones and mire; + His spurs o' steel were sair to bide, + And frae her four feet flew the fire. + + "My bonny grey, noo play your part! + Gin ye be the steed that wins my dearie, + Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, + And never spur sail mak' you wearie." + + The grey was a mare, and a right gude mare: + But when she wan the Annan Water, + She couldna hae found the ford that night + Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. + + "O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, + Put off your boat for gouden money!" + But for a' the goud in fair Scotland, + He dared na tak' him through to Annie. + + "O I was sworn sae late yestreen, + Not by a single aith, but mony. + I'll cross the drumly stream to-night, + Or never could I face my honey." + + The side was stey, and the bottom deep, + Frae bank to brae the water pouring; + The bonny grey mare she swat for fear, + For she heard the water-kelpy roaring. + + He spurred her forth into the flood, + I wot she swam both strong and steady; + But the stream was broad, her strength did fail, + And he never saw his bonny lady. + + O wae betide the frush saugh wand! + And wae betide the bush of brier! + That bent and brake into his hand, + When strength of man and horse did tire. + + And wae betide ye, Annan Water! + This night ye are a drumly river; + But over thee we'll build a brig, + That ye nae mair true love may sever. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, + And he was a squire's son; + He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, + That lived in Islington. + + Yet she was coye, and would not believe + That he did love her soe, + Noe nor at any time would she + Any countenance to him showe. + + But when his friendes did understand + His fond and foolish minde, + They sent him up to faire London, + An apprentice for to binde. + + And when he had been seven long yeares, + And never his love could see,— + "Many a teare have I shed for her sake, + When she little thought of mee." + + Then all the maids of Islington + Went forth to sport and playe, + All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; + She secretly stole awaye. + + She pulled off her gowne of greene, + And put on ragged attire, + And to faire London she would go + Her true love to enquire. + + And as she went along the high road, + The weather being hot and drye, + She sat her downe upon a green bank, + And her true love came riding bye. + + She started up, with a colour soe redd, + Catching hold of his bridle-reine; + "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, + "Will ease me of much paine." + + "Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, + Praye tell me where you were borne." + "At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, + "Where I have had many a scorne." + + "I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, + O tell me, whether you knowe + The bayliffes daughter of Islington." + "She is dead, sir, long agoe." + + "If she be dead, then take my horse, + My saddle and bridle also; + For I will into some farr countrye, + Where noe man shall me knowe." + + "O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, + She standeth by thy side; + She is here alive, she is not dead, + And readye to be thy bride." + + "O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, + Ten thousand times therefore; + For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, + Whom I thought I should never see more." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Barbara Allen's Cruelty + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All in the merry month of May, + When green buds they were swelling, + Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay + For love o' Barbara Allen. + + He sent his man unto her then, + To the town where she was dwelling: + "O haste and come to my master dear, + If your name be Barbara Allen." + + Slowly, slowly rase she up, + And she cam' where he was lying; + And when she drew the curtain by, + Says, "Young man, I think you're dying." + + "O it's I am sick, and very, very sick, + And it's a' for Barbara Allen." + "O the better for me ye'se never be, + Tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling! + + "O dinna ye min', young man," she says, + "When the red wine ye were filling, + That ye made the healths gae round and round + And ye slighted Barbara Allen?" + + He turn'd his face unto the wa', + And death was wi' him dealing: + "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'; + Be kind to Barbara Allen." + + As she was walking o'er the fields, + She heard the dead-bell knelling; + + And every jow the dead-bell gave, + It cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!" + + "O mother, mother, mak' my bed, + To lay me down in sorrow. + My love has died for me to-day, + I'll die for him to-morrow." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Douglas Tragedy + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, + "And put on your armour so bright; + Sweet William will hae Lady Margaret awi' + Before that it be light. + + "Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, + And put on your armour so bright, + And take better care of your youngest sister, + For your eldest's awa' the last night." + + He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, + And himself on a dapple grey, + With a buglet horn hung down by his side + And lightly they rode away. + + Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, + To see what he could see, + And there he spied her seven brethren bold + Come riding o'er the lea. + + "Light down, light down, Lady Margaret," he said, + "And hold my steed in your hand, + Until that against your seven brethren bold, + And your father I make a stand." + + She held his steed in her milk-white hand, + And never shed one tear, + Until that she saw her seven brethren fa' + And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. + + "O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, + "For your strokes they are wondrous sair; + True lovers I can get many a ane, + But a father I can never get mair." + + O, she's ta'en out her handkerchief, + It was o' the holland sae fine, + And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, + That were redder than the wine. + + "O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margaret," he said, + "O whether will ye gang or bide?" + "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, + "For you have left me nae other guide." + + He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, + And himself on a dapple grey, + With a buglet horn hung down by his side, + And slowly they baith rade away. + + O they rade on, and on they rade, + And a' by the light of the moon, + Until they came to yon wan water, + And there they lighted down. + + They lighted down to tak a drink + Of the spring that ran sae clear; + And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, + And sair she 'gan to fear. + + "Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, + "For I fear that you are slain!" + "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, + That shines in the water sae plain." + + O they rade on, and on they rade, + And a' by the light of the moon, + Until they came to his mother's ha' door, + And there they lighted down. + + "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, + "Get up, and let me in! + Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, + "For this night my fair lady I've win. + + "O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, + "O mak it braid and deep! + And lay Lady Margaret close at my back, + And the sounder I will sleep." + + Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, + Lady Margaret lang ere day: + And all true lovers that go thegither, + May they have mair luck than they! + + Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk, + Lady Margaret in Marie's quire; + Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, + And out o' the knight's a brier. + + And they twa met, and they twa plat + And fain they wad be near; + And a' the world might ken right weel, + They were twa lovers dear. + + But bye and rade the black Douglas + And wow but he was rough! + For he pulled up the bonny brier, + And flanged in St. Marie's Loch. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Young Waters + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + About Yule, when the wind blew cool; + And the round tables began, + A' there is come to our king's court + Mony a well-favoured man. + + The queen looked o'er the castle wa', + Beheld baith dale and down, + And then she saw young Waters + Come riding to the town. + + His footmen they did rin before, + His horsemen rade behind; + Ane mantle of the burning gowd + Did keep him frae the wind. + + Gowden graith'd[FN#1] his horse before, + And siller shod behind; + The horse young Waters rade upon + Was fleeter than the wind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [FN#1] Graitih'd, girthed. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Out then spake a wily lord, + Unto the queen said he: + "O tell me wha's the fairest face + Rides in the company?" + + "I've seen lord, and I've seen laird, + And knights of high degree, + But a fairer face than young Waters + Mine eyen did never see." + + Out then spake the jealous king + And an angry man was he: + "O if he had been twice as fair, + You might have excepted me." + + "You're neither laird nor lord," she says, + "But the king that wears the crown; + There is not a knight in fair Scotland, + But to thee maun bow down." + + For a' that she could do or say, + Appeased he wad nae be; + But for the words which she had said, + Young Waters he maun dee. + + They hae ta'en young Waters, + And put fetters to his feet; + They hae ta'en young Waters, + And thrown him in dungeon deep. + + "Aft I have ridden thro' Stirling town, + In the wind but and the weet; + But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town + Wi' fetters at my feet. + + "Aft have I ridden thro' Stirling town, + In the wind but and the rain; + But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town + Ne'er to return again." + + They hae ta'en to the heading-hill + His young son in his cradle; + And they hae ta'en to the heading-hill + His horse but and his saddle. + + They hae ta'en to the heading-hill + His lady fair to see; + And for the words the queen had spoke + Young Waters he did dee. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Flodden Field + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + King Jamie hath made a vow, + Keepe it well if he may: + That he will be at lovely London + Upon Saint James his day. + + Upon Saint James his day at noone, + At faire London will I be, + And all the lords in merrie Scotland, + They shall dine there with me. + + "March out, march out, my merry men, + Of hie or low degree; + I'le weare the crowne in London towne, + And that you soon shall be." + + Then bespake good Queene Margaret, + The teares fell from her eye: + "Leave off these warres, most noble King, + Keepe your fidelitie. + + "The water runnes swift, and wondrous deepe, + From bottome unto the brimme; + My brother Henry hath men good enough; + England is hard to winne." + + "Away" quoth he "with this silly foole! + In prison fast let her lie: + For she is come of the English bloud, + And for these words she shall dye." + + With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard, + The Queenes chamberlaine that day: + "If that you put Queene Margaret to death, + Scotland shall rue it alway." + + Then in a rage King Jamie did say, + "Away with this foolish mome; + He shall be hanged, and the other be burned, + So soone as I come home." + + At Flodden Field the Scots came in, + Which made our English men faine; + At Bramstone Greene this battaile was seene, + There was King Jamie slaine. + + His bodie never could be found, + When he was over throwne, + And he that wore faire Scotland's crowne + That day could not be knowne. + + Then presently the Scot did flie, + Their cannons they left behind; + Their ensignes gay were won all away, + Our souldiers did beate them blinde. + + To tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine, + That to the fight did stand, + And many prisoners tooke that day, + The best in all Scotland. + + That day made many [a] fatherlesse child, + And many a widow poore, + And many a Scottish gay lady + Sate weeping in her bower. + + Jack with a feather was lapt all in leather, + His boastings were all in vaine; + He had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance + He never went home againe. + + ———— + + This was written to adapt the ballad to the seventeenth century. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now heaven we laude that never more + Such biding shall come to hand; + Our King, by othe, is King of both + England and faire Scotland. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Helen of Kirkconnell + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I wad I were where Helen lies; + Night and day on me she cries; + O that I were where Helen lies, + On fair Kirkconnell 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 but my heart was sair + When my Love dropt and spak nae mair! + I laid her down wi' meikle care, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + As I went down the water side, + Nane but my foe to be my guide, + Nane but my foe to be my guide, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + I lighted down my sword to draw, + I hacked him in pieces sma', + I hacked him in pieces sma', + For her sake that died for me. + + O Helen fair, beyond compare! + I'll make a garland of thy hair, + Shall bind my heart for evermair, + Until the day I dee! + + O that I were where Helen lies + 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 were blest, + Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + I wad my grave were growing green, + A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, + And I in Helen's arms lying, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + I wad I were where Helen lies! + Night and day on me she cries, + And I am weary of the skies, + Since my Love died for me. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come listen to me, you gallants so free, + All you that love mirth for to hear, + And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, + That lived in Nottinghamshire. + + As Robin Hood in the forest stood + All under the greenwood tree, + There he was aware of a brave young man, + As fine as fine might be. + + The youngster was clad in scarlet red, + In scarlet fine and gay + And he did frisk it over the plain, + And chaunted a roundelay. + + As Robin Hood next morning stood + Amongst the leaves so gay, + There did he espy the same young man + Come drooping along the way. + + The scarlet he wore the day before + It was clean cast away; + And at every step he fetched a sigh, + "Alas! and a well-a-day!" + + Then stepped forth brave Little John, + And Midge, the miller's son; + Which made the young man bend his bow, + When as he see them come. + + "Stand off! stand off!" the young man said, + "What is your will with me?" + "You must come before our master straight, + Under yon greenwood tree." + + And when he came bold Robin before, + Robin asked him courteously, + O, hast thou any money to spare, + For my merry men and me? + + "I have no money," the young man said, + "But five shillings and a ring; + And that I have kept this seven long years, + To have at my wedding. + + "Yesterday I should have married a maid, + But she was from me ta'en, + And chosen to be an old knight's delight, + Whereby my poor heart is slain." + + "What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood, + "Come tell me, without any fail." + "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, + "My name it is Allen-a-Dale." + + "What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, + "In ready gold or fee, + To help thee to thy true love again, + And deliver her unto thee?" + + "I have no money," then quoth the young man, + "No ready gold nor fee, + But I will swear upon a book + Thy true servant for to be." + + "How many miles is it to thy true love? + Come tell me without guile." + "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, + "It is but five little mile." + + Then Robin he hasted over the plain, + He did neither stint nor lin, + Until he came unto the church + Where Allen should keep his weddin'. + + "What hast thou here?" the bishop then said, + "I prithee now tell unto me." + "I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, + "And the best in the north country." + + "O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said, + "That music best pleaseth me." + "You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, + "Till the bride and bridegroom I see." + + With that came in a wealthy knight, + Which was both grave and old; + And after him a finikin lass, + Did shine like the glistering gold. + + "This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, + "That you do seem to make here; + For since we are come into the church, + The bride shall chuse her own dear." + + Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, + And blew blasts two and three; + When four-and-twenty bowmen bold + Came leaping over the lea. + + And when they came into the church-yard, + Marching all in a row, + The first man was Allen-a-Dale, + To give bold Robin his bow. + + "This is thy true love," Robin he said, + Young Allen, as I hear say; + And you shall be married this same time, + Before we depart away." + + "That shall not be," the bishop he cried, + "For thy word shall not stand; + They shall be three times asked in the church, + As the law is of our land." + + Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat, + And put it upon Little John; + "By the faith of my body," then Robin said, + "This cloth doth make thee a man." + + When Little John went into the quire, + The people began to laugh; + He asked them seven times into church, + Lest three times should not be enough. + + "Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, + Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; + And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, + Full dearly he shall her buy." + + And then having ended this merry wedding, + The bride looked like a queen; + And so they returned to the merry greenwood, + Amongst the leaves so green. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, + And leaves both large and longe, + Itt is merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest + To heare the small birdes songe. + + The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, + Sitting upon the spraye, + Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, + In the greenwood where he lay. + + "Now, by my faye," sayd jollye Robin, + "A sweaven I had this night; + I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, + That fast with me can fight. + + "Methought they did mee beate and binde, + And tooke my bow mee froe; + Iff I be Robin alive in this lande, + Ile be wroken on them towe." + + "Sweavens are swift, master," quoth John, + "As the wind that blowes ore the hill; + For if itt be never so loude this night, + To-morrow it may be still." + + "Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, + And John shall goe with mee, + For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, + In greenwood where the bee." + + Then they cast on their gownes of grene, + And tooke theyr bowes each one; + And they away to the greene forrest + A shooting forth are gone; + + Untill they came to the merry greenwood, + Where they had gladdest to bee; + There were they ware of a wight yeoman, + His body leaned to a tree. + + A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, + Of manye a man the bane; + And he was clad in his capull hyde, + Topp and tayll and mayne. + + "Stand you still, master," quoth Little John, + "Under this tree so grene, + And I will go to yond wight yeoman + To know what he doth meane." + + "Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, + And that I farley finde: + How offt send I my men beffore, + And tarry my selfe behinde! + + "It is no cunning a knave to ken, + And a man but heare him speake; + And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, + John, I thy head wold breake." + + As often wordes they breeden bale, + So they parted Robin and John; + And John is gone to Barnesdale; + The gates he knoweth eche one. + + But when he came to Barnesdale, + Great heavinesse there hee hadd, + For he found tow of his owne fell wes + Were slaine both in a slade. + + And Scarlette he was flying a-foote + Faste over stocke and stone, + For the sheriffe with seven score men + Fast after him is gone. + + "One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John, + "With Christ his might and mayne; + Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, + To stopp he shall be fayne." + + Then John bent up his long bende-bowe, + And fetteled him to shoote: + The bow was made of tender boughe, + And fell down to his foote. + + "Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, + That ere thou grew on a tree; + For now this day thou art my bale, + My boote when thou shold bee." + + His shoote it was but loosely shott, + Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, + For itt mett one of the sherriffes men, + Good William a Trent was slaine. + + It had bene better of William a Trent + To have bene abed with sorrowe, + Than to be that day in the green-wood slade + To meet with Little Johns arrowe. + + But as it is said, when men be mett + Fyve can doe more than three, + The sheriffe hath taken Little John, + And bound him fast to a tree. + + "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, + And hanged hye on a hill." + "But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth John, + "If itt be Christ his will." + + Lett us leave talking of Little John, + And thinke of Robin Hood, + How he is gone to the wight yeoman, + Where under the leaves he stood. + + "Good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd Robin so fayre, + "Good morrowe, good fellow," quoth he. + "Methinks by this bowe thou beares in thy hande, + A good archere thou sholdst bee." + + "I am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeoman, + "And of my morning tyde:" + "Ile lead thee through the wood," sayd Robin, + "Good fellow, Ile be thy guide." + + "I seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd, + "Men call him Robin Hood; + Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe + Than fortye pound soe good." + + "Now come with me, thou wight yeman, + And Robin thou soone shalt see; + But first let us some pastime find + Under the greenwood tree. + + "First let us some masterye make + Among the woods so even; + We may chance to meet with Robin Hood + Here att some unsett steven." + + They cutt them down two summer shroggs, + That grew both under a breere, + And set them threescore rood in twaine, + To shoote the prickes y-fere. + + "Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood, + "Leade on, I doe bidd thee." + "Nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd, + "My leader thou shalt bee." + + The first time Robin shot at the pricke, + He mist but an inch it fro; + The yeoman he was an archer good, + But he cold never shoote soe. + + The second shoote had the wightye yeoman, + He shote within the garlande; + But Robin he shott far better than hee, + For he clave the good pricke-wande. + + "A blessing upon thy heart," he sayd, + "Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode + For an thy hart be as good as thy hand, + Thou wert better then Robin Hoode. + + Now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he, + "Under the leaves of lyne." + "Nay, by my faith," quoth bolde Robin, + "Till thou have told me thine." + + "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee, + "And Robin to take Ime sworne; + And when I am called by my right name, + I am Guy of good Gisbrne." + + "My dwelling is in this wood," sayes Robin, + "By thee I set right nought: + I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale, + Whom thou so long hast sought." + + He that had neither beene kithe nor kin, + Might have seen a full fayre sight, + To see how together these yeomen went + With blades both browne and bright: + + To see how these yeomen together they fought + Two howres of a summers day, + Yett neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy + Them fettled to flye away. + + Robin was reachles on a roote, + And stumbled at that tyde; + And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all, + And hitt him ore the left side. + + "Ah, deere Lady," sayd Robin Hood tho, + "Thou art but mother and may'; + I think it was never mans destinye + To dye before his day." + + Robin thought on Our Ladye deere, + And soone leapt up againe, + And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke, + And he Sir Guy hath slayne. + + He took Sir Guy's head by the hayre, + And stuck itt upon his bowes end: + "Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, + Which thing must have an end." + + Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, + And nicked Sir Guy in the face, + That he was never on woman born + Cold tell whose head it was. + + Sayes, "Lye there, lye there now, Sir Guy, + And with me be not wrothe; + Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand, + Thou shalt have the better clothe." + + Robin did off his gowne of greene, + And on Sir Guy did throwe, + And hee put on that capull hyde, + That cladd him topp to toe. + + "The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, + Now with me I will beare; + For I will away to Barnesdale, + To see how my men doe fare." + + Robin Hood sett Guy's horne to his mouth, + And a loud blast in it did blow: + That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, + As he leaned under a lowe. + + "Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe, + "I heare nowe tydings good, + For yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, + And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. + + "Yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, + Itt blowes soe well in tyde, + And yonder comes that wightye yeoman, + Cladd in his capull hyde. + + "Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy, + Aske what thou wilt of mee." + "O I will none of thy gold," sayd Robin, + "Nor I will none of thy fee. + + "But now I have slaine the master," he sayes, + "Let me goe strike the knave; + For this is all the rewarde I aske. + Nor noe other will I have." + + "Thou art a madman," said the sheriffe, + "Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee; + But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, + Well granted it shale be." + + When Little John heard his master speake, + Well knewe he it was his steven; + "Now shall I be looset," quoth Little John, + "With Christ his might in heaven." + + Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John, + He thought to loose him belive: + The sheriffe and all his companye + Fast after him can drive. + + "Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin; + "Why draw you mee so neere? + Itt was never the use in our countrye, + Ones shrift another shold heere." + + But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife, + And losed John hand and foote, + And gave him Sir Guy's bow into his hand, + And bade it be his boote. + + Then John he took Guy's bow in his hand, + His boltes and arrowes eche one: + When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, + He fettled him to be gone. + + Towards his house in Nottingham towne + He fled full fast away, + And soe did all the companye, + Not one behind wold stay. + + But he cold neither runne soe fast, + Nor away soe fast cold ryde, + But Little John with an arrowe soe broad + He shott him into the 'backe'-syde. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Robin Hood's Death and Burial + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Robin Hood and Little John + Down a down, a down, a down, + Went o'er yon bank of broom, + Said Robin Hood to Little John, + "We have shot for many a pound: + Hey down, a down, a down. + + "But I am not able to shoot one shot more, + My arrows will not flee; + But I have a cousin lives down below, + Please God, she will bleed me." + + Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, + As fast as he can win; + But before he came there, as we do hear, + He was taken very ill. + + And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, + He knocked all at the ring, + But none was so ready as his cousin herself + For to let bold Robin in. + + "Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, + "And drink some beer with me?" + "No, I will neither eat nor drink, + Till I am blooded by thee." + + "Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, + "Which you did never see; + And if you please to walk therein, + You blooded by me shall be." + + She took him by the lily-white hand, + And led him to a private room; + And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, + Whilst one drop of blood would run. + + She blooded him in the vein of the arm, + And locked him up in the room; + There did he bleed all the live-long day, + Until the next day at noon. + + He then bethought him of a casement door, + Thinking for to begone; + He was so weak he could not leap, + Nor he could not get down. + + He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, + Which hung low down to his knee, + He set his horn unto his mouth, + And blew out weak blasts three. + + Then Little John, when hearing him, + As he sat under the tree, + "I fear my master is near dead, + He blows so wearily." + + Then Little John to Fair Kirkley is gone, + As fast as he can dree; + But when he came to Kirkley-hall, + He broke locks two or three; + + Until he came bold Robin to, + Then he fell on his knee; + "A boon, a boon," cries Little John, + "Master, I beg of thee." + + "What is that boon," quoth Robin Hood, + "Little John, thou begst of me?" + "It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, + And all their nunnery." + + "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, + "That boon I'll not grant thee; + I never hurt woman in all my life, + Nor man in woman's company. + + "I never hurt fair maid in all my time, + Nor at my end shall it be; + But give me my bent bow in my hand, + And a broad arrow I'll let flee; + And where this arrow is taken up, + There shall my grave digged be. + + "Lay me a green sod under my head, + And another under my feet; + And lay my bent bow by my side, + Which was my music sweet; + And make my grave of gravel and green, + Which is most right and meet. + + "Let me have length and breadth enough, + With a green sod under my head; + That they may say when I am dead, + Here lies bold Robin Hood." + + These words they readily promised him, + Which did bold Robin please; + And there they buried bold Robin Hood, + Near to the fair Kirkleys. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Twa Corbies + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I was walking all alane, + I heard twa corbies making a maen: + The tane unto the t'ither did say, + "Whaur shall we gang and dine the day?" + + "O doun beside yon auld fail dyke, + I wot there lies a new-slain knight; + And naebody kens that he lies there + But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. + + "His hound is to the hunting gane, + His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, + His lady's ta'en another mate, + Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. + + "O we'll sit on his white hause bane, + And I'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en; + Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair + We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. + + "Mony a ane for him makes maen, + But nane shall ken whaur he is gane. + Over his banes when they are bare, + The wind shall blaw for evermair." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A SCOTTISH SONG +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O waly, waly up the bank, + And waly, waly down the brae, + And waly, waly yon burn side, + Where I and my love were wont to gae. + I leant my back unto an aik, + I thought it was a trusty tree; + But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, + Sae my true love did lichtly me. + + O waly, waly, but gin love be bonny, + A little time while it is new; + But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, + And fades awa' like morning dew. + O wherfore shuld I busk my head? + Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair? + For my true love has me forsook, + And says he'll never loe me mair. + + Now Arthur-Seat sall be my bed, + The sheets shall neir be prest 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 cum? + For of my life I am wearýe. + + 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, + Nor blawing snaws inclemencýe; + 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, + But my love's heart grown cauld to me. + Whan we came in by Glasgow town, + We were a comely sight to see; + My love was clad in black velvet, + And I myself in cramasýe. + + But had I wist, before I kist, + That love had been sae ill to win, + I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, + And pinnd it with a siller pin. + And, oh! that my young babe were born, + And set upon the nurse's knee, + And I myself were dead and gane! + And the green grass growing over me. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Nut-brown Maid + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Be it right, or wrong, these men among + On women do complain; + Affirming this, how that it is + A labour spent in vain + To love them wele; for never a dele + They love a man again: + For let a man do what he can, + Their favour to attain, + Yet, if a new do them pursue, + Their first true lover then + Laboureth for nought; for from her thought + He is a banished man. + + I say not nay, but that all day + It is both writ and said + That woman's faith is, as who saith, + All utterly decayed; + But, nevertheless, right good witness + In this case might be laid, + That they love true, and continue, + Record the Nut-brown Maid: + Which, when her love came, her to prove, + To her to make his moan, + Would not depart; for in her heart + She loved but him alone. + + Then between us let us discuss + What was all the manere + Between them two: we will also + Tell all the pain, and fere, + That she was in. Now I begin, + So that ye me answere; + Wherefore, all ye, that present be + I pray you, give an ear. + I am the knight; I come by night, + As secret as I can; + Saying,' Alas! thus standeth the case, + I am a banished man.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + And I your will for to fulfil + In this will not refuse; + Trusting to shew, in wordes few, + That men have an ill use + (To their own shame) women to blame, + And causeless them accuse: + Therefore to you I answer now, + All women to excuse,— + Mine own heart dear, with you what chere? + I pray you, tell anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + It standeth so; a dede is do + Whereof great harm shall grow + My destiny is for to die + A shameful death, I trowe; + Or else to flee: the one must be. + None other way I know, + But to withdraw as an outlaw, + And take me to my bow. + Wherefore, adieu, my own heart true! + None other rede I can: + For I must to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + O Lord, what is this worldys bliss, + That changeth as the moon! + My summer's day in lusty May + Is darked before the noon. + I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay, + We depart not so soon. + Why say ye so? wheder will ye go? + Alas! what have ye done? + All my welfare to sorrow and care + Should change, if ye were gone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + I can believe, it shall you grieve, + And somewhat you distrain; + But, afterward, your paines hard + Within a day or twain + Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take + Comfort to you again. + Why should ye ought? for, to make thought + Your labour were in vain. + And thus I do; and pray you to, + As heartily as I can; + For I must to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + Now, sith that ye have shewed to me + The secret of your mind, + I shall be plain to you again, + Like as ye shall me find. + Sith it is so, that ye will go, + I wolle not leave behind; + Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid + Was to her love unkind: + Make you ready, for so am I, + Although it were anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + Yet I you rede to take good heed + What men will think and say: + Of young and old it shall be told, + That ye be gone away, + Your wanton will for to fulfil, + In green wood you to play; + And that ye might from your delight + No longer make delay. + Rather than ye should thus for me + Be called an ill woman, + Yet would I to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + Though it be sung of old and young, + That I should be to blame, + Theirs be the charge, that speak so large + In hurting of my name: + For I will prove, that, faithful love + It is devoid of shame; + In your distress, and heaviness, + To part with you, the same: + And sure all tho, that do not so, + True lovers are they none; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + I counsel you, remember how, + It is no maiden's law, + Nothing to doubt, but to renne out + To wood with an outlaw: + For ye must there in your hand bear + A bow, ready to draw; + And, as a thief, thus must you live, + Ever in dread and awe; + Whereby to you great harm might grow: + Yet had I lever than, + That I had to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + I think not nay, but as ye say, + It is no maiden's lore; + But love may make me for your sake, + As I have said before, + To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot + To get us meat in store; + For so that I your company + May have, I ask no more: + From which to part, it maketh my heart + As cold as any stone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + For an outlaw this is the law, + That men him take and bind; + Without pity, hanged to be, + And waver with the wind. + If I had nede, (as God forbede!) + What rescue could ye find? + Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow + For fear would draw behind: + And no mervayle: for little avail + Were in your counsel then: + Wherefore I will to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + Right well know ye, that women be + But feeble for to fight; + No womanhede it is indeed + To be bold as a knight: + Yet, in such fear if that ye were + With enemies day or night, + I would withstand, with bow in hand, + To greve them as I might, + And you to save; as women have + From death men many a one: + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + Yet take good hede; for ever I drede + That ye could not sustain + The thorny ways, the deep valleys, + The snow, the frost, the rain, + The cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, + We must lodge on the plain; + And, us above, none other roof + But a brake bush, or twain; + Which soon should grieve you, I believe, + And ye would gladly then + That I had to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + Sith I have here been partynere + With you of joy and bliss, + I must als part of your woe + Endure, as reason is: + Yet am I sure of one pleasure; + And, shortly, it is this: + That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde, + I could not fare amiss. + Without more speech, I you beseech + That we were soon agone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + If ye go thyder, ye must consider, + When ye have lust to dine, + There shall no meat be for you gete, + Nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine. + No shetes clean, to lie between, + Made of thread and twine; + None other house, but leaves and boughs, + To cover your head and mine; + O mine heart sweet, this evil diete + Should make you pale and wan; + Wherefore I will to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + Among the wild dere, such an archere, + As men say that ye be, + Ne may not fail of good vitayle, + Where is so great plenty: + And water clear of the ryvere + Shall be full sweet to me; + With which in hele I shall right wele + Endure, as ye shall see; + And, or we go, a bed or two + I can provide anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + Lo! yet, before, ye must do more, + If ye will go with me: + As cut your hair up by your ear, + Your kirtle by the knee; + With bow in hand, for to withstand + Your enemies, if need be: + And this same night before day-light, + To wood-ward will I flee. + If that ye will all this fulfil, + Do it shortly as ye can + Else will I to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + I shall as now do more for you + Than 'longeth to womanhede; + To shorte my hair, a bow to bear, + To shoot in time of need. + O my sweet mother, before all other + For you I have most drede: + But now, adieu! I must ensue, + Where fortune doth me lead. + All this make ye: Now let us flee; + The day cometh fast upon; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, + And I shall tell ye why,— + Your appetite is to be light + Of love, I wele espy: + For, like as ye have said to me, + In like wise hardely + Ye would answere whosoever it were + In way of company. + It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold + And so is a woman. + Wherefore I to the wood will go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + If ye take heed, it is no need + Such words to say by me; + For oft ye prayed, and long assayed, + Or I you loved, parde: + And though that I of ancestry + A baron's daughter be, + Yet have you proved how I you loved + A squire of low degree; + And ever shall, whatso befall; + To die therefore anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + A baron's child to be beguiled! + It were a cursed dede; + To be felawe with an outlawe! + Almighty God forbede! + Yet better were, the poor squyere + Alone to forest yede, + Than ye should say another day, + That, by my cursed dede, + Ye were betrayed: Wherefore, good maid, + The best rede that I can, + Is, that I to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + Whatever befall, I never shall + Of this thing you upbraid: + But if ye go, and leave me so, + Then have ye me betrayed. + Remember you wele, how that ye dele; + For, if ye, as ye said, + Be so unkind, to leave behind, + Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, + Trust me truly, that I shall die + Soon after ye be gone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + If that ye went, ye should repent; + For in the forest now + I have purvayed me of a maid, + Whom I love more than you; + Another fayrere, than ever ye were, + I dare it wele avow; + And of you both each should be wroth + With other, as I trow: + It were mine ease, to live in peace; + So will I, if I can; + Wherefore I to the wood will go, + Alone, a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + Though in the wood I understood + Ye had a paramour, + All this may nought remove my thought, + But that I will be your: + And she shall find me soft and kind, + And courteys every hour; + Glad to fulfil all that she will + Command me to my power: + For had ye, lo! an hundred mo, + Of them I would be one; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + Mine own dear love, I see the proof + That ye be kind and true; + Of maid, and wife, in all my life, + The best that ever I knew. + Be merry and glad, be no more sad, + The case is changed new; + For it were ruth, that, for your truth, + Ye should have cause to rue. + Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said + To you, when I began; + I will not to the green wood go, + I am no banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHE + + These tidings be more glad to me, + Than to be made a queen, + If I were sure they should endure: + But it is often seen, + When men will break promise, they speak + The wordes on the splene. + Ye shape some wile me to beguile, + And steal from me, I ween: + Then, were the case worse than it was, + And I more wo-begone: + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE + + Ye shall not nede further to drede; + I will not disparage + You, (God defend!) sith ye descend + Of so great a lineage. + Now understand; to Westmoreland, + Which is mine heritage, + I will you bring; and with a ring, + By way of marriage + I will you take, and lady make, + As shortly as I can: + Thus have you won an erly's son, + And not a banished man. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AUTHOR + + Here may ye see, that women be + In love, meek, kind, and stable; + Let never man reprove them then, + Or call them variable; + But, rather, pray God that we may + To them be comfortable; + Which sometime proveth such, as he loveth, + If they be charitable. + For sith men would that women should + Be meek to them each one; + Much more ought they to God obey, + And serve but Him alone. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Fause Lover + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A fair maid sat in her bower door, + Wringing her lily hands; + And by it came a sprightly youth, + Fast tripping o'er the strands. + + "Where gang ye, young John," she says, + "Sae early in the day? + It gars me think, by your fast trip, + Your journey's far away." + + He turn'd about wi' surly look, + And said, "What's that to thee? + I'm ga'en to see a lovely maid, + Mair fairer far than ye." + + "Now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, + In simmer, 'mid the flowers? + I shall repay ye back again, + In winter, 'mid the showers." + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, + Will ye not turn again? + For as ye look to ither women, + I shall do to other men." + + "Make your choice o' whom you please, + For I my choice will have; + I've chosen a maid more fair than thee, + I never will deceive." + + But she's kilt up her claithing fine, + And after him gaed she; + But aye he said, "Ye'll turn again, + Nae farder gae wi' me." + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, + Will ye never love me again? + Alas! for loving you sae well, + And you na me again." + + The firstan' town that they came till, + He bought her brooch and ring; + But aye he bade her turn again, + And gang nae farder wi' him. + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + + The nextan' town that they came till, + He bought her muff and gloves; + But aye he bade her turn again, + And choose some other loves. + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + + The nextan' town that they came till, + His heart it grew mair fain; + And he was deep in love wi' her. + As she was ower again. + + The nextan' town that they came till, + He bought her wedding gown; + And made her lady o' ha's and bowers, + In sweet Berwick town. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mermaid + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To yon fause stream that, near the sea, + Hides mony an elf and plum, + And rives wi' fearful din the stanes, + A witless knicht did come. + + The day shines clear—far in he's gane + Whar shells are silver bright, + Fishes war loupin' a' aroun', + And sparklin' to the light. + + Whan, as he laved, sounds cam sae sweet + Frae ilka rock an' tree; + The brief was out, 'twas him it doomed + The mermaid's face to see. + + Frae 'neath a rock, sune, sune she rose, + And stately on she swam, + Stopped i' the midst, and becked and sang + To him to stretch his han'. + + Gowden glist the yellow links + That round her neck she'd twine; + Her een war o' the skyie blue, + Her lips did mock the wine; + + The smile upon her bonnie cheek + Was sweeter than the bee; + Her voice excelled the birdie's sang + Upon the birchen tree. + + Sae couthie, couthie did she look, + And meikle had she fleeched; + Out shot his hand—alas! alas! + Fast in the swirl he screeched. + + The mermaid leuch, her brief was gane, + And kelpie's blast was blawin', + Fu' low she duked, ne'er raise again, + For deep, deep was the fawin'. + + Aboon the stream his wraith was seen, + Warlochs tirled lang at gloamin'; + That e'en was coarse, the blast blew hoarse, + Ere lang the waves war foamin'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Battle of Otterburn + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE FIRST FYTTE +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It fell about the Lammas tide, + When husbands winn their hay, + The doughty Douglas bound him to ride + Into England to take a prey. + + The Earl of Fife, withouten strife, + He bound him over Solway; + The great would ever together ride + That race they may rue for aye. + + Over Ottercap hill they came in, + And so down by Rotheley crag, + Upon Green Leighton they lighted down, + Styrande many a stag; + + And boldly brente Northumberland, + And harried many a town; + They did our Englishmen great wrong + To battle that were not bown. + + Then spake a berne upon the bent, + Of comfort that was not cold, + And said, "We have brente Northumberland, + We have all wealth in holde. + + "Now we have harried all Bamborough shire + All the wealth in the world have we; + I rede we ride to Newcastle, + So still and stalworthlye." + + Upon the morrow, when it was day, + The standards shone full bright; + To the Newcastle they took the way, + And thither they came full right. + + Sir Henry Percy lay at the Newcastle, + I tell you, withouten dread; + He has been a March-man all his days, + And kept Berwick upon Tweed. + + To the Newcastle when they came, + The Scots they cried on hyght: + "Sir Harry Percy, an thou bist within, + Come to the field and fight: + + "For we have brente Northumberland, + Thy heritage good and right; + And syne my lodging I have take, + With my brand dubbed many a knight." + + Sir Harry Percy came to the walls, + The Scottish host for to see: + "And thou hast brente Northumberland, + Full sore it rueth me. + + "If thou hast harried all Bamborough shire, + Thou hast done me great envy; + For the trespass thou hast me done, + The one of us shall die." + + "Where shall I bide thee?" said the Douglas; + "Or where wilt thou come to me?" + "At Otterburn in the high way, + There mayst thou well lodged be. + + "The roe full reckless there she runs, + To make thee game and glee; + The falcon and the pheasant both, + Among the holtes on hee. + + "There mayst thou have thy wealth at will, + Well lodged there mayst thou be; + It shall not be long ere I come thee till," + Said Sir Harry Percye. + + "There shall I bide thee," said the Douglas, + "By the faith of my body." + "Thither shall I come," said Sir Harry Percy, + "My troth I plight to thee." + + A pipe of wine he gave them over the walls, + For sooth, as I you say; + There he made the Douglas drink, + And all his host that day. + + The Douglas turned him homeward again, + For sooth withouten nay; + He took his lodging at Otterburn + Upon a Wednesday; + + And there he pyght his standard down. + His getting more and less; + And syne he warned his men to go + And get their geldings gress. + + A Scottish knight hoved upon the bent, + A watch I dare well say; + So was he ware on the noble Percy + In the dawning of the day. + + He pricked to his pavilion door, + As fast as he might ronne; + "Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, + "For His love that sits in throne. + + "Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, + "For thou mayst waken with wynne; + Yonder have I spied the proud Percy, + And seven standards with him." + + "Nay, by my troth," the Douglas said, + "It is but a feigned tale; + He durst not look on my broad banner, + For all England so hayle. + + "Was I not yesterday at the Newcastle, + That stands so fair on Tyne? + For all the men the Percy had, + He could not garre me once to dyne." + + He stepped out at his pavilion door, + To look, and it were less; + "Array you, lordyngs, one and all, + For here begins no peace. + + "The Earl of Menteith, thou art my eme, + The forward I give to thee; + The Earl of Huntley cawte and keen, + He shall with thee be. + + "The Lord of Buchan, in armour bright, + On the other hand he shall be; + Lord Johnstone, and Lord Maxwell, + They two shall be with me. + + "Swynton fair field upon your pride + To battle make you bowen; + Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, + Sir John of Agerstone." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE SECOND FYTTE +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Percy came before his host, + Which ever was a gentle knight, + Upon the Douglas loud did he cry, + "I will hold that I have hight; + + "For thou hast brente Northumberland, + And done me great envy; + For this trespass thou hast me done + The one of us shall die." + + The Douglas answered him again, + With great words up on hee, + And said, "I have twenty against thy one, + Behold, and thou mayst see." + + With that the Percy was grieved sore, + For sooth as I you say; + He lighted down upon his foot, + And shot his horse clean away. + + Every man saw that he did so, + That ryall was ever in rout; + Every man shot his horse him fro, + And light him round about. + + Thus Sir Harry Percy took the field, + For sooth as I you say, + Jesu Christ in heaven on high, + Did help him well that day. + + But nine thousand, there was no more, + If chronicle will not layne; + Forty thousand Scots and four + That day fought them again, + + But when the battle began to join, + In haste there came a knight, + Then letters fair forth hath he ta'en, + And thus he said full right: + + "My lord, your father he greets you well, + With many a noble knight; + He desires you to bide, + That he may see this fight. + + "The baron of Grastock is come out of the west, + With him a noble company; + All they lodge at your father's this night, + And the battle fain would they see." + + "For Jesu's love," said Sir Harry Percy, + "That died for you and me, + Wend to my lord, my father, again, + And say thou saw me not with ee; + + "My troth is plight to yon Scottish knight, + It needs me not to layne, + That I should bide him upon this bent, + And I have his troth again; + + "And if that I wend off this ground, + For sooth unfoughten away, + He would me call but a coward knight, + In his land another day. + + "Yet had I lever to be rynde and rent, + By Mary that mykel may, + Than ever my manhood should be reproved + With a Scot another day. + + "Wherefore shoot, archers, for my sake, + And let sharp arrows flee; + Minstrels, play up for your warison, + And well quit it shall be. + + "Every man think on his true love, + And mark him to the Trinity; + For to God I make mine a-vow + This day will I not flee." + + The bloody heart in the Douglas' arms, + His standard stood on high, + That every man might full well know; + Beside stood starres three. + + The white Li n on the English part, + For sooth as I you sayne, + The luces and the crescents both + The Scots fought them again. + + Upon Saint Andrew loud did they cry, + And thrice they shout on hyght, + And syne marked them on our Englishmen, + As I have told you right. + + Saint George the bright, our Lady's knight, + To name they were full fain, + Our Englishmen they cried on hyght, + And thrice they shout again. + + With that sharp arrows began to flee, + I tell you in certain; + Men of arms began to join; + Many a doughty man was there slain. + + The Percy and the Douglas met, + That either of them was fain; + They schapped together, while that they sweat, + With swords of fine Collayne; + + Till the blood from their basenets ran + As the roke doth in the rain. + "Yield thee to me," said the Douglas, + "Or else thou shalt be slain; + + "For I see by thy bright basenet, + Thou art some man of might; + And so I do by thy burnished brand, + Thou art an earl, or else a knight." + + "By my good faith," said the noble Percy, + "Now hast thou rede full right; + Yet will I never yield me to thee, + While I may stand and fight." + + They swapped together, while that they sweat, + With swordes sharp and long; + Each on other so fast they beat, + Till their helms came in pieces down. + + The Percy was a man of strength, + I tell you in this stound + He smote the Douglas at the sword's length, + That he felled him to the ground. + + The sword was sharp, and sore did byte, + I tell you in certain; + To the heart he did him smite, + Thus was the Douglas slain. + + The standards stood still on each side; + With many a grievous groan, + There they fought the day, and all the night, + And many a doughty man was slone. + + There was no freyke that there would fly, + But stiffly in stour did stand, + Echone hewing on other while they might dry, + With many a baleful brand. + + There was slain upon the Scottes side, + For sooth and certainly, + Sir James of Douglas there was slain, + That day that he did die. + + The Earl of Menteith he was slain. + Grysely groaned upon the ground; + Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, + Sir John of Agerstone. + + Sir Charles Murray in that place, + That never a foot would fly; + Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was, + With the Douglas did he die. + + There was slain upon the Scottes side, + For sooth as I you say, + Of four and forty thousand Scots, + Went but eighteen away. + + There was slain upon the English side, + For sooth and certainly, + A gentle knight, Sir John Fitzhugh, + It was the more pity. + + Sir James Harebotell there was slain, + For him their hearts were sore + The gentle Lovel there was slain, + That the Percy's standard bore. + + There was slain upon the English side, + For sooth as I you say, + Of nine thousand Englishmen, + Five hundred came away; + + The others were slayne in the field, + Christ keep their souls from woe, + Seeing there were so few friends + Against so many a foe! + + Then on the morn they made them biers + Of birch and hazel gray; + Many a widow with weeping tears + Their makes they fetch away. + + This fray began at Otterburn, + Between the night and the day; + There the Douglas lost his life, + And the Percy was led away. + + Then was there a Scottish prisoner ta'en, + Sir Hugh Montgomery was his name, + For sooth as I you say, + He borrowed the Percy home again. + + Now let us all for the Percy pray, + To Jesu most of might, + To bring his soul to the bliss of heaven, + For he was a gentle knight. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Lament of the Border Widow + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My love he built me a bonny bower, + And clad it a' wi' a lilye flower, + A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, + Than my true love he built for me. + + There came a man, by middle day, + He spied his sport and went away, + And brought the king that very night, + Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. + + He slew my knight, to me so dear; + He slew my knight, and poined his gear; + My servants all for life did flee, + And left me in extremitie. + + I sewed his sheet, making my mane; + I watched the corpse, myself alane; + I watched his body, night and day; + No living creature came that way. + + I took his body on my back, + And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat, + I digged a grave, and laid him in, + And happed him with the sod so green. + + But think na ye my heart was sair, + When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair; + Think na ye my heart was wae, + When I turned about, away to gae? + + Nae living man I'll love again, + Since that my lovely knight is slain; + W? ae lock of his yellow hair + I'll chain my heart for evermair. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Banks o' Yarrow + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + "What though ye be my sister's lord, + We'll cross our swords to-morrow." + "What though my wife your sister be, + I'll meet ye then on Yarrow." + + "O stay at hame, my ain gude lord! + O stay, my ain dear marrow! + My cruel brither will you betray + On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + + "O fare ye weel, my lady dear! + And put aside your sorrow; + For if I gae, I'll sune return + Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + + She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, + As oft she'd done before, O; + She belted him wi' his gude brand, + And he's awa' to Yarrow. + + When he gaed up the Tennies bank, + As he gaed mony a morrow, + Nine armed men lay in a den, + On the dowie braes o' Yarrow. + + "O come ye here to hunt or hawk + The bonny Forest thorough? + Or come ye here to wield your brand + Upon the banks o' Yarrow?" + + "I come not here to hunt or hawk, + As oft I've dune before, O, + But I come here to wield my brand + Upon the banks o' Yarrow. + + "If ye attack me nine to ane, + Then may God send ye sorrow!— + Yet will I fight while stand I may, + On the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + + Two has he hurt, and three has slain, + On the bloody braes o' Yarrow; + But the stubborn knight crept in behind, + And pierced his body thorough. + + "Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John, + And tell your sister sorrow,— + To come and lift her leafu' lord + On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + + Her brither John gaed ower yon hill, + As oft he'd dune before, O; + There he met his sister dear, + Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow. + + "I dreamt a dream last night," she says, + "I wish it binna sorrow; + I dreamt I pu'd the heather green + Wi' my true love on Yarrow." + + "I'll read your dream, sister," he says, + "I'll read it into sorrow; + Ye're bidden go take up your love, + He's sleeping sound on Yarrow." + + She's torn the ribbons frae her head + That were baith braid and narrow; + She's kilted up her lang claithing, + And she's awa' to Yarrow. + + She's ta'en him in her arms twa, + And gi'en him kisses thorough; + She sought to bind his mony wounds, + But he lay dead on Yarrow. + + "O haud your tongue," her father says, + "And let be a' your sorrow; + I'll wed you to a better lord + Than him ye lost on Yarrow." + + "O haud your tongue, father," she says, + "Far warse ye mak' my sorrow; + A better lord could never be + Than him that lies on Yarrow." + + She kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair, + As aft she had dune before, O; + And there wi' grief her heart did break, + Upon the banks o' Yarrow. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Hugh of Lincoln + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHOWING THE CRUELTY OF A JEW'S DAUGHTER +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Four and twenty bonny boys + Were playing at the ba', + And up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh, + The flower among them a'. + + He kicked the ba' there wi' his foot, + And keppit it wi' his knee, + Till even in at the Jew's window + He gart the bonny ba' flee. + + "Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, + Cast out the ba' to me." + "Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter, + Till ye come up to me." + + "Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, + Come up and get the ba'." + "I winna come, I mayna come, + Without my bonny boys a'." + + She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden, + Where the grass grew lang and green, + She's pu'd an apple red and white, + To wyle the bonny boy in. + + She's wyled him in through ae chamber, + She's wyled him in through twa, + She's wyled him into the third chamber, + And that was the warst o' a'. + + She's tied the little boy, hands and feet, + She's pierced him wi' a knife, + She's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup, + And twinn'd him o' his life. + + She row'd him in a cake o' lead, + Bade him lie still and sleep, + She cast him in a deep draw-well + Was fifty fathom deep. + + When bells were rung, and mass was sung, + And every bairn went hame, + Then ilka lady had her young son, + But Lady Helen had nane. + + She row'd her mantle her about, + And sair, sair 'gan she weep; + And she ran unto the Jew's house, + When they were all asleep. + + "My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh, + I pray thee to me speak!" + "Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-well + 'Gin ye your son wad seek." + + Lady Helen ran to the deep draw-well, + And knelt upon her knee: + "My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here, + I pray thee speak to me!" + + "The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, + The well is wondrous deep; + A keen penknife sticks in my heart, + It is hard for me to speak. + + "Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, + Fetch me my winding-sheet; + And at the back o' merry Lincoln, + It's there we twa sall meet." + + Now Lady Helen she's gane hame, + Made him a winding-sheet; + And at the back o' merry Lincoln, + The dead corpse did her meet. + + And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln + Without men's hands were rung; + And a' the books o' merry Lincoln + Were read without men's tongue: + Never was such a burial + Sin' Adam's days begun. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sir Patrick Spens + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The king sits in Dunfermline town, + Drinking the blude-red wine; + "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, + To sail this new ship of mine?" + + O up and spak' an eldern knight, + Sat at the king's right knee, + "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, + That ever sailed the sea." + + Our king has written a braid letter, + And seated 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 of Noroway + 'Tis thou maun bring her hame." + + The first word that Sir Patrick read, + Sae loud loud laughed he; + The neist word that Sir Patrick read, + The tear blinded his ee. + + "O wha is this has done this deed, + And tauld the king o' me, + To send us out at this time of the 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 of Noroway, + 'Tis we must fetch her hame." + + They hoysed their sails an Moneday morn, + Wi' a' the speed they may; + They hae landed in Noroway, + Upon a Wednesday. + + They hadna been a week, a week, + In Noroway, but twae, + When that the lords o' Noroway + Began aloud to say: + + "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, + And a' our queen's fee." + "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! + Fu' loud I hear ye lie; + + "For I brought as much white monie, + As gane my men and me, + And I brought a half-fou of gude red goud, + Out o'er the sea wi' me. + + "Make ready, make ready, my merry men a', + Our gude ship sails the morn." + "Now, ever alake, my master dear, + I fear a deadly storm! + + "I saw the new moon, late yestreen, + Wi' the old moon in her arm; + And, if we gang to sea, master, + I fear we'll come to harm." + + They hadna sailed a league, a league, + A league but barely three, + When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud + And gurly grew the sea. + + The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, + It was sic a deadly storm; + And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, + Till a' her sides were torn. + + "O where will I get a gude sail'r, + To take my helm in hand, + Till I get up to the tall top-mast, + To see if I can spy land?" + + "O here am I, a sailor gude, + To take the helm in hand, + Till you go up to the tall top-mast; + But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." + + He hadna gane a step, a step, + A step but barely ane, + When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, + And the salt sea it cam in. + + "Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith, + Another o' the twine, + And wap them into our ship's side, + And let nae the sea come in." + + They fetched a web o' the silken claith, + Another o' the twine, + And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, + But still the sea cam in. + + O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords + To weet their cork-heeled shoon! + But lang or a' the play was played, + They wat their hats aboon. + + And mony was the feather bed, + That flattered on the faem; + And mony was the gude lord's son, + That never mair cam hame. + + The ladies wrang their fingers white, + The maidens tore their hair, + A' for the sake of their true loves + For them they'll see nae mair. + + 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, + With their goud kaims in their hair + A' waiting for their ain dear loves, + For them they'll see nae mair! + + O forty miles off Aberdeen, + 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, + And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens + Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Old English Ballads, by +George Wharton Edwards + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + +***** This file should be named 9405-h.htm or 9405-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/4/0/9405/ + +Produced by John B. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Book of Old English Ballads + +Author: George Wharton Edwards + +Commentator: Hamilton W. Mabie + +Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9405] +Posting Date: August 3, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by John B. Hare + + + + + +A BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS + + +With an Accompaniment of Decorative Drawings + + +By George Wharton Edwards + + + +And an Introduction by Hamilton W. Mabie + + +[1896] + + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Introduction + + Chevy Chace + + King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid + + King Leir and his Three Daughters + + Fair Rosamond + + Phillida and Corydon + + Fair Margaret and Sweet William + + Annan Water + + The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington + + Barbara Allen's Cruelty + + The Douglas Tragedy + + Young Waters + + Flodden Field + + Helen of Kirkconnell + + Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale + + Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne + + Robin Hood's Death and Burial + + The Twa Corbies + + Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny + + The Nut-brown Maid + + The Fause Lover + + The Mermaid + + The Battle of Otterburn + + The Lament of the Border Widow + + The Banks o' Yarrow + + Hugh of Lincoln + + Sir Patrick Spens + + + + + +Introduction + + +Goethe, who saw so many things with such clearness of vision, +brought out the charm of the popular ballad for readers of a later +day in his remark that the value of these songs of the people is to +be found in the fact that their motives are drawn directly from +nature; and he added, that in the art of saying things compactly, +uneducated men have greater skill than those who are educated. It is +certainly true that no kind of verse is so completely out of the +atmosphere of modern writing as the popular ballad. No other form of +verse has, therefore, in so great a degree, the charm of freshness. +In material, treatment, and spirit, these bat lads are set in sharp +contrast with the poetry of the hour. They deal with historical +events or incidents, with local traditions, with personal adventure +or achievement. They are, almost without exception, entirely +objective. Contemporary poetry is, on the other hand, very largely +subjective; and even when it deals with events or incidents it +invests them to such a degree with personal emotion and imagination, +it so modifies and colours them with temperamental effects, that the +resulting poem is much more a study of subjective conditions than a +picture or drama of objective realities. This projection of the +inward upon the outward world, in such a degree that the dividing +line between the two is lost, is strikingly illustrated in +Maeterlinck's plays. Nothing could be in sharper contrast, for +instance, than the famous ballad of "The Hunting of the Cheviot" and +Maeterlinck's "Princess Maleine." There is no atmosphere, in a +strict use of the word, in the spirited and compact account of the +famous contention between the Percies and the Douglases, of which +Sir Philip Sidney said "that I found not my heart moved more than +with a Trumpet." It is a breathless, rushing narrative of a swift +succession of events, told with the most straight-forward +simplicity. In the "Princess Maleine," on the other hand, the +narrative is so charged with subjective feeling, the world in which +the action takes place is so deeply tinged with lights that never +rested on any actual landscape, that all sense of reality is lost. +The play depends for its effect mainly upon atmosphere. Certain +very definite impressions are produced with singular power, but +there is no clear, clean stamping of occurrences on the mind. The +imagination is skilfully awakened and made to do the work of +observation. + +The note of the popular ballad is its objectivity; it not only takes +us out of doors, but it also takes us out of the individual +consciousness. The manner is entirely subordinated to the matter; the +poet, if there was a poet in the case, obliterates himself. What we +get is a definite report of events which have taken place, not a +study of a man's mind nor an account of a man's feelings. The true +balladist is never introspective; he is concerned not with himself +but with his story. There is no self-disclosure in his song. To the +mood of Senancour and Amiel he was a stranger. Neither he nor the +men to whom he recited or sang would have understood that mood. +They were primarily and unreflectively absorbed in the world outside +of themselves. They saw far more than they meditated; they recorded +far more than they moralized. The popular ballads are, as a rule, +entirely free from didacticism in any form; that is one of the main +sources of their unfailing charm. They show not only a childlike +curiosity about the doings of the day and the things that befall +men, but a childlike indifference to moral inference and +justification. The bloodier the fray the better for ballad +purposes; no one feels the necessity of apology either for ruthless +aggression or for useless blood-letting; the scene is reported as it +was presented to the eye of the spectator, not to his moralizing +faculty. He is expected to see and to sing, not to scrutinize and +meditate. In those rare cases in which a moral inference is drawn, +it is always so obvious and elementary that it gives the impression +of having been fastened on at the end of the song, in deference to +ecclesiastical rather than popular feeling. + +The social and intellectual conditions which fostered +self-unconsciousness,--interest in things, incidents, and adventures +rather than in moods and inward experiences,--and the unmoral or non +moralizing attitude towards events, fostered also that delightful +naivete which contributes greatly to the charm of many of the best +ballads; a naivete which often heightens the pathos, and, at times, +softens it with touches of apparently unconscious humour; the naivete of +the child which has in it something of the freshness of a wildflower, +and yet has also a wonderful instinct for making the heart of the matter +plain. This quality has almost entirely disappeared from contemporary +verse among cultivated races; one must go to the peasants of remote +parts of the Continent to discover even a trace of its presence. It has +a real, but short-lived charm, like the freshness which shines on meadow +and garden in the brief dawn which hastens on to day. + +This frank, direct play of thought and feeling on an incident, or +series of incidents, compensates for the absence of a more perfect +art in the ballads; using the word "art" in its true sense as +including complete, adequate, and beautiful handling of +subject-matter, and masterly working out of its possibilities. These +popular songs, so dear to the hearts of the generations on whose lips +they were fashioned, and to all who care for the fresh note, the direct +word, the unrestrained emotion, rarely touch the highest points of +poetic achievement. Their charm lies, not in their perfection of form, +but in their spontaneity, sincerity, and graphic power. They are not +rivers of song, wide, deep, and swift; they are rather cool, clear +springs among the hills. In the reactions against sophisticated poetry +which set in from lime to time, the popular ballad--the true +folk-song--has often been exalted at the expense of other forms of +verse. It is idle to attempt to arrange the various forms of poetry in +an order of absolute values; it is enough that each has its own quality, +and, therefore, its own value. The drama, the epic, the ballad, the +lyric, each strikes its note in the complete expression of human emotion +and experience. Each belongs to a particular stage of development, and +each has the authority and the enduring charm which attach to every +authentic utterance of the spirit of man under the conditions of life. + +In this wide range of human expression the ballad follows the epic +as a kind of aftermath; a second and scattered harvest, springing +without regularity or nurture out of a rich and unexhausted soil. The +epic fastens upon some event of such commanding importance that it +marks a main current of history; some story, historic, or mythologic; +some incident susceptible of extended narrative treatment. It is +always, in its popular form, a matter of growth it is direct, simple, +free from didacticism; representing, as Aristotle says, "a single +action, entire and complete." It subordinates character to action; it +delights in episode and dialogue; it is content to tell the story as +a story, and leave the moralization to hearers or readers. The +popular ballad is so closely related to the popular epic that it may +be said to reproduce its qualities and characteristics within a +narrower compass, and on a smaller scale. It also is a piece of the +memory of the people, or a creation of the imagination of the people; +but the tradition or fact which it preserves is of local, rather +than national importance. It is indifferent to nice distinctions and +delicate gradations or shadings; its power springs from its +directness, vigour, and simplicity. It is often entirely occupied +with the narration or description of a single episode; it has no room +for dialogue, but it often secures the effect of the dialogue by its +unconventional freedom of phrase, and sometimes by the introduction +of brief and compact charge and denial, question and reply. Sometimes +the incidents upon which the ballad makers fastened, have a unity or +connection with each other which hints at a complete story. The +ballads which deal with Robin Hood are so numerous and so closely +related that they constantly suggest, not only the possibility, but +the probability of epic treatment. It is surprising that the richness +of the material, and its notable illustrative quality, did not +inspire some earlier Chaucer to combine the incidents in a sustained +narrative. But the epic poet did not appear, and the most +representative of English popular heroes remains the central figure +in a series of detached episodes and adventures, preserved in a long +line of disconnected ballads. + +This apparent arrest, in the ballad stage, of a story which seemed +destined to become an epic, naturally suggests the vexed question of +the author ship of the popular ballads. They are in a very real sense +the songs of the people; they make no claim to individual authorship; +on the contrary, the inference of what may be called community +authorship is, in many instances, irresistible. They are the product +of a social condition which, so to speak, holds song of this kind in +solution; of an age in which improvisation, singing, and dancing are +the most natural and familiar forms of expression. They deal almost +without exception with matters which belong to the community memory +or imagination; they constantly reappear with variations so +noticeable as to indicate free and common handling of themes of wide +local interest. All this is true of the popular ballad; but all this +does not decisively settle the question of authorship. What share did +the community have in the making of these songs, and what share fell +to individual singers? + +Herder, whose conception of the origin and function of literature +was so vitalizing in the general aridity of thinking about the +middle of the last century, and who did even more for ballad verse +in Germany than Bishop Percy did in England, laid emphasis almost +exclusively on community authorship. His profound instinct for +reality in all forms of art, his deep feeling for life, and the +immense importance he attached to spontaneity and unconsciousness in +the truest productivity made community authorship not only +attractive but inevitable to him. In his pronounced reaction +against the superficial ideas of literature so widely held in the +Germany of his time, he espoused the conception of community +authorship as the only possible explanation of the epics, ballads, +and other folk-songs. In nature and popular life, or universal +experience, he found the rich sources of the poetry whose charm he +felt so deeply, and whose power and beauty he did so much to reveal +to his contemporaries. Genius and nature are magical words with him, +because they suggested such depths of being under all forms of +expression; such unity of the whole being of a race in its thought, +its emotion, and its action; such entire unconsciousness of self or +of formulated aim, and such spontaneity of spirit and speech. The +language of those times, when words had not yet been divided into +nobles, middle-class, and plebeians, was, he said, the richest for +poetical purposes. "Our tongue, compared with the idiom of the +savage, seems adapted rather for reflection than for the senses or +imagination. The rhythm of popular verse is so delicate, so rapid, +so precise, that it is no easy matter to defect it with our eyes; +but do not imagine it to have been equally difficult for those +living populations who listened to, instead of reading it; who were +accustomed to the sound of it from their infancy; who themselves +sang it, and whose ear had been formed by its cadence." This +conception of poetry as arising in the hearts of the people and +taking form on their lips is still more definitely and strikingly +expressed in two sentences, which let us into, the heart of Herder's +philosophy of poetry: "Poetry in those happy days lived in the ears +of the people, on the lips and in the harps of living bards; it sang +of history, of the events of the day, of mysteries, miracles, and +signs. It was the flower of a nation's character, language, and +country; of its occupations, its prejudices, its passions, its +aspirations, and its soul." In these words, at once comprehensive +and vague, after the manner of Herder, we find ourselves face to +face with that conception not only of popular song in all its forms, +but with literature as a whole, which has revolutionized literary +study in this century, and revitalized it as well. For Herder was a +man of prophetic instinct; he sometimes felt more clearly than he saw; +he divined where he could not reach results by analysis. He was often +vague, fragmentary, and inconclusive, like all men of his type; but he +had a genius for getting at the heart of things. His statements often +need qualification, but he is almost always on the tight track. When he +says that the great traditions, in which both the memory and the +imagination of a race were engaged, and which were still living in +the mouths of the people, "of themselves took on poetic form," he is +using language which is too general to convey a definite impression +of method, but he is probably suggesting the deepest truth with +regard to these popular stories. They actually were of community +origin; they actually were common property; they were given a great +variety of forms by a great number of persons; the forms which have +come down to us are very likely the survivors of a kind of in formal +competition, which went on for years at the fireside and at the +festivals of a whole country side. + +Barger, whose "Lenore" is one of the most widely known of modern +ballads, held the same view of the origin of popular song, and was +even more definite in his confession of faith than Herder. He +declared in the most uncompromising terms that all real poetry must +have a popular origin; "can be and must be of the people, for that is +the seal of its perfection." And he comments on the delight with +which he has listened, in village street and home, to unwritten +songs; the poetry which finds its way in quiet rivulets to the +remotest peasant home. In like manner, Helene Vacaresco overheard the +songs of the Roumanian people; hiding in the maize to catch the +reaping songs; listening at spinning parties, at festivals, at +death-beds, at taverns; taking the songs down from the lips of peasant +women, fortune-tellers, gypsies, and all manner of humble folk who were +the custodians of this vagrant community verse. We have passed so +entirely out of the song-making period, and literature has become to us +so exclusively the work of a professional class, that we find it +difficult to imagine the intellectual and social conditions which +fostered improvisation on a great scale, and trained the ear of great +populations to the music of spoken poetry. It is almost impossible for +us to disassociate literature from writing. There is still, however, a +considerable volume of unwritten literature in the world in the form of +stories, songs, proverbs, and pithy phrases; a literature handed down in +large part from earlier times, but still receiving additions from +contemporary men and women. + +This unwritten literature is to be found, it is hardly necessary to +say, almost exclusively among country people remote from towns, and +whose mental attitude and community feeling reproduce, in a way, the +conditions under which the English and Scotch ballads were originally +composed. The Roumanian peasants sing their songs upon every +occasion of domestic or local interest; and sowing and harvesting, +birth, christening, marriage, the burial, these notable events in +the life of the country side are all celebrated by unknown poets; +or, rather, by improvisers who give definite form to sentiments, +phrases, and words which are on many lips. The Russian peasant +tells his stories as they were told to him; those heroic epics whose +life is believed, in some cases, to date back at least a thousand +years. These great popular stories form a kind of sacred +inheritance bequeathed by one generation to another as a possession +of the memory, and are almost entirely unrelated to the written +literature of the country. Miss Hapgood tells a very interesting +story of a government official, stationed on the western shore of +Lake Onega, who became so absorbed in the search for this +literature of the people that he followed singers and reciters from +place to place, eager to learn from their lips the most widely known +of these folk tales. On such an expedition of discovery he found +himself, one stormy night, on an island in the lake. The hut of +refuge was already full of stormbound peasants when he entered. +Having made himself some tea, and spread his blanket in a vacant +place, he fell asleep. He was presently awakened by a murmur of +recurring sounds. Sitting up, he found the group of peasants +hanging on the words of an old man, of kindly face, expressive eyes, +and melodious voice, from whose lips flowed a marvellous song; grave +and gay by turns, monotonous and passionate in succession; but +wonderfully fresh, picturesque, and fascinating. The listener soon +became aware that he was hearing, for the first time, the famous +story of "Sadko, the Merchant of Novgorod." It was like being +present at the birth of a piece of literature! + +The fact that unwritten songs and stories still exist in great +numbers among remote country-folk of our own time, and that additions +are still made to them, help us to understand the probable origin of +our own popular ballads, and what community authorship may really +mean. To put ourselves, even in thought, in touch with the +ballad-making period in English and Scotch history, we must dismiss from +our minds all modern ideas of authorship; all notions of individual +origination and ownership of any form of words. Professor ten Brink +tells us that in the ballad-making age there was no production; there +was only reproduction. There was a stock of traditions, memories, +experiences, held in common by large populations, in constant use on the +lips of numberless persons; told and retold in many forms, with +countless changes, variations, and modifications; without conscious +artistic purpose, with no sense of personal control or possession, with +no constructive aim either in plot or treatment; no composition in the +modern sense of the term. Such a mass of poetic material in the +possession of a large community was, in a sense, fluid, and ran into a +thousand forms almost without direction or premeditation. Constant use +of such rich material gave a poetic turn of thought and speech to +countless persons who, under other conditions, would have given no sign +of the possession of the faculty of imagination. + +There was not only the stimulus to the faculty which sees events and +occurrences with the eyes of the imagination, but there was also +constant and familiar use of the language of poetry. To speak +metrically or rhythmically is no difficult matter if one is in the +atmosphere or habit of verse-making; and there is nothing surprising +either in the feats of memory or of improvisation performed by the +minstrels and balladists of the old time. The faculty of +improvising was easily developed and was very generally used by +people of all classes. This facility is still possessed by rural +populations, among whom songs are still composed as they are sting, +each member of the company contributing a new verse or a variation, +suggested by local conditions, of a well-known stanza. When to the +possession of a mass of traditions and stories and of facility of +improvisation is added the habit of singing and dancing, it is not +difficult to reconstruct in our own thought the conditions under +which popular poetry came into being, nor to understand in what +sense a community can make its own songs. In the brave days when +ballads were made, the rustic peoples were not mute, as they are +to-day; nor sad, as they have become in so many parts of England. +They sang and they danced by instinct and as an expression of social +feeling. Originally the ballads were not only sung, but they gave +measure to the dance; they grew from mouth to mouth in the very act +of dancing; individual dancers adding verse to verse, and the +frequent refrain coming in as a kind of chorus. Gesture and, to a +certain extent, acting would naturally accompany so free and general +an expression of community feeling. There was no poet, because all +were poets. To quote Professor ten Brink once more:-- + +"Song and playing were cultivated by peasants, and even by freedmen +and serfs. At beer-feasts the harp went from hand to hand. Herein +lies the essential difference between that age and our own. The +result of poetical activity was not the property and was not the +production of a single person, but of the community. The work of the +individual endured only as long as its delivery lasted. He gained +personal distinction only as a virtuoso. The permanent elements of +what he presented, the material, the ideas, even the style and metre, +already existed. 'The work of the singer was only a ripple in the +stream of national poetry. Who can say how much the individual +contributed to it, or where in his poetical recitation memory ceased +and creative impulse began! In any case the work of the individual +lived on only as the ideal possession of the aggregate body of the +people, and it soon lost the stamp of originality. In view of such +a development of poetry, we must assume a time when the collective +consciousness of a people or race is paramount in its unity; when +the intellectual life of each is nourished from the same treasury of +views and associations, of myths and sagas; when similar interests +stir each breast; and the ethical judgment of all applies itself to +the same standard. In such an age the form of poetical expression +will also be common to all, necessarily solemn, earnest, and simple." + +When the conditions which produced the popular ballads become clear +to the imagination, their depth of rootage, not only in the community +life but in the community love, becomes also clear. We under stand +the charm which these old songs have for us of a later age, and the +spell which they cast upon men and women who knew the secret of +their birth; we understand why the minstrels of the lime, when +popular poetry was in its best estate, were held in such honour, why +Taillefer sang the song of Roland at the head of the advancing +Normans on the day of Hastings, and why good Bishop Aldhelm, when he +wanted to get the ears of his people, stood on the bridge and sang a +ballad! These old songs were the flowering of the imagination of +the people; they drew their life as directly from the general +experience, the common memory, the universal feelings, as did the +Greek dramas in those primitive times, when they were part of rustic +festivity and worship. The popular ballads have passed away with +the conditions which produced them. Modern poets have, in several +instances, written ballads of striking picturesqueness and power, +but as unlike the ballad of popular origin as the world of to-day is +unlike the world in which "Chevy Chase" was first sung. These +modern ballads are not necessarily better or worse than their +predecessors; but they are necessarily different. It is idle to +exalt the wild flower at the expense of the garden flower; each has +its fragrance, its beauty, its sentiment; and the world is wide! + +In the selection of the ballads which appear in this volume, no +attempt has been made to follow a chronological order or to enforce a +rigid principle of selection of any kind. The aim has been to bring +within moderate compass a collection of these songs of the people +which should fairly represent the range, the descriptive felicity, +the dramatic power, and the genuine poetic feeling of a body of verse +which is still, it is to be feared, unfamiliar to a large number of +those to whom it would bring refreshment and delight. + + +HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE + + + + + + +Chevy Chace + + + + God prosper long our noble king, + Our liffes and safetyes all; + A woefull hunting once there did + In Chevy-Chace befall. + + To drive the deere with hound and horne, + Erle Percy took his way; + The child may rue that is unborne + The hunting of that day. + + The stout Erle of Northumberland + A vow to God did make, + His pleasure in the Scottish woods + Three summers days to take; + + The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace + To kill and beare away: + These tydings to Erle Douglas came, + In Scotland where he lay. + + Who sent Erie Percy present word, + He wold prevent his sport; + The English Erle not fearing that, + Did to the woods resort, + + With fifteen hundred bow-men bold, + All chosen men of might, + Who knew full well in time of neede + To ayme their shafts arright. + + The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, + To chase the fallow deere; + On Munday they began to hunt, + Ere day-light did appeare; + + And long before high noone they had + An hundred fat buckes slaine; + Then having din'd, the drovyers went + To rouze the deare againe. + + The bow-men mustered on the hills, + Well able to endure; + Theire backsides all, with speciall care, + That day were guarded sure. + + The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, + The nimble deere to take, + That with their cryes the hills and dales + An eccho shrill did make. + + Lord Percy to the quarry went, + To view the tender deere; + Quoth he, "Erle Douglas promised + This day to meet me heere; + + "But if I thought he wold not come, + Noe longer wold I stay." + With that, a brave younge gentleman + Thus to the Erle did say: + + "Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, + His men in armour bright; + Full twenty hundred Scottish speres, + All marching in our sight. + + "All men of pleasant Tivydale, + Fast by the river Tweede:" + "O cease your sport," Erle Percy said, + "And take your bowes with speede. + + "And now with me, my countrymen, + Your courage forth advance; + For never was there champion yett + In Scotland or in France, + + "That ever did on horsebacke come, + But, if my hap it were, + I durst encounter man for man, + With him to breake a spere." + + Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, + Most like a baron bold, + Rode formost of his company, + Whose armour shone like gold. + + "Show me," sayd hee, "whose men you bee, + That hunt soe boldly heere, + That, without my consent, doe chase + And kill my fallow-deere." + + The man that first did answer make + Was noble Percy hee; + Who sayd, "Wee list not to declare, + Nor shew whose men wee bee. + + "Yet will wee spend our deerest blood, + Thy cheefest harts to slay;" + Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, + And thus in rage did say; + + "Ere thus I will out-braved bee, + One of us two shall dye: + I know thee well, an erle thou art; + Lord Percy, soe am I. + + "But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, + And great offence, to kill + Any of these our guiltlesse men, + For they have done no ill. + + "Let thou and I the battell trye, + And set our men aside." + "Accurst bee he," Erle Percy sayd, + "By whome this is denyed." + + Then stept a gallant squier forth, + Witherington was his name, + Who said, "I wold not have it told + To Henry our king for shame, + + "That ere my captaine fought on foote, + And I stood looking on: + You bee two erles," sayd Witherington, + "And I a squier alone. + + "Ile doe the best that doe I may, + While I have power to stand; + While I have power to weeld my sword, + Ile fight with hart and hand." + + Our English archers bent their bowes, + Their harts were good and trew; + Att the first flight of arrowes sent, + Full four-score Scots they slew. + + [Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, + As Chieftain stout and good, + As valiant Captain, all unmov'd + The shock he firmly stood. + + His host he parted had in three, + As Leader ware and try'd, + And soon his spearmen on their foes + Bare down on every side. + + Throughout the English archery + They dealt full many a wound; + But still our valiant Englishmen + All firmly kept their ground. + + And throwing strait their bows away, + They grasp'd their swords so bright: + And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, + On shields and helmets light.] + + They clos'd full fast on everye side, + Noe slacknes there was found; + And many a gallant gentleman + Lay gasping on the ground. + + O Christ! it was a griefe to see, + And likewise for to heare, + The cries of men lying in their gore, + And scattered here and there. + + At last these two stout erles did meet, + Like captaines of great might; + Like lyons wood they layd on lode, + And made a cruell fight. + + They fought, untill they both did sweat, + With swords of tempered steele; + Until the blood, like drops of rain, + They trickling downe did feele. + + "Yeeld thee, Lord Percy," Douglas sayd + "In faith I will thee bringe, + Where thou shalt high advanced bee + By James our Scottish king. + + "Thy ransom I will freely give, + And thus report of thee, + Thou art the most couragious knight + That ever I did see." + + "Noe, Douglas," quoth Erle Percy then, + "Thy proffer I doe scorne + I will not yeelde to any Scott, + That ever yett was borne." + + With that, there came an arrow keene + Out of an English bow, + Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, + A deepe and deadlye blow: + + Who never spake more words than these, + "Fight on, my merry men all; + For why, my life is at an end: + Lord Percy sees my fall." + + Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke + The dead man by the hand; + And said, "Erle Douglas, for thy life + Wold I had lost my land! + + "O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed + With sorrow for thy sake; + For sure, a more renowned knight + Mischance cold never take." + + A knight amongst the Scotts there was, + Which saw Erle Douglas dye, + Who streight in wrath did vow revenge + Upon the Lord Percye; + + Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he call'd, + Who, with a spere most bright, + Well-mounted on a gallant steed, + Ran fiercely through the fight; + + And past the English archers all, + Without all dread or feare, + And through Earl Percyes body then + He thrust his hatefull spere + + With such a vehement force and might + He did his body gore, + The speare ran through the other side + A large cloth-yard, and more. + + So thus did both these nobles dye, + Whose courage none could staine; + An English archer then perceiv'd + The noble erle was slaine. + + He had a bow bent in his hand, + Made of a trusty tree; + An arrow of a cloth-yard long + Up to the head drew hee. + + Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + So right the shaft he sett, + The grey goose-wing that was thereon + In his harts bloode was wett. + + This fight did last from breake of day + Till setting of the sun; + For when they rung the evening bell, + The battel scarce was done. + + With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine, + Sir John of Egerton, + Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, + Sir James, that bold Bar n. + + And with Sir George and stout Sir James, + Both knights of good account, + Good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slaine, + Whose prowesse did surmount. + + For Witherington needs must I wayle, + As one in doleful dumpes; + For when his legs were smitten off, + He fought upon his stumpes. + + And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine + Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, + Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld + One foote wold never flee. + + Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, + His sisters sonne was hee; + Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, + Yet saved cold not bee. + + And the Lord Maxwell in like case + Did with Erle Douglas dye; + Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, + Scarce fifty-five did flye. + + Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, + Went home but fifty-three; + The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, + Under the greene wood tree. + + Next day did many widowes come, + Their husbands to bewayle; + They washt their wounds in brinish teares, + But all wold not prevayle. + + Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple blood, + They bore with them away: + They kist them dead a thousand times, + Ere they were cladd in clay. + + This newes was brought to Eddenborrow, + Where Scotlands king did raigne, + That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye + Was with an arrow slaine. + + "O heavy newes," King James did say; + "Scottland can witnesse bee, + I have not any captaine more + Of such account as hee." + + Like tydings to King Henry came, + Within as short a space, + That Percy of Northumberland + Was slaine in Chevy-Chace. + + "Now God be with him," said our king, + "Sith it will noe better bee; + I trust I have, within my realme, + Five hundred as good as hee. + + "Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, + But I will vengeance take, + I'll be revenged on them all, + For brave Erle Percyes sake." + + This vow full well the king perform'd + After, at Humbledowne; + In one day, fifty knights were slayne, + With lordes of great renowne. + + And of the rest, of small account, + Did many thousands dye: + Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy-Chace, + Made by the Erle Percy. + + God save our king, and bless this land + In plentye, joy, and peace; + And grant henceforth, that foule debate + 'Twixt noblemen may cease! + + + + + +King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid + + + + I read that once in Affrica + A princely wight did raine, + Who had to name Cophetua, + As poets they did faine. + From natures lawes he did decline, + For sure he was not of my minde, + He cared not for women-kind + But did them all disdaine. + But marke what hapned on a day; + As he out of his window lay, + He saw a beggar all in gray. + The which did cause his paine. + + The blinded boy that shootes so trim + From heaven downe did hie, + He drew a dart and shot at him, + In place where he did lye: + Which soone did pierse him to the quicke, + And when he felt the arrow pricke, + Which in his tender heart did sticke, + He looketh as he would dye. + "What sudden chance is this," quoth he, + "That I to love must subject be, + Which never thereto would agree, + But still did it defie?" + + Then from the window he did come, + And laid him on his bed; + A thousand heapes of care did runne + Within his troubled head. + For now he meanes to crave her love, + And now he seekes which way to proove + How he his fancie might remoove, + And not this beggar wed. + But Cupid had him so in snare, + That this poor begger must prepare + A salve to cure him of his care, + Or els he would be dead. + + And as he musing thus did lye, + He thought for to devise + How he might have her companye, + That so did 'maze his eyes. + "In thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; + For surely thou shalt be my wife, + Or else this hand with bloody knife, + The Gods shall sure suffice." + Then from his bed he soon arose, + And to his pallace gate he goes; + Full little then this begger knowes + When she the king espies. + + "The gods preserve your majesty," + The beggers all gan cry; + "Vouchsafe to give your charity, + Our childrens food to buy." + The king to them his purse did cast, + And they to part it made great haste; + This silly woman was the last + That after them did hye. + The king he cal'd her back againe, + And unto her he gave his chaine; + And said, "With us you shal remaine + Till such time as we dye. + + "For thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, + And honoured for my queene; + With thee I meane to lead my life, + As shortly shall be seene: + Our wedding shall appointed be, + And every thing in its degree; + Come on," quoth he, "and follow me, + Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. + What is thy name, faire maid?" quoth he. + "Penelophon, O King," quoth she; + With that she made a lowe courtsey; + A trim one as I weene. + + Thus hand in hand along they walke + Unto the king's pallace: + The king with courteous, comly talke + This begger doth embrace. + The begger blusheth scarlet red, + And straight againe as pale as lead, + But not a word at all she said, + She was in such amaze. + At last she spake with trembling voyce, + And said, "O King, I doe rejoyce + That you wil take me for your choyce, + And my degree so base." + + And when the wedding day was come, + The king commanded strait + The noblemen, both all and some, + Upon the queene to wait. + And she behaved herself that day + As if she had never walkt the way; + She had forgot her gowne of gray, + Which she did weare of late. + The proverbe old is come to passe, + The priest, when he begins his masse, + Forgets that ever clerke he was + He knowth not his estate. + + Here you may read Cophetua, + Through long time fancie-fed, + Compelled by the blinded boy + The begger for to wed: + He that did lovers lookes disdaine, + To do the same was glad and faine, + Or else he would himselfe have slaine, + In storie, as we read. + Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, + But pitty now thy servant heere, + Least that it hap to thee this yeare, + As to that king it did. + + And thus they led a quiet life + During their princely raine, + And in a tombe were buried both, + As writers sheweth plaine. + The lords they tooke it grievously, + The ladies tooke it heavily, + The commons cryed pitiously, + Their death to them was paine. + Their fame did sound so passingly, + That it did pierce the starry sky, + And throughout all the world did flye + To every princes realme. + + + + + +King Leir and his Three Daughters + + + + King Leir once ruled in this land + With princely power and peace, + And had all things with hearts content, + That might his joys increase. + Amongst those things that nature gave, + Three daughters fair had he, + So princely seeming beautiful, + As fairer could not be. + + So on a time it pleas'd the king + A question thus to move, + Which of his daughters to his grace + Could shew the dearest love: + "For to my age you bring content," + Quoth he, "then let me hear, + Which of you three in plighted troth + The kindest will appear." + + To whom the eldest thus began: + "Dear father, mind," quoth she, + "Before your face, to do you good, + My blood shall render'd be. + And for your sake my bleeding heart + Shall here be cut in twain, + Ere that I see your reverend age + The smallest grief sustain." + + "And so will I," the second said; + "Dear father, for your sake, + The worst of all extremities + I'll gently undertake: + And serve your highness night and day + With diligence and love; + That sweet content and quietness + Discomforts may remove." + + "In doing so, you glad my soul," + The aged king reply'd; + "But what sayst thou, my youngest girl, + How is thy love ally'd?" + "My love" (quoth young Cordelia then), + "Which to your grace I owe, + Shall be the duty of a child, + And that is all I'll show." + + "And wilt thou shew no more," quoth he, + "Than doth thy duty bind? + I well perceive thy love is small, + When as no more I find. + Henceforth I banish thee my court; + Thou art no child of mine; + Nor any part of this my realm + By favour shall be thine. + + "Thy elder sisters' loves are more + Than well I can demand; + To whom I equally bestow + My kingdome and my land, + My pompal state and all my goods, + That lovingly I may + With those thy sisters be maintain'd + Until my dying day." + + Thus flattering speeches won renown, + By these two sisters here; + The third had causeless banishment, + Yet was her love more dear. + For poor Cordelia patiently + Went wandring up and down, + Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, + Through many an English town: + + Untill at last in famous France + She gentler fortunes found; + Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd + The fairest on the ground: + Where when the king her virtues heard, + And this fair lady seen, + With full consent of all his court + He made his wife and queen. + + Her father, old King Leir, this while + With his two daughters staid; + Forgetful of their promis'd loves, + Full soon the same decay'd; + And living in Queen Ragan's court, + The eldest of the twain, + She took from him his chiefest means, + And most of all his train. + + For whereas twenty men were wont + To wait with bended knee, + She gave allowance but to ten, + And after scarce to three, + Nay, one she thought too much for him; + So took she all away, + In hope that in her court, good king, + He would no longer stay. + + "Am I rewarded thus," quoth he, + "In giving all I have + Unto my children, and to beg + For what I lately gave? + I'll go unto my Gonorell: + My second child, I know, + Will be more kind and pitiful, + And will relieve my woe." + + Full fast he hies then to her court; + Where when she heard his moan, + Return'd him answer, that she griev'd + That all his means were gone, + But no way could relieve his wants; + Yet if that he would stay + Within her kitchen, he should have + What scullions gave away. + + When he had heard, with bitter tears, + He made his answer then; + "In what I did, let me be made + Example to all men. + I will return again," quoth he, + "Unto my Ragan's court; + She will not use me thus, I hope, + But in a kinder sort." + + Where when he came, she gave command + To drive him thence away: + When he was well within her court, + (She said) he would not stay. + Then back again to Gonorel + The woeful king did hie, + That in her kitchen he might have + What scullion boys set by. + + But there of that he was deny'd + Which she had promis'd late + For once refusing, he should not, + Come after to her gate. + Thus twixt his daughters for relief + He wandred up and down, + Being glad to feed on beggars' food + That lately wore a crown. + + And calling to remembrance then + His youngest daughters words, + That said, the duty of a child + Was all that love affords-- + But doubting to repair to her, + Whom he had ban'sh'd so, + Grew frantic mad; for in his mind + He bore the wounds of woe. + + Which made him rend his milk-white locks + And tresses from his head, + And all with blood bestain his cheeks, + With age and honour spread. + To hills and woods and watry founts, + He made his hourly moan, + Till hills and woods and senseless things + Did seem to sigh and groan. + + Even thus possest with discontents, + He passed o'er to France, + In hopes from fair Cordelia there + To find some gentler chance. + Most virtuous dame! which, when she heard + Of this her father's grief, + As duty bound, she quickly sent + Him comfort and relief. + + And by a train of noble peers, + In brave and gallant sort, + She gave in charge he should be brought + To Aganippus' court; + Whose royal king, with noble mind, + So freely gave consent + To muster up his knights at arms, + To fame and courage bent. + + And so to England came with speed, + To repossesse King Leir, + And drive his daughters from their thrones + By his Cordelia dear. + Where she, true-hearted, noble queen, + Was in the battel stain; + Yet he, good king, in his old days, + Possest his crown again. + + But when he heard Cordelia's death, + Who died indeed for love + Of her dear father, in whose cause + She did this battle move, + He swooning fell upon her breast, + From whence he never parted; + But on her bosom left his life + That was so truly hearted. + + The lords and nobles, when they saw + The end of these events, + The other sisters unto death + They doomed by consents; + And being dead, their crowns they left + Unto the next of kin: + Thus have you seen the fall of pride, + And disobedient sin. + + + + + +Fair Rosamond + + + + When as King Henry rulde this land, + The second of that name, + Besides the queene, he dearly lovde + A faire and comely dame. + + Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, + Her favour, and her face; + A sweeter creature in this worlde + Could never prince embrace. + + Her crisped lockes like threads of golde, + Appeard to each man's sight; + Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, + Did cast a heavenlye light. + + The blood within her crystal cheekes + Did such a colour drive, + As though the lillye and the rose + For mastership did strive. + + Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde, + Her name was called so, + To whom our queene, Dame Ellinor, + Was known a deadlye foe. + + The king therefore, for her defence + Against the furious queene, + At Woodstocke builded such a bower, + The like was never seene. + + Most curiously that bower was built, + Of stone and timber strong; + An hundered and fifty doors + Did to this bower belong: + + And they so cunninglye contriv'd, + With turnings round about, + That none but with a clue of thread + Could enter in or out. + + And for his love and ladyes sake, + That was so faire and brighte, + The keeping of this bower he gave + Unto a valiant knighte. + + But fortune, that doth often frowne + Where she before did smile, + The kinges delighte and ladyes joy + Full soon shee did beguile: + + For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, + Whom he did high advance, + Against his father raised warres + Within the realme of France. + + But yet before our comelye king + The English land forsooke, + Of Rosamond, his lady faire, + His farewelle thus he tooke: + + "My Rosamonde, my only Rose, + That pleasest best mine eye, + The fairest flower in all the worlde + To feed my fantasye,-- + + "The flower of mine affected heart, + Whose sweetness doth excelle, + My royal Rose, a thousand times + I bid thee nowe farwelle! + + "For I must leave my fairest flower, + My sweetest Rose, a space, + And cross the seas to famous France, + Proud rebelles to abase. + + "But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt + My coming shortlye see, + And in my heart, when hence I am, + Ile beare my Rose with mee." + + When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, + Did heare the king saye soe, + The sorrowe of her grieved heart + Her outward lookes did showe. + + And from her cleare and crystall eyes + The teares gusht out apace, + Which, like the silver-pearled dewe, + Ranne downe her comely face. + + Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, + Did waxe both wan and pale, + And for the sorrow she conceivde + Her vitall spirits faile. + + And falling downe all in a swoone + Before King Henryes face, + Full oft he in his princelye armes + Her bodye did embrace. + + And twentye times, with watery eyes, + He kist her tender cheeke, + Untill he had revivde againe + Her senses milde and meeke. + + "Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?" + The king did often say: + "Because," quoth shee, "to bloodye warres + My lord must part awaye. + + "But since your Grace on forrayne coastes, + Amonge your foes unkinde, + Must goe to hazard life and limbe, + Why should I staye behinde? + + "Nay, rather let me, like a page, + Your sworde and target beare; + That on my breast the blowes may lighte, + Which would offend you there. + + "Or lett mee, in your royal tent, + Prepare your bed at nighte, + And with sweete baths refresh your grace, + At your returne from fighte. + + "So I your presence may enjoye + No toil I will refuse; + But wanting you, my life is death: + Nay, death Ild rather chuse." + + "Content thy self, my dearest love, + Thy rest at home shall bee, + In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle; + For travell fits not thee. + + "Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; + Soft peace their sexe delightes; + Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; + Gay feastes, not cruell fightes. + + "My Rose shall safely here abide, + With musicke passe the daye, + Whilst I amonge the piercing pikes + My foes seeke far awaye. + + "My Rose shall shine in pearle and golde, + Whilst Ime in armour dighte; + Gay galliards here my love shall dance, + Whilst I my foes goe fighte. + + "And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste + To bee my loves defence, + Be carefull of my gallant Rose + When I am parted hence." + + And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, + As though his heart would breake; + And Rosamonde, for very griefe, + Not one plaine word could speake. + + And at their parting well they mighte + In heart be grieved sore: + After that daye, faire Rosamonde + The king did see no more. + + For when his Grace had past the seas, + And into France was gone, + With envious heart, Queene Ellinor + To Woodstocke came anone. + + And forth she calls this trustye knighte + In an unhappy houre, + Who, with his clue of twined-thread, + Came from this famous bower. + + And when that they had wounded him, + The queene this thread did gette, + And wente where Ladye Rosamonde + Was like an angell sette. + + But when the queene with stedfast eye + Beheld her beauteous face, + She was amazed in her minde + At her exceeding grace. + + "Cast off from thee those robes," she said, + "That riche and costlye bee; + And drinke thou up this deadlye draught + Which I have brought to thee." + + Then presentlye upon her knees + Sweet Rosamonde did falle; + And pardon of the queene she crav'd + For her offences all. + + "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares," + Faire Rosamonde did crye; + "And lett mee not with poison stronge + Enforced bee to dye. + + "I will renounce my sinfull life, + And in some cloyster bide; + Or else be banisht, if you please, + To range the world soe wide. + + "And for the fault which I have done, + Though I was forc'd theretoe, + Preserve my life, and punish mee + As you thinke meet to doe." + + And with these words, her lillie handes + She wrunge full often there; + And downe along her lovely face + Did trickle many a teare. + + But nothing could this furious queene + Therewith appeased bee; + The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, + As she knelt on her knee, + + She gave this comelye dame to drinke; + Who tooke it in her hand, + And from her bended knee arose, + And on her feet did stand, + + And casting up her eyes to heaven, + Shee did for mercye calle; + And drinking up the poison stronge, + Her life she lost withalle. + + And when that death through everye limbe + Had showde its greatest spite, + Her chiefest foes did plain confesse + Shee was a glorious wight. + + Her body then they did entomb, + When life was fled away, + At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, + As may be seene this day. + + + + + +Phillida and Corydon + + + + In the merrie moneth of Maye, + In a morne by break of daye, + With a troope of damselles playing + Forthe 'I yode' forsooth a maying; + + When anon by a wood side, + Where that Maye was in his pride, + I espied all alone + Phillida and Corydon. + + Much adoe there was, God wot: + He wold love, and she wold not. + She sayde, "Never man was trewe;" + He sayes, "None was false to you." + + He sayde, hee had lovde her longe; + She sayes, love should have no wronge. + Corydon wold kisse her then; + She sayes, "Maydes must kisse no men, + + "Tyll they doe for good and all." + When she made the shepperde call + All the heavens to wytnes truthe, + Never loved a truer youthe. + + Then with manie a prettie othe, + Yea and nay, and faithe and trothe, + Suche as seelie shepperdes use + When they will not love abuse, + + Love, that had bene long deluded, + Was with kisses sweete concluded; + And Phillida with garlands gaye + Was made the lady of the Maye. + + + + + +Fair Margaret and Sweet William + + + + As it fell out on a long summer's day, + Two lovers they sat on a hill; + They sat together that long summer's day, + And could not talk their fill. + + "I see no harm by you, Margaret, + And you see none by mee; + Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock + A rich wedding you shall see." + + Fair Margaret sat in her bower-wind w, + Combing her yellow hair; + There she spyed sweet William and his bride, + As they were a riding near. + + Then down she layd her ivory combe, + And braided her hair in twain: + She went alive out of her bower, + But ne'er came alive in't again. + + When day was gone, and night was come, + And all men fast asleep, + Then came the spirit of Fair Marg'ret, + And stood at William's feet. + + "Are you awake, sweet William?" shee said, + "Or, sweet William, are you asleep? + God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, + And me of my winding sheet." + + When day was come, and night was gone, + And all men wak'd from sleep, + Sweet William to his lady sayd, + "My dear, I have cause to weep. + + "I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, + Such dreames are never good: + I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,' + And my bride-bed full of blood." + + "Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, + They never do prove good; + To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,' + And thy bride-bed full of blood." + + He called up his merry men all, + By one, by two, and by three; + Saying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower, + By the leave of my ladie." + + And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower, + He knocked at the ring; + And who so ready as her seven brethren + To let sweet William in. + + Then he turned up the covering-sheet; + "Pray let me see the dead; + Methinks she looks all pale and wan. + She hath lost her cherry red. + + "I'll do more for thee, Margaret, + Than any of thy kin: + For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, + Though a smile I cannot win." + + With that bespake the seven brethren, + Making most piteous mone, + "You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, + And let our sister alone." + + "If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, + I do but what is right; + I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, + By day, nor yet by night. + + "Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, + Deal on your cake and your wine: + For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, + Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine." + + Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, + Sweet William dyed the morrow: + Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love, + Sweet William dyed for sorrow. + + Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, + And William in the higher: + Out of her brest there sprang a rose, + And out of his a briar. + + They grew till they grew unto the church top, + And then they could grow no higher; + And there they tyed in a true lover's knot, + Which made all the people admire. + + Then came the clerk of the parish, + As you the truth shall hear, + And by misfortune cut them down, + Or they had now been there. + + + + + +Annan Water + + + + "Annan Water's wading deep, + And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; + I will keep my tryst to-night, + And win the heart o' lovely Annie." + + He's loupen on his bonny grey, + He rade the right gate and the ready', + For a' the storm he wadna stay, + For seeking o' his bonny lady. + + And he has ridden o'er field and fell, + Through muir and moss, and stones and mire; + His spurs o' steel were sair to bide, + And frae her four feet flew the fire. + + "My bonny grey, noo play your part! + Gin ye be the steed that wins my dearie, + Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, + And never spur sail mak' you wearie." + + The grey was a mare, and a right gude mare: + But when she wan the Annan Water, + She couldna hae found the ford that night + Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. + + "O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, + Put off your boat for gouden money!" + But for a' the goud in fair Scotland, + He dared na tak' him through to Annie. + + "O I was sworn sae late yestreen, + Not by a single aith, but mony. + I'll cross the drumly stream to-night, + Or never could I face my honey." + + The side was stey, and the bottom deep, + Frae bank to brae the water pouring; + The bonny grey mare she swat for fear, + For she heard the water-kelpy roaring. + + He spurred her forth into the flood, + I wot she swam both strong and steady; + But the stream was broad, her strength did fail, + And he never saw his bonny lady. + + O wae betide the frush saugh wand! + And wae betide the bush of brier! + That bent and brake into his hand, + When strength of man and horse did tire. + + And wae betide ye, Annan Water! + This night ye are a drumly river; + But over thee we'll build a brig, + That ye nae mair true love may sever. + + + + + +The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington + + + + There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, + And he was a squire's son; + He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, + That lived in Islington. + + Yet she was coye, and would not believe + That he did love her soe, + Noe nor at any time would she + Any countenance to him showe. + + But when his friendes did understand + His fond and foolish minde, + They sent him up to faire London, + An apprentice for to binde. + + And when he had been seven long yeares, + And never his love could see,-- + "Many a teare have I shed for her sake, + When she little thought of mee." + + Then all the maids of Islington + Went forth to sport and playe, + All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; + She secretly stole awaye. + + She pulled off her gowne of greene, + And put on ragged attire, + And to faire London she would go + Her true love to enquire. + + And as she went along the high road, + The weather being hot and drye, + She sat her downe upon a green bank, + And her true love came riding bye. + + She started up, with a colour soe redd, + Catching hold of his bridle-reine; + "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, + "Will ease me of much paine." + + "Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, + Praye tell me where you were borne." + "At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, + "Where I have had many a scorne." + + "I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, + O tell me, whether you knowe + The bayliffes daughter of Islington." + "She is dead, sir, long agoe." + + "If she be dead, then take my horse, + My saddle and bridle also; + For I will into some farr countrye, + Where noe man shall me knowe." + + "O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, + She standeth by thy side; + She is here alive, she is not dead, + And readye to be thy bride." + + "O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, + Ten thousand times therefore; + For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, + Whom I thought I should never see more." + + + + + +Barbara Allen's Cruelty + + + + All in the merry month of May, + When green buds they were swelling, + Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay + For love o' Barbara Allen. + + He sent his man unto her then, + To the town where she was dwelling: + "O haste and come to my master dear, + If your name be Barbara Allen." + + Slowly, slowly rase she up, + And she cam' where he was lying; + And when she drew the curtain by, + Says, "Young man, I think you're dying." + + "O it's I am sick, and very, very sick, + And it's a' for Barbara Allen." + "O the better for me ye'se never be, + Tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling! + + "O dinna ye min', young man," she says, + "When the red wine ye were filling, + That ye made the healths gae round and round + And ye slighted Barbara Allen?" + + He turn'd his face unto the wa', + And death was wi' him dealing: + "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'; + Be kind to Barbara Allen." + + As she was walking o'er the fields, + She heard the dead-bell knelling; + + And every jow the dead-bell gave, + It cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!" + + "O mother, mother, mak' my bed, + To lay me down in sorrow. + My love has died for me to-day, + I'll die for him to-morrow." + + + + + +The Douglas Tragedy + + + + "Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, + "And put on your armour so bright; + Sweet William will hae Lady Margaret awi' + Before that it be light. + + "Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, + And put on your armour so bright, + And take better care of your youngest sister, + For your eldest's awa' the last night." + + He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, + And himself on a dapple grey, + With a buglet horn hung down by his side + And lightly they rode away. + + Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, + To see what he could see, + And there he spied her seven brethren bold + Come riding o'er the lea. + + "Light down, light down, Lady Margaret," he said, + "And hold my steed in your hand, + Until that against your seven brethren bold, + And your father I make a stand." + + She held his steed in her milk-white hand, + And never shed one tear, + Until that she saw her seven brethren fa' + And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. + + "O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, + "For your strokes they are wondrous sair; + True lovers I can get many a ane, + But a father I can never get mair." + + O, she's ta'en out her handkerchief, + It was o' the holland sae fine, + And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, + That were redder than the wine. + + "O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margaret," he said, + "O whether will ye gang or bide?" + "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, + "For you have left me nae other guide." + + He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, + And himself on a dapple grey, + With a buglet horn hung down by his side, + And slowly they baith rade away. + + O they rade on, and on they rade, + And a' by the light of the moon, + Until they came to yon wan water, + And there they lighted down. + + They lighted down to tak a drink + Of the spring that ran sae clear; + And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, + And sair she 'gan to fear. + + "Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, + "For I fear that you are slain!" + "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, + That shines in the water sae plain." + + O they rade on, and on they rade, + And a' by the light of the moon, + Until they came to his mother's ha' door, + And there they lighted down. + + "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, + "Get up, and let me in! + Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, + "For this night my fair lady I've win. + + "O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, + "O mak it braid and deep! + And lay Lady Margaret close at my back, + And the sounder I will sleep." + + Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, + Lady Margaret lang ere day: + And all true lovers that go thegither, + May they have mair luck than they! + + Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk, + Lady Margaret in Marie's quire; + Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, + And out o' the knight's a brier. + + And they twa met, and they twa plat + And fain they wad be near; + And a' the world might ken right weel, + They were twa lovers dear. + + But bye and rade the black Douglas + And wow but he was rough! + For he pulled up the bonny brier, + And flanged in St. Marie's Loch. + + + + + +Young Waters + + + + About Yule, when the wind blew cool; + And the round tables began, + A' there is come to our king's court + Mony a well-favoured man. + + The queen looked o'er the castle wa', + Beheld baith dale and down, + And then she saw young Waters + Come riding to the town. + + His footmen they did rin before, + His horsemen rade behind; + Ane mantle of the burning gowd + Did keep him frae the wind. + + Gowden graith'd[FN#1] his horse before, + And siller shod behind; + The horse young Waters rade upon + Was fleeter than the wind. + + + [FN#1] Graitih'd, girthed. + + + + Out then spake a wily lord, + Unto the queen said he: + "O tell me wha's the fairest face + Rides in the company?" + + "I've seen lord, and I've seen laird, + And knights of high degree, + But a fairer face than young Waters + Mine eyen did never see." + + Out then spake the jealous king + And an angry man was he: + "O if he had been twice as fair, + You might have excepted me." + + "You're neither laird nor lord," she says, + "But the king that wears the crown; + There is not a knight in fair Scotland, + But to thee maun bow down." + + For a' that she could do or say, + Appeased he wad nae be; + But for the words which she had said, + Young Waters he maun dee. + + They hae ta'en young Waters, + And put fetters to his feet; + They hae ta'en young Waters, + And thrown him in dungeon deep. + + "Aft I have ridden thro' Stirling town, + In the wind but and the weet; + But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town + Wi' fetters at my feet. + + "Aft have I ridden thro' Stirling town, + In the wind but and the rain; + But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town + Ne'er to return again." + + They hae ta'en to the heading-hill + His young son in his cradle; + And they hae ta'en to the heading-hill + His horse but and his saddle. + + They hae ta'en to the heading-hill + His lady fair to see; + And for the words the queen had spoke + Young Waters he did dee. + + + + + +Flodden Field + + + + King Jamie hath made a vow, + Keepe it well if he may: + That he will be at lovely London + Upon Saint James his day. + + Upon Saint James his day at noone, + At faire London will I be, + And all the lords in merrie Scotland, + They shall dine there with me. + + "March out, march out, my merry men, + Of hie or low degree; + I'le weare the crowne in London towne, + And that you soon shall be." + + Then bespake good Queene Margaret, + The teares fell from her eye: + "Leave off these warres, most noble King, + Keepe your fidelitie. + + "The water runnes swift, and wondrous deepe, + From bottome unto the brimme; + My brother Henry hath men good enough; + England is hard to winne." + + "Away" quoth he "with this silly foole! + In prison fast let her lie: + For she is come of the English bloud, + And for these words she shall dye." + + With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard, + The Queenes chamberlaine that day: + "If that you put Queene Margaret to death, + Scotland shall rue it alway." + + Then in a rage King Jamie did say, + "Away with this foolish mome; + He shall be hanged, and the other be burned, + So soone as I come home." + + At Flodden Field the Scots came in, + Which made our English men faine; + At Bramstone Greene this battaile was seene, + There was King Jamie slaine. + + His bodie never could be found, + When he was over throwne, + And he that wore faire Scotland's crowne + That day could not be knowne. + + Then presently the Scot did flie, + Their cannons they left behind; + Their ensignes gay were won all away, + Our souldiers did beate them blinde. + + To tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine, + That to the fight did stand, + And many prisoners tooke that day, + The best in all Scotland. + + That day made many [a] fatherlesse child, + And many a widow poore, + And many a Scottish gay lady + Sate weeping in her bower. + + Jack with a feather was lapt all in leather, + His boastings were all in vaine; + He had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance + He never went home againe. + + -------- + + This was written to adapt the ballad to the seventeenth century. + + + Now heaven we laude that never more + Such biding shall come to hand; + Our King, by othe, is King of both + England and faire Scotland. + + + + + +Helen of Kirkconnell + + + + I wad I were where Helen lies; + Night and day on me she cries; + O that I were where Helen lies, + On fair Kirkconnell 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 but my heart was sair + When my Love dropt and spak nae mair! + I laid her down wi' meikle care, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + As I went down the water side, + Nane but my foe to be my guide, + Nane but my foe to be my guide, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + I lighted down my sword to draw, + I hacked him in pieces sma', + I hacked him in pieces sma', + For her sake that died for me. + + O Helen fair, beyond compare! + I'll make a garland of thy hair, + Shall bind my heart for evermair, + Until the day I dee! + + O that I were where Helen lies + 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 were blest, + Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + I wad my grave were growing green, + A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, + And I in Helen's arms lying, + On fair Kirkconnell lea. + + I wad I were where Helen lies! + Night and day on me she cries, + And I am weary of the skies, + Since my Love died for me. + + + + + +Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale + + + + Come listen to me, you gallants so free, + All you that love mirth for to hear, + And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, + That lived in Nottinghamshire. + + As Robin Hood in the forest stood + All under the greenwood tree, + There he was aware of a brave young man, + As fine as fine might be. + + The youngster was clad in scarlet red, + In scarlet fine and gay + And he did frisk it over the plain, + And chaunted a roundelay. + + As Robin Hood next morning stood + Amongst the leaves so gay, + There did he espy the same young man + Come drooping along the way. + + The scarlet he wore the day before + It was clean cast away; + And at every step he fetched a sigh, + "Alas! and a well-a-day!" + + Then stepped forth brave Little John, + And Midge, the miller's son; + Which made the young man bend his bow, + When as he see them come. + + "Stand off! stand off!" the young man said, + "What is your will with me?" + "You must come before our master straight, + Under yon greenwood tree." + + And when he came bold Robin before, + Robin asked him courteously, + O, hast thou any money to spare, + For my merry men and me? + + "I have no money," the young man said, + "But five shillings and a ring; + And that I have kept this seven long years, + To have at my wedding. + + "Yesterday I should have married a maid, + But she was from me ta'en, + And chosen to be an old knight's delight, + Whereby my poor heart is slain." + + "What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood, + "Come tell me, without any fail." + "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, + "My name it is Allen-a-Dale." + + "What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, + "In ready gold or fee, + To help thee to thy true love again, + And deliver her unto thee?" + + "I have no money," then quoth the young man, + "No ready gold nor fee, + But I will swear upon a book + Thy true servant for to be." + + "How many miles is it to thy true love? + Come tell me without guile." + "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, + "It is but five little mile." + + Then Robin he hasted over the plain, + He did neither stint nor lin, + Until he came unto the church + Where Allen should keep his weddin'. + + "What hast thou here?" the bishop then said, + "I prithee now tell unto me." + "I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, + "And the best in the north country." + + "O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said, + "That music best pleaseth me." + "You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, + "Till the bride and bridegroom I see." + + With that came in a wealthy knight, + Which was both grave and old; + And after him a finikin lass, + Did shine like the glistering gold. + + "This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, + "That you do seem to make here; + For since we are come into the church, + The bride shall chuse her own dear." + + Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, + And blew blasts two and three; + When four-and-twenty bowmen bold + Came leaping over the lea. + + And when they came into the church-yard, + Marching all in a row, + The first man was Allen-a-Dale, + To give bold Robin his bow. + + "This is thy true love," Robin he said, + Young Allen, as I hear say; + And you shall be married this same time, + Before we depart away." + + "That shall not be," the bishop he cried, + "For thy word shall not stand; + They shall be three times asked in the church, + As the law is of our land." + + Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat, + And put it upon Little John; + "By the faith of my body," then Robin said, + "This cloth doth make thee a man." + + When Little John went into the quire, + The people began to laugh; + He asked them seven times into church, + Lest three times should not be enough. + + "Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, + Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; + And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, + Full dearly he shall her buy." + + And then having ended this merry wedding, + The bride looked like a queen; + And so they returned to the merry greenwood, + Amongst the leaves so green. + + + + + +Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne + + + + When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, + And leaves both large and longe, + Itt is merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest + To heare the small birdes songe. + + The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, + Sitting upon the spraye, + Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, + In the greenwood where he lay. + + "Now, by my faye," sayd jollye Robin, + "A sweaven I had this night; + I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, + That fast with me can fight. + + "Methought they did mee beate and binde, + And tooke my bow mee froe; + Iff I be Robin alive in this lande, + Ile be wroken on them towe." + + "Sweavens are swift, master," quoth John, + "As the wind that blowes ore the hill; + For if itt be never so loude this night, + To-morrow it may be still." + + "Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, + And John shall goe with mee, + For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, + In greenwood where the bee." + + Then they cast on their gownes of grene, + And tooke theyr bowes each one; + And they away to the greene forrest + A shooting forth are gone; + + Untill they came to the merry greenwood, + Where they had gladdest to bee; + There were they ware of a wight yeoman, + His body leaned to a tree. + + A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, + Of manye a man the bane; + And he was clad in his capull hyde, + Topp and tayll and mayne. + + "Stand you still, master," quoth Little John, + "Under this tree so grene, + And I will go to yond wight yeoman + To know what he doth meane." + + "Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, + And that I farley finde: + How offt send I my men beffore, + And tarry my selfe behinde! + + "It is no cunning a knave to ken, + And a man but heare him speake; + And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, + John, I thy head wold breake." + + As often wordes they breeden bale, + So they parted Robin and John; + And John is gone to Barnesdale; + The gates he knoweth eche one. + + But when he came to Barnesdale, + Great heavinesse there hee hadd, + For he found tow of his owne fell wes + Were slaine both in a slade. + + And Scarlette he was flying a-foote + Faste over stocke and stone, + For the sheriffe with seven score men + Fast after him is gone. + + "One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John, + "With Christ his might and mayne; + Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, + To stopp he shall be fayne." + + Then John bent up his long bende-bowe, + And fetteled him to shoote: + The bow was made of tender boughe, + And fell down to his foote. + + "Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, + That ere thou grew on a tree; + For now this day thou art my bale, + My boote when thou shold bee." + + His shoote it was but loosely shott, + Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, + For itt mett one of the sherriffes men, + Good William a Trent was slaine. + + It had bene better of William a Trent + To have bene abed with sorrowe, + Than to be that day in the green-wood slade + To meet with Little Johns arrowe. + + But as it is said, when men be mett + Fyve can doe more than three, + The sheriffe hath taken Little John, + And bound him fast to a tree. + + "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, + And hanged hye on a hill." + "But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth John, + "If itt be Christ his will." + + Lett us leave talking of Little John, + And thinke of Robin Hood, + How he is gone to the wight yeoman, + Where under the leaves he stood. + + "Good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd Robin so fayre, + "Good morrowe, good fellow," quoth he. + "Methinks by this bowe thou beares in thy hande, + A good archere thou sholdst bee." + + "I am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeoman, + "And of my morning tyde:" + "Ile lead thee through the wood," sayd Robin, + "Good fellow, Ile be thy guide." + + "I seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd, + "Men call him Robin Hood; + Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe + Than fortye pound soe good." + + "Now come with me, thou wight yeman, + And Robin thou soone shalt see; + But first let us some pastime find + Under the greenwood tree. + + "First let us some masterye make + Among the woods so even; + We may chance to meet with Robin Hood + Here att some unsett steven." + + They cutt them down two summer shroggs, + That grew both under a breere, + And set them threescore rood in twaine, + To shoote the prickes y-fere. + + "Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood, + "Leade on, I doe bidd thee." + "Nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd, + "My leader thou shalt bee." + + The first time Robin shot at the pricke, + He mist but an inch it fro; + The yeoman he was an archer good, + But he cold never shoote soe. + + The second shoote had the wightye yeoman, + He shote within the garlande; + But Robin he shott far better than hee, + For he clave the good pricke-wande. + + "A blessing upon thy heart," he sayd, + "Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode + For an thy hart be as good as thy hand, + Thou wert better then Robin Hoode. + + Now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he, + "Under the leaves of lyne." + "Nay, by my faith," quoth bolde Robin, + "Till thou have told me thine." + + "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee, + "And Robin to take Ime sworne; + And when I am called by my right name, + I am Guy of good Gisbrne." + + "My dwelling is in this wood," sayes Robin, + "By thee I set right nought: + I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale, + Whom thou so long hast sought." + + He that had neither beene kithe nor kin, + Might have seen a full fayre sight, + To see how together these yeomen went + With blades both browne and bright: + + To see how these yeomen together they fought + Two howres of a summers day, + Yett neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy + Them fettled to flye away. + + Robin was reachles on a roote, + And stumbled at that tyde; + And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all, + And hitt him ore the left side. + + "Ah, deere Lady," sayd Robin Hood tho, + "Thou art but mother and may'; + I think it was never mans destinye + To dye before his day." + + Robin thought on Our Ladye deere, + And soone leapt up againe, + And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke, + And he Sir Guy hath slayne. + + He took Sir Guy's head by the hayre, + And stuck itt upon his bowes end: + "Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, + Which thing must have an end." + + Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, + And nicked Sir Guy in the face, + That he was never on woman born + Cold tell whose head it was. + + Sayes, "Lye there, lye there now, Sir Guy, + And with me be not wrothe; + Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand, + Thou shalt have the better clothe." + + Robin did off his gowne of greene, + And on Sir Guy did throwe, + And hee put on that capull hyde, + That cladd him topp to toe. + + "The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, + Now with me I will beare; + For I will away to Barnesdale, + To see how my men doe fare." + + Robin Hood sett Guy's horne to his mouth, + And a loud blast in it did blow: + That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, + As he leaned under a lowe. + + "Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe, + "I heare nowe tydings good, + For yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, + And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. + + "Yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, + Itt blowes soe well in tyde, + And yonder comes that wightye yeoman, + Cladd in his capull hyde. + + "Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy, + Aske what thou wilt of mee." + "O I will none of thy gold," sayd Robin, + "Nor I will none of thy fee. + + "But now I have slaine the master," he sayes, + "Let me goe strike the knave; + For this is all the rewarde I aske. + Nor noe other will I have." + + "Thou art a madman," said the sheriffe, + "Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee; + But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, + Well granted it shale be." + + When Little John heard his master speake, + Well knewe he it was his steven; + "Now shall I be looset," quoth Little John, + "With Christ his might in heaven." + + Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John, + He thought to loose him belive: + The sheriffe and all his companye + Fast after him can drive. + + "Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin; + "Why draw you mee so neere? + Itt was never the use in our countrye, + Ones shrift another shold heere." + + But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife, + And losed John hand and foote, + And gave him Sir Guy's bow into his hand, + And bade it be his boote. + + Then John he took Guy's bow in his hand, + His boltes and arrowes eche one: + When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, + He fettled him to be gone. + + Towards his house in Nottingham towne + He fled full fast away, + And soe did all the companye, + Not one behind wold stay. + + But he cold neither runne soe fast, + Nor away soe fast cold ryde, + But Little John with an arrowe soe broad + He shott him into the 'backe'-syde. + + + + + +Robin Hood's Death and Burial + + + + When Robin Hood and Little John + Down a down, a down, a down, + Went o'er yon bank of broom, + Said Robin Hood to Little John, + "We have shot for many a pound: + Hey down, a down, a down. + + "But I am not able to shoot one shot more, + My arrows will not flee; + But I have a cousin lives down below, + Please God, she will bleed me." + + Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, + As fast as he can win; + But before he came there, as we do hear, + He was taken very ill. + + And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, + He knocked all at the ring, + But none was so ready as his cousin herself + For to let bold Robin in. + + "Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, + "And drink some beer with me?" + "No, I will neither eat nor drink, + Till I am blooded by thee." + + "Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, + "Which you did never see; + And if you please to walk therein, + You blooded by me shall be." + + She took him by the lily-white hand, + And led him to a private room; + And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, + Whilst one drop of blood would run. + + She blooded him in the vein of the arm, + And locked him up in the room; + There did he bleed all the live-long day, + Until the next day at noon. + + He then bethought him of a casement door, + Thinking for to begone; + He was so weak he could not leap, + Nor he could not get down. + + He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, + Which hung low down to his knee, + He set his horn unto his mouth, + And blew out weak blasts three. + + Then Little John, when hearing him, + As he sat under the tree, + "I fear my master is near dead, + He blows so wearily." + + Then Little John to Fair Kirkley is gone, + As fast as he can dree; + But when he came to Kirkley-hall, + He broke locks two or three; + + Until he came bold Robin to, + Then he fell on his knee; + "A boon, a boon," cries Little John, + "Master, I beg of thee." + + "What is that boon," quoth Robin Hood, + "Little John, thou begst of me?" + "It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, + And all their nunnery." + + "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, + "That boon I'll not grant thee; + I never hurt woman in all my life, + Nor man in woman's company. + + "I never hurt fair maid in all my time, + Nor at my end shall it be; + But give me my bent bow in my hand, + And a broad arrow I'll let flee; + And where this arrow is taken up, + There shall my grave digged be. + + "Lay me a green sod under my head, + And another under my feet; + And lay my bent bow by my side, + Which was my music sweet; + And make my grave of gravel and green, + Which is most right and meet. + + "Let me have length and breadth enough, + With a green sod under my head; + That they may say when I am dead, + Here lies bold Robin Hood." + + These words they readily promised him, + Which did bold Robin please; + And there they buried bold Robin Hood, + Near to the fair Kirkleys. + + + + + +The Twa Corbies + + + + As I was walking all alane, + I heard twa corbies making a maen: + The tane unto the t'ither did say, + "Whaur shall we gang and dine the day?" + + "O doun beside yon auld fail dyke, + I wot there lies a new-slain knight; + And naebody kens that he lies there + But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. + + "His hound is to the hunting gane, + His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, + His lady's ta'en another mate, + Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. + + "O we'll sit on his white hause bane, + And I'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en; + Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair + We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. + + "Mony a ane for him makes maen, + But nane shall ken whaur he is gane. + Over his banes when they are bare, + The wind shall blaw for evermair." + + + + + +Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny + + + + A SCOTTISH SONG + + + O waly, waly up the bank, + And waly, waly down the brae, + And waly, waly yon burn side, + Where I and my love were wont to gae. + I leant my back unto an aik, + I thought it was a trusty tree; + But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, + Sae my true love did lichtly me. + + O waly, waly, but gin love be bonny, + A little time while it is new; + But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, + And fades awa' like morning dew. + O wherfore shuld I busk my head? + Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair? + For my true love has me forsook, + And says he'll never loe me mair. + + Now Arthur-Seat sall be my bed, + The sheets shall neir be prest 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 cum? + For of my life I am wearye. + + 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, + Nor blawing snaws inclemencye; + 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, + But my love's heart grown cauld to me. + Whan we came in by Glasgow town, + We were a comely sight to see; + My love was clad in black velvet, + And I myself in cramasye. + + But had I wist, before I kist, + That love had been sae ill to win, + I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, + And pinnd it with a siller pin. + And, oh! that my young babe were born, + And set upon the nurse's knee, + And I myself were dead and gane! + And the green grass growing over me. + + + + + +The Nut-brown Maid + + + + Be it right, or wrong, these men among + On women do complain; + Affirming this, how that it is + A labour spent in vain + To love them wele; for never a dele + They love a man again: + For let a man do what he can, + Their favour to attain, + Yet, if a new do them pursue, + Their first true lover then + Laboureth for nought; for from her thought + He is a banished man. + + I say not nay, but that all day + It is both writ and said + That woman's faith is, as who saith, + All utterly decayed; + But, nevertheless, right good witness + In this case might be laid, + That they love true, and continue, + Record the Nut-brown Maid: + Which, when her love came, her to prove, + To her to make his moan, + Would not depart; for in her heart + She loved but him alone. + + Then between us let us discuss + What was all the manere + Between them two: we will also + Tell all the pain, and fere, + That she was in. Now I begin, + So that ye me answere; + Wherefore, all ye, that present be + I pray you, give an ear. + I am the knight; I come by night, + As secret as I can; + Saying,' Alas! thus standeth the case, + I am a banished man.' + + + SHE + + And I your will for to fulfil + In this will not refuse; + Trusting to shew, in wordes few, + That men have an ill use + (To their own shame) women to blame, + And causeless them accuse: + Therefore to you I answer now, + All women to excuse,-- + Mine own heart dear, with you what chere? + I pray you, tell anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + It standeth so; a dede is do + Whereof great harm shall grow + My destiny is for to die + A shameful death, I trowe; + Or else to flee: the one must be. + None other way I know, + But to withdraw as an outlaw, + And take me to my bow. + Wherefore, adieu, my own heart true! + None other rede I can: + For I must to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + O Lord, what is this worldys bliss, + That changeth as the moon! + My summer's day in lusty May + Is darked before the noon. + I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay, + We depart not so soon. + Why say ye so? wheder will ye go? + Alas! what have ye done? + All my welfare to sorrow and care + Should change, if ye were gone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + I can believe, it shall you grieve, + And somewhat you distrain; + But, afterward, your paines hard + Within a day or twain + Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take + Comfort to you again. + Why should ye ought? for, to make thought + Your labour were in vain. + And thus I do; and pray you to, + As heartily as I can; + For I must to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Now, sith that ye have shewed to me + The secret of your mind, + I shall be plain to you again, + Like as ye shall me find. + Sith it is so, that ye will go, + I wolle not leave behind; + Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid + Was to her love unkind: + Make you ready, for so am I, + Although it were anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Yet I you rede to take good heed + What men will think and say: + Of young and old it shall be told, + That ye be gone away, + Your wanton will for to fulfil, + In green wood you to play; + And that ye might from your delight + No longer make delay. + Rather than ye should thus for me + Be called an ill woman, + Yet would I to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Though it be sung of old and young, + That I should be to blame, + Theirs be the charge, that speak so large + In hurting of my name: + For I will prove, that, faithful love + It is devoid of shame; + In your distress, and heaviness, + To part with you, the same: + And sure all tho, that do not so, + True lovers are they none; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + I counsel you, remember how, + It is no maiden's law, + Nothing to doubt, but to renne out + To wood with an outlaw: + For ye must there in your hand bear + A bow, ready to draw; + And, as a thief, thus must you live, + Ever in dread and awe; + Whereby to you great harm might grow: + Yet had I lever than, + That I had to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + I think not nay, but as ye say, + It is no maiden's lore; + But love may make me for your sake, + As I have said before, + To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot + To get us meat in store; + For so that I your company + May have, I ask no more: + From which to part, it maketh my heart + As cold as any stone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + For an outlaw this is the law, + That men him take and bind; + Without pity, hanged to be, + And waver with the wind. + If I had nede, (as God forbede!) + What rescue could ye find? + Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow + For fear would draw behind: + And no mervayle: for little avail + Were in your counsel then: + Wherefore I will to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Right well know ye, that women be + But feeble for to fight; + No womanhede it is indeed + To be bold as a knight: + Yet, in such fear if that ye were + With enemies day or night, + I would withstand, with bow in hand, + To greve them as I might, + And you to save; as women have + From death men many a one: + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Yet take good hede; for ever I drede + That ye could not sustain + The thorny ways, the deep valleys, + The snow, the frost, the rain, + The cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, + We must lodge on the plain; + And, us above, none other roof + But a brake bush, or twain; + Which soon should grieve you, I believe, + And ye would gladly then + That I had to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Sith I have here been partynere + With you of joy and bliss, + I must als part of your woe + Endure, as reason is: + Yet am I sure of one pleasure; + And, shortly, it is this: + That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde, + I could not fare amiss. + Without more speech, I you beseech + That we were soon agone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + If ye go thyder, ye must consider, + When ye have lust to dine, + There shall no meat be for you gete, + Nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine. + No shetes clean, to lie between, + Made of thread and twine; + None other house, but leaves and boughs, + To cover your head and mine; + O mine heart sweet, this evil diete + Should make you pale and wan; + Wherefore I will to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Among the wild dere, such an archere, + As men say that ye be, + Ne may not fail of good vitayle, + Where is so great plenty: + And water clear of the ryvere + Shall be full sweet to me; + With which in hele I shall right wele + Endure, as ye shall see; + And, or we go, a bed or two + I can provide anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Lo! yet, before, ye must do more, + If ye will go with me: + As cut your hair up by your ear, + Your kirtle by the knee; + With bow in hand, for to withstand + Your enemies, if need be: + And this same night before day-light, + To wood-ward will I flee. + If that ye will all this fulfil, + Do it shortly as ye can + Else will I to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + I shall as now do more for you + Than 'longeth to womanhede; + To shorte my hair, a bow to bear, + To shoot in time of need. + O my sweet mother, before all other + For you I have most drede: + But now, adieu! I must ensue, + Where fortune doth me lead. + All this make ye: Now let us flee; + The day cometh fast upon; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, + And I shall tell ye why,-- + Your appetite is to be light + Of love, I wele espy: + For, like as ye have said to me, + In like wise hardely + Ye would answere whosoever it were + In way of company. + It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold + And so is a woman. + Wherefore I to the wood will go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + If ye take heed, it is no need + Such words to say by me; + For oft ye prayed, and long assayed, + Or I you loved, parde: + And though that I of ancestry + A baron's daughter be, + Yet have you proved how I you loved + A squire of low degree; + And ever shall, whatso befall; + To die therefore anone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + A baron's child to be beguiled! + It were a cursed dede; + To be felawe with an outlawe! + Almighty God forbede! + Yet better were, the poor squyere + Alone to forest yede, + Than ye should say another day, + That, by my cursed dede, + Ye were betrayed: Wherefore, good maid, + The best rede that I can, + Is, that I to the green wood go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Whatever befall, I never shall + Of this thing you upbraid: + But if ye go, and leave me so, + Then have ye me betrayed. + Remember you wele, how that ye dele; + For, if ye, as ye said, + Be so unkind, to leave behind, + Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, + Trust me truly, that I shall die + Soon after ye be gone; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + If that ye went, ye should repent; + For in the forest now + I have purvayed me of a maid, + Whom I love more than you; + Another fayrere, than ever ye were, + I dare it wele avow; + And of you both each should be wroth + With other, as I trow: + It were mine ease, to live in peace; + So will I, if I can; + Wherefore I to the wood will go, + Alone, a banished man. + + + SHE + + Though in the wood I understood + Ye had a paramour, + All this may nought remove my thought, + But that I will be your: + And she shall find me soft and kind, + And courteys every hour; + Glad to fulfil all that she will + Command me to my power: + For had ye, lo! an hundred mo, + Of them I would be one; + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Mine own dear love, I see the proof + That ye be kind and true; + Of maid, and wife, in all my life, + The best that ever I knew. + Be merry and glad, be no more sad, + The case is changed new; + For it were ruth, that, for your truth, + Ye should have cause to rue. + Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said + To you, when I began; + I will not to the green wood go, + I am no banished man. + + + SHE + + These tidings be more glad to me, + Than to be made a queen, + If I were sure they should endure: + But it is often seen, + When men will break promise, they speak + The wordes on the splene. + Ye shape some wile me to beguile, + And steal from me, I ween: + Then, were the case worse than it was, + And I more wo-begone: + For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + + + HE + + Ye shall not nede further to drede; + I will not disparage + You, (God defend!) sith ye descend + Of so great a lineage. + Now understand; to Westmoreland, + Which is mine heritage, + I will you bring; and with a ring, + By way of marriage + I will you take, and lady make, + As shortly as I can: + Thus have you won an erly's son, + And not a banished man. + + + AUTHOR + + Here may ye see, that women be + In love, meek, kind, and stable; + Let never man reprove them then, + Or call them variable; + But, rather, pray God that we may + To them be comfortable; + Which sometime proveth such, as he loveth, + If they be charitable. + For sith men would that women should + Be meek to them each one; + Much more ought they to God obey, + And serve but Him alone. + + + + + +The Fause Lover + + + + A fair maid sat in her bower door, + Wringing her lily hands; + And by it came a sprightly youth, + Fast tripping o'er the strands. + + "Where gang ye, young John," she says, + "Sae early in the day? + It gars me think, by your fast trip, + Your journey's far away." + + He turn'd about wi' surly look, + And said, "What's that to thee? + I'm ga'en to see a lovely maid, + Mair fairer far than ye." + + "Now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, + In simmer, 'mid the flowers? + I shall repay ye back again, + In winter, 'mid the showers." + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, + Will ye not turn again? + For as ye look to ither women, + I shall do to other men." + + "Make your choice o' whom you please, + For I my choice will have; + I've chosen a maid more fair than thee, + I never will deceive." + + But she's kilt up her claithing fine, + And after him gaed she; + But aye he said, "Ye'll turn again, + Nae farder gae wi' me." + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, + Will ye never love me again? + Alas! for loving you sae well, + And you na me again." + + The firstan' town that they came till, + He bought her brooch and ring; + But aye he bade her turn again, + And gang nae farder wi' him. + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + + The nextan' town that they came till, + He bought her muff and gloves; + But aye he bade her turn again, + And choose some other loves. + + "But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + + The nextan' town that they came till, + His heart it grew mair fain; + And he was deep in love wi' her. + As she was ower again. + + The nextan' town that they came till, + He bought her wedding gown; + And made her lady o' ha's and bowers, + In sweet Berwick town. + + + + + +The Mermaid + + + + To yon fause stream that, near the sea, + Hides mony an elf and plum, + And rives wi' fearful din the stanes, + A witless knicht did come. + + The day shines clear--far in he's gane + Whar shells are silver bright, + Fishes war loupin' a' aroun', + And sparklin' to the light. + + Whan, as he laved, sounds cam sae sweet + Frae ilka rock an' tree; + The brief was out, 'twas him it doomed + The mermaid's face to see. + + Frae 'neath a rock, sune, sune she rose, + And stately on she swam, + Stopped i' the midst, and becked and sang + To him to stretch his han'. + + Gowden glist the yellow links + That round her neck she'd twine; + Her een war o' the skyie blue, + Her lips did mock the wine; + + The smile upon her bonnie cheek + Was sweeter than the bee; + Her voice excelled the birdie's sang + Upon the birchen tree. + + Sae couthie, couthie did she look, + And meikle had she fleeched; + Out shot his hand--alas! alas! + Fast in the swirl he screeched. + + The mermaid leuch, her brief was gane, + And kelpie's blast was blawin', + Fu' low she duked, ne'er raise again, + For deep, deep was the fawin'. + + Aboon the stream his wraith was seen, + Warlochs tirled lang at gloamin'; + That e'en was coarse, the blast blew hoarse, + Ere lang the waves war foamin'. + + + + + +The Battle of Otterburn + + + + THE FIRST FYTTE + + + It fell about the Lammas tide, + When husbands winn their hay, + The doughty Douglas bound him to ride + Into England to take a prey. + + The Earl of Fife, withouten strife, + He bound him over Solway; + The great would ever together ride + That race they may rue for aye. + + Over Ottercap hill they came in, + And so down by Rotheley crag, + Upon Green Leighton they lighted down, + Styrande many a stag; + + And boldly brente Northumberland, + And harried many a town; + They did our Englishmen great wrong + To battle that were not bown. + + Then spake a berne upon the bent, + Of comfort that was not cold, + And said, "We have brente Northumberland, + We have all wealth in holde. + + "Now we have harried all Bamborough shire + All the wealth in the world have we; + I rede we ride to Newcastle, + So still and stalworthlye." + + Upon the morrow, when it was day, + The standards shone full bright; + To the Newcastle they took the way, + And thither they came full right. + + Sir Henry Percy lay at the Newcastle, + I tell you, withouten dread; + He has been a March-man all his days, + And kept Berwick upon Tweed. + + To the Newcastle when they came, + The Scots they cried on hyght: + "Sir Harry Percy, an thou bist within, + Come to the field and fight: + + "For we have brente Northumberland, + Thy heritage good and right; + And syne my lodging I have take, + With my brand dubbed many a knight." + + Sir Harry Percy came to the walls, + The Scottish host for to see: + "And thou hast brente Northumberland, + Full sore it rueth me. + + "If thou hast harried all Bamborough shire, + Thou hast done me great envy; + For the trespass thou hast me done, + The one of us shall die." + + "Where shall I bide thee?" said the Douglas; + "Or where wilt thou come to me?" + "At Otterburn in the high way, + There mayst thou well lodged be. + + "The roe full reckless there she runs, + To make thee game and glee; + The falcon and the pheasant both, + Among the holtes on hee. + + "There mayst thou have thy wealth at will, + Well lodged there mayst thou be; + It shall not be long ere I come thee till," + Said Sir Harry Percye. + + "There shall I bide thee," said the Douglas, + "By the faith of my body." + "Thither shall I come," said Sir Harry Percy, + "My troth I plight to thee." + + A pipe of wine he gave them over the walls, + For sooth, as I you say; + There he made the Douglas drink, + And all his host that day. + + The Douglas turned him homeward again, + For sooth withouten nay; + He took his lodging at Otterburn + Upon a Wednesday; + + And there he pyght his standard down. + His getting more and less; + And syne he warned his men to go + And get their geldings gress. + + A Scottish knight hoved upon the bent, + A watch I dare well say; + So was he ware on the noble Percy + In the dawning of the day. + + He pricked to his pavilion door, + As fast as he might ronne; + "Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, + "For His love that sits in throne. + + "Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, + "For thou mayst waken with wynne; + Yonder have I spied the proud Percy, + And seven standards with him." + + "Nay, by my troth," the Douglas said, + "It is but a feigned tale; + He durst not look on my broad banner, + For all England so hayle. + + "Was I not yesterday at the Newcastle, + That stands so fair on Tyne? + For all the men the Percy had, + He could not garre me once to dyne." + + He stepped out at his pavilion door, + To look, and it were less; + "Array you, lordyngs, one and all, + For here begins no peace. + + "The Earl of Menteith, thou art my eme, + The forward I give to thee; + The Earl of Huntley cawte and keen, + He shall with thee be. + + "The Lord of Buchan, in armour bright, + On the other hand he shall be; + Lord Johnstone, and Lord Maxwell, + They two shall be with me. + + "Swynton fair field upon your pride + To battle make you bowen; + Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, + Sir John of Agerstone." + + + + THE SECOND FYTTE + + + The Percy came before his host, + Which ever was a gentle knight, + Upon the Douglas loud did he cry, + "I will hold that I have hight; + + "For thou hast brente Northumberland, + And done me great envy; + For this trespass thou hast me done + The one of us shall die." + + The Douglas answered him again, + With great words up on hee, + And said, "I have twenty against thy one, + Behold, and thou mayst see." + + With that the Percy was grieved sore, + For sooth as I you say; + He lighted down upon his foot, + And shot his horse clean away. + + Every man saw that he did so, + That ryall was ever in rout; + Every man shot his horse him fro, + And light him round about. + + Thus Sir Harry Percy took the field, + For sooth as I you say, + Jesu Christ in heaven on high, + Did help him well that day. + + But nine thousand, there was no more, + If chronicle will not layne; + Forty thousand Scots and four + That day fought them again, + + But when the battle began to join, + In haste there came a knight, + Then letters fair forth hath he ta'en, + And thus he said full right: + + "My lord, your father he greets you well, + With many a noble knight; + He desires you to bide, + That he may see this fight. + + "The baron of Grastock is come out of the west, + With him a noble company; + All they lodge at your father's this night, + And the battle fain would they see." + + "For Jesu's love," said Sir Harry Percy, + "That died for you and me, + Wend to my lord, my father, again, + And say thou saw me not with ee; + + "My troth is plight to yon Scottish knight, + It needs me not to layne, + That I should bide him upon this bent, + And I have his troth again; + + "And if that I wend off this ground, + For sooth unfoughten away, + He would me call but a coward knight, + In his land another day. + + "Yet had I lever to be rynde and rent, + By Mary that mykel may, + Than ever my manhood should be reproved + With a Scot another day. + + "Wherefore shoot, archers, for my sake, + And let sharp arrows flee; + Minstrels, play up for your warison, + And well quit it shall be. + + "Every man think on his true love, + And mark him to the Trinity; + For to God I make mine a-vow + This day will I not flee." + + The bloody heart in the Douglas' arms, + His standard stood on high, + That every man might full well know; + Beside stood starres three. + + The white Li n on the English part, + For sooth as I you sayne, + The luces and the crescents both + The Scots fought them again. + + Upon Saint Andrew loud did they cry, + And thrice they shout on hyght, + And syne marked them on our Englishmen, + As I have told you right. + + Saint George the bright, our Lady's knight, + To name they were full fain, + Our Englishmen they cried on hyght, + And thrice they shout again. + + With that sharp arrows began to flee, + I tell you in certain; + Men of arms began to join; + Many a doughty man was there slain. + + The Percy and the Douglas met, + That either of them was fain; + They schapped together, while that they sweat, + With swords of fine Collayne; + + Till the blood from their basenets ran + As the roke doth in the rain. + "Yield thee to me," said the Douglas, + "Or else thou shalt be slain; + + "For I see by thy bright basenet, + Thou art some man of might; + And so I do by thy burnished brand, + Thou art an earl, or else a knight." + + "By my good faith," said the noble Percy, + "Now hast thou rede full right; + Yet will I never yield me to thee, + While I may stand and fight." + + They swapped together, while that they sweat, + With swordes sharp and long; + Each on other so fast they beat, + Till their helms came in pieces down. + + The Percy was a man of strength, + I tell you in this stound + He smote the Douglas at the sword's length, + That he felled him to the ground. + + The sword was sharp, and sore did byte, + I tell you in certain; + To the heart he did him smite, + Thus was the Douglas slain. + + The standards stood still on each side; + With many a grievous groan, + There they fought the day, and all the night, + And many a doughty man was slone. + + There was no freyke that there would fly, + But stiffly in stour did stand, + Echone hewing on other while they might dry, + With many a baleful brand. + + There was slain upon the Scottes side, + For sooth and certainly, + Sir James of Douglas there was slain, + That day that he did die. + + The Earl of Menteith he was slain. + Grysely groaned upon the ground; + Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, + Sir John of Agerstone. + + Sir Charles Murray in that place, + That never a foot would fly; + Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was, + With the Douglas did he die. + + There was slain upon the Scottes side, + For sooth as I you say, + Of four and forty thousand Scots, + Went but eighteen away. + + There was slain upon the English side, + For sooth and certainly, + A gentle knight, Sir John Fitzhugh, + It was the more pity. + + Sir James Harebotell there was slain, + For him their hearts were sore + The gentle Lovel there was slain, + That the Percy's standard bore. + + There was slain upon the English side, + For sooth as I you say, + Of nine thousand Englishmen, + Five hundred came away; + + The others were slayne in the field, + Christ keep their souls from woe, + Seeing there were so few friends + Against so many a foe! + + Then on the morn they made them biers + Of birch and hazel gray; + Many a widow with weeping tears + Their makes they fetch away. + + This fray began at Otterburn, + Between the night and the day; + There the Douglas lost his life, + And the Percy was led away. + + Then was there a Scottish prisoner ta'en, + Sir Hugh Montgomery was his name, + For sooth as I you say, + He borrowed the Percy home again. + + Now let us all for the Percy pray, + To Jesu most of might, + To bring his soul to the bliss of heaven, + For he was a gentle knight. + + + + + +The Lament of the Border Widow + + + + My love he built me a bonny bower, + And clad it a' wi' a lilye flower, + A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, + Than my true love he built for me. + + There came a man, by middle day, + He spied his sport and went away, + And brought the king that very night, + Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. + + He slew my knight, to me so dear; + He slew my knight, and poined his gear; + My servants all for life did flee, + And left me in extremitie. + + I sewed his sheet, making my mane; + I watched the corpse, myself alane; + I watched his body, night and day; + No living creature came that way. + + I took his body on my back, + And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat, + I digged a grave, and laid him in, + And happed him with the sod so green. + + But think na ye my heart was sair, + When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair; + Think na ye my heart was wae, + When I turned about, away to gae? + + Nae living man I'll love again, + Since that my lovely knight is slain; + W? ae lock of his yellow hair + I'll chain my heart for evermair. + + + + + +The Banks o' Yarrow + + + + 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. + + "What though ye be my sister's lord, + We'll cross our swords to-morrow." + "What though my wife your sister be, + I'll meet ye then on Yarrow." + + "O stay at hame, my ain gude lord! + O stay, my ain dear marrow! + My cruel brither will you betray + On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + + "O fare ye weel, my lady dear! + And put aside your sorrow; + For if I gae, I'll sune return + Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + + She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, + As oft she'd done before, O; + She belted him wi' his gude brand, + And he's awa' to Yarrow. + + When he gaed up the Tennies bank, + As he gaed mony a morrow, + Nine armed men lay in a den, + On the dowie braes o' Yarrow. + + "O come ye here to hunt or hawk + The bonny Forest thorough? + Or come ye here to wield your brand + Upon the banks o' Yarrow?" + + "I come not here to hunt or hawk, + As oft I've dune before, O, + But I come here to wield my brand + Upon the banks o' Yarrow. + + "If ye attack me nine to ane, + Then may God send ye sorrow!-- + Yet will I fight while stand I may, + On the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + + Two has he hurt, and three has slain, + On the bloody braes o' Yarrow; + But the stubborn knight crept in behind, + And pierced his body thorough. + + "Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John, + And tell your sister sorrow,-- + To come and lift her leafu' lord + On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + + Her brither John gaed ower yon hill, + As oft he'd dune before, O; + There he met his sister dear, + Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow. + + "I dreamt a dream last night," she says, + "I wish it binna sorrow; + I dreamt I pu'd the heather green + Wi' my true love on Yarrow." + + "I'll read your dream, sister," he says, + "I'll read it into sorrow; + Ye're bidden go take up your love, + He's sleeping sound on Yarrow." + + She's torn the ribbons frae her head + That were baith braid and narrow; + She's kilted up her lang claithing, + And she's awa' to Yarrow. + + She's ta'en him in her arms twa, + And gi'en him kisses thorough; + She sought to bind his mony wounds, + But he lay dead on Yarrow. + + "O haud your tongue," her father says, + "And let be a' your sorrow; + I'll wed you to a better lord + Than him ye lost on Yarrow." + + "O haud your tongue, father," she says, + "Far warse ye mak' my sorrow; + A better lord could never be + Than him that lies on Yarrow." + + She kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair, + As aft she had dune before, O; + And there wi' grief her heart did break, + Upon the banks o' Yarrow. + + + + + +Hugh of Lincoln + + + + SHOWING THE CRUELTY OF A JEW'S DAUGHTER + + + Four and twenty bonny boys + Were playing at the ba', + And up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh, + The flower among them a'. + + He kicked the ba' there wi' his foot, + And keppit it wi' his knee, + Till even in at the Jew's window + He gart the bonny ba' flee. + + "Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, + Cast out the ba' to me." + "Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter, + Till ye come up to me." + + "Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, + Come up and get the ba'." + "I winna come, I mayna come, + Without my bonny boys a'." + + She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden, + Where the grass grew lang and green, + She's pu'd an apple red and white, + To wyle the bonny boy in. + + She's wyled him in through ae chamber, + She's wyled him in through twa, + She's wyled him into the third chamber, + And that was the warst o' a'. + + She's tied the little boy, hands and feet, + She's pierced him wi' a knife, + She's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup, + And twinn'd him o' his life. + + She row'd him in a cake o' lead, + Bade him lie still and sleep, + She cast him in a deep draw-well + Was fifty fathom deep. + + When bells were rung, and mass was sung, + And every bairn went hame, + Then ilka lady had her young son, + But Lady Helen had nane. + + She row'd her mantle her about, + And sair, sair 'gan she weep; + And she ran unto the Jew's house, + When they were all asleep. + + "My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh, + I pray thee to me speak!" + "Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-well + 'Gin ye your son wad seek." + + Lady Helen ran to the deep draw-well, + And knelt upon her knee: + "My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here, + I pray thee speak to me!" + + "The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, + The well is wondrous deep; + A keen penknife sticks in my heart, + It is hard for me to speak. + + "Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, + Fetch me my winding-sheet; + And at the back o' merry Lincoln, + It's there we twa sall meet." + + Now Lady Helen she's gane hame, + Made him a winding-sheet; + And at the back o' merry Lincoln, + The dead corpse did her meet. + + And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln + Without men's hands were rung; + And a' the books o' merry Lincoln + Were read without men's tongue: + Never was such a burial + Sin' Adam's days begun. + + + + + +Sir Patrick Spens + + + + The king sits in Dunfermline town, + Drinking the blude-red wine; + "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, + To sail this new ship of mine?" + + O up and spak' an eldern knight, + Sat at the king's right knee, + "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, + That ever sailed the sea." + + Our king has written a braid letter, + And seated 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 of Noroway + 'Tis thou maun bring her hame." + + The first word that Sir Patrick read, + Sae loud loud laughed he; + The neist word that Sir Patrick read, + The tear blinded his ee. + + "O wha is this has done this deed, + And tauld the king o' me, + To send us out at this time of the 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 of Noroway, + 'Tis we must fetch her hame." + + They hoysed their sails an Moneday morn, + Wi' a' the speed they may; + They hae landed in Noroway, + Upon a Wednesday. + + They hadna been a week, a week, + In Noroway, but twae, + When that the lords o' Noroway + Began aloud to say: + + "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, + And a' our queen's fee." + "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! + Fu' loud I hear ye lie; + + "For I brought as much white monie, + As gane my men and me, + And I brought a half-fou of gude red goud, + Out o'er the sea wi' me. + + "Make ready, make ready, my merry men a', + Our gude ship sails the morn." + "Now, ever alake, my master dear, + I fear a deadly storm! + + "I saw the new moon, late yestreen, + Wi' the old moon in her arm; + And, if we gang to sea, master, + I fear we'll come to harm." + + They hadna sailed a league, a league, + A league but barely three, + When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud + And gurly grew the sea. + + The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, + It was sic a deadly storm; + And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, + Till a' her sides were torn. + + "O where will I get a gude sail'r, + To take my helm in hand, + Till I get up to the tall top-mast, + To see if I can spy land?" + + "O here am I, a sailor gude, + To take the helm in hand, + Till you go up to the tall top-mast; + But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." + + He hadna gane a step, a step, + A step but barely ane, + When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, + And the salt sea it cam in. + + "Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith, + Another o' the twine, + And wap them into our ship's side, + And let nae the sea come in." + + They fetched a web o' the silken claith, + Another o' the twine, + And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, + But still the sea cam in. + + O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords + To weet their cork-heeled shoon! + But lang or a' the play was played, + They wat their hats aboon. + + And mony was the feather bed, + That flattered on the faem; + And mony was the gude lord's son, + That never mair cam hame. + + The ladies wrang their fingers white, + The maidens tore their hair, + A' for the sake of their true loves + For them they'll see nae mair. + + 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, + With their goud kaims in their hair + A' waiting for their ain dear loves, + For them they'll see nae mair! + + O forty miles off Aberdeen, + 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, + And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens + Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Old English Ballads, by +George Wharton Edwards + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + +***** This file should be named 9405.txt or 9405.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/4/0/9405/ + +Produced by John B. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Book of Old English Ballads + +Author: George Wharton Edwards + +Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9405] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 29, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by John B. Hare + + + + +A BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS + +with an + +Accompaniment of Decorative Drawings + + + +by + + +George Wharton Edwards + + + +And an Introduction by + +Hamilton W. Mabie + + + + +[1896] + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +Introduction + +Chevy Chace + +King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid + +King Leir and his Three Daughters + +Fair Rosamond + +Phillida and Corydon + +Fair Margaret and Sweet William + +Annan Water + +The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington + +Barbara Allen's Cruelty + +The Douglas Tragedy + +Young Waters + +Flodden Field + +Helen of Kirkconnell + +Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale + +Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne + +Robin Hood's Death and Burial + +The Twa Corbies + +Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny + +The Nut-brown Maid + +The Fause Lover + +The Mermaid + +The Battle of Otterburn + +The Lament of the Border Widow + +The Banks o' Yarrow + +Hugh of Lincoln + +Sir Patrick Spens + + + + + +Introduction + + + +Goethe, who saw so many things with such clearness of vision, +brought out the charm of the popular ballad for readers of a later +day in his remark that the value of these songs of the people is to +be found in the fact that their motives are drawn directly from +nature; and he added, that in the art of saying things compactly, +uneducated men have greater skill than those who are educated. It is +certainly true that no kind of verse is so completely out of the +atmosphere of modern writing as the popular ballad. No other form of +verse has, therefore, in so great a degree, the charm of freshness. +In material, treatment, and spirit, these bat lads are set in sharp +contrast with the poetry of the hour. They deal with historical +events or incidents, with local traditions, with personal adventure +or achievement. They are, almost without exception, entirely +objective. Contemporary poetry is, on the other hand, very largely +subjective; and even when it deals with events or incidents it +invests them to such a degree with personal emotion and imagination, +it so modifies and colours them with temperamental effects, that the +resulting poem is much more a study of subjective conditions than a +picture or drama of objective realities. This projection of the +inward upon the outward world, in such a degree that the dividing +line between the two is lost, is strikingly illustrated in +Maeterlinck's plays. Nothing could be in sharper contrast, for +instance, than the famous ballad of "The Hunting of the Cheviot" and +Maeterlinck's "Princess Maleine." There is no atmosphere, in a +strict use of the word, in the spirited and compact account of the +famous contention between the Percies and the Douglases, of which +Sir Philip Sidney said "that I found not my heart moved more than +with a Trumpet." It is a breathless, rushing narrative of a swift +succession of events, told with the most straight-forward +simplicity. In the "Princess Maleine," on the other hand, the +narrative is so charged with subjective feeling, the world in which +the action takes place is so deeply tinged with lights that never +rested on any actual landscape, that all sense of reality is lost. +The play depends for its effect mainly upon atmosphere. Certain +very definite impressions are produced with singular power, but +there is no clear, clean stamping of occurrences on the mind. The +imagination is skilfully awakened and made to do the work of +observation. + +The note of the popular ballad is its objectivity; it not only takes +us out of doors, but it also takes us out of the individual +consciousness. The manner is entirely subordinated to the matter; the +poet, if there was a poet in the case, obliterates himself. What we +get is a definite report of events which have taken place, not a +study of a man's mind nor an account of a man's feelings. The true +balladist is never introspective; he is concerned not with himself +but with his story. There is no self-disclosure in his song. To the +mood of Senancour and Amiel he was a stranger. Neither he nor the +men to whom he recited or sang would have understood that mood. +They were primarily and unreflectively absorbed in the world outside +of themselves. They saw far more than they meditated; they recorded +far more than they moralized. The popular ballads are, as a rule, +entirely free from didacticism in any form; that is one of the main +sources of their unfailing charm. They show not only a childlike +curiosity about the doings of the day and the things that befall +men, but a childlike indifference to moral inference and +justification. The bloodier the fray the better for ballad +purposes; no one feels the necessity of apology either for ruthless +aggression or for useless blood-letting; the scene is reported as it +was presented to the eye of the spectator, not to his moralizing +faculty. He is expected to see and to sing, not to scrutinize and +meditate. In those rare cases in which a moral inference is drawn, +it is always so obvious and elementary that it gives the impression +of having been fastened on at the end of the song, in deference to +ecclesiastical rather than popular feeling. + +The social and intellectual conditions which fostered self- +unconsciousness,--interest in things, incidents, and adventures +rather than in moods and inward experiences,--and the unmoral or non +moralizing attitude towards events, fostered also that delightful +naivete which contributes greatly to the charm of many of the best +ballads; a naivete which often heightens the pathos, and, at times, +softens it with touches of apparently unconscious humour; the naivete +of the child which has in it something of the freshness of a +wildflower, and yet has also a wonderful instinct for making the +heart of the matter plain. This quality has almost entirely +disappeared from contemporary verse among cultivated races; one must +go to the peasants of remote parts of the Continent to discover even +a trace of its presence. It has a real, but short-lived charm, like +the freshness which shines on meadow and garden in the brief dawn +which hastens on to day. + +This frank, direct play of thought and feeling on an incident, or +series of incidents, compensates for the absence of a more perfect +art in the ballads; using the word "art" in its true sense as +including complete, adequate, and beautiful handling of subject- +matter, and masterly working out of its possibilities. These +popular songs, so dear to the hearts of the generations on whose +lips they were fashioned, and to all who care for the fresh note, +the direct word, the unrestrained emotion, rarely touch the highest +points of poetic achievement. Their charm lies, not in their +perfection of form, but in their spontaneity, sincerity, and graphic +power. They are not rivers of song, wide, deep, and swift; they are +rather cool, clear springs among the hills. In the reactions +against sophisticated poetry which set in from lime to time, the +popular ballad--the true folk-song--has often been exalted at the +expense of other forms of verse. It is idle to attempt to arrange +the various forms of poetry in an order of absolute values; it is +enough that each has its own quality, and, therefore, its own value. +The drama, the epic, the ballad, the lyric, each strikes its note in +the complete expression of human emotion and experience. Each +belongs to a particular stage of development, and each has the +authority and the enduring charm which attach to every authentic +utterance of the spirit of man under the conditions of life. + +In this wide range of human expression the ballad follows the epic +as a kind of aftermath; a second and scattered harvest, springing +without regularity or nurture out of a rich and unexhausted soil. The +epic fastens upon some event of such commanding importance that it +marks a main current of history; some story, historic, or mythologic; +some incident susceptible of extended narrative treatment. It is +always, in its popular form, a matter of growth it is direct, simple, +free from didacticism; representing, as Aristotle says, "a single +action, entire and complete." It subordinates character to action; it +delights in episode and dialogue; it is content to tell the story as +a story, and leave the moralization to hearers or readers. The +popular ballad is so closely related to the popular epic that it may +be said to reproduce its qualities and characteristics within a +narrower compass, and on a smaller scale. It also is a piece of the +memory of the people, or a creation of the imagination of the people; +but the tradition or fact which it preserves is of local, rather +than national importance. It is indifferent to nice distinctions and +delicate gradations or shadings; its power springs from its +directness, vigour, and simplicity. It is often entirely occupied +with the narration or description of a single episode; it has no room +for dialogue, but it often secures the effect of the dialogue by its +unconventional freedom of phrase, and sometimes by the introduction +of brief and compact charge and denial, question and reply. Sometimes +the incidents upon which the ballad makers fastened, have a unity or +connection with each other which hints at a complete story. The +ballads which deal with Robin Hood are so numerous and so closely +related that they constantly suggest, not only the possibility, but +the probability of epic treatment. It is surprising that the richness +of the material, and its notable illustrative quality, did not +inspire some earlier Chaucer to combine the incidents in a sustained +narrative. But the epic poet did not appear, and the most +representative of English popular heroes remains the central figure +in a series of detached episodes and adventures, preserved in a long +line of disconnected ballads. + +This apparent arrest, in the ballad stage, of a story which seemed +destined to become an epic, naturally suggests the vexed question of +the author ship of the popular ballads. They are in a very real sense +the songs of the people; they make no claim to individual authorship; +on the contrary, the inference of what may be called community +authorship is, in many instances, irresistible. They are the product +of a social condition which, so to speak, holds song of this kind in +solution; of an age in which improvisation, singing, and dancing are +the most natural and familiar forms of expression. They deal almost +without exception with matters which belong to the community memory +or imagination; they constantly reappear with variations so +noticeable as to indicate free and common handling of themes of wide +local interest. All this is true of the popular ballad; but all this +does not decisively settle the question of authorship. What share did +the community have in the making of these songs, and what share fell +to individual singers? + +Herder, whose conception of the origin and function of literature +was so vitalizing in the general aridity of thinking about the +middle of the last century, and who did even more for ballad verse +in Germany than Bishop Percy did in England, laid emphasis almost +exclusively on community authorship. His profound instinct for +reality in all forms of art, his deep feeling for life, and the +immense importance he attached to spontaneity and unconsciousness in +the truest productivity made community authorship not only +attractive but inevitable to him. In his pronounced reaction +against the superficial ideas of literature so widely held in the +Germany of his time, he espoused the conception of community +authorship as the only possible explanation of the epics, ballads, +and other folk-songs. In nature and popular life, or universal +experience, he found the rich sources of the poetry whose charm he +felt so deeply, and whose power and beauty he did so much to reveal +to his contemporaries. Genius and nature are magical words with him, +because they suggested such depths of being under all forms of +expression; such unity of the whole being of a race in its thought, +its emotion, and its action; such entire unconsciousness of self or +of formulated aim, and such spontaneity of spirit and speech. The +language of those times, when words had not yet been divided into +nobles, middle-class, and plebeians, was, he said, the richest for +poetical purposes. "Our tongue, compared with the idiom of the +savage, seems adapted rather for reflection than for the senses or +imagination. The rhythm of popular verse is so delicate, so rapid, +so precise, that it is no easy matter to defect it with our eyes; +but do not imagine it to have been equally difficult for those +living populations who listened to, instead of reading it; who were +accustomed to the sound of it from their infancy; who themselves +sang it, and whose ear had been formed by its cadence." This +conception of poetry as arising in the hearts of the people and +taking form on their lips is still more definitely and strikingly +expressed in two sentences, which let us into, the heart of Herder's +philosophy of poetry: "Poetry in those happy days lived in the ears +of the people, on the lips and in the harps of living bards; it sang +of history, of the events of the day, of mysteries, miracles, and +signs. It was the flower of a nation's character, language, and +country; of its occupations, its prejudices, its passions, its +aspirations, and its soul." In these words, at once comprehensive +and vague, after the manner of Herder, we find ourselves face to +face with that conception not only of popular song in all its forms, +but with literature as a whole, which has revolutionized literary +study in this century, and revitalized it as well. For Herder was a +man of prophetic instinct; he sometimes felt more clearly than he saw; +he divined where he could not reach results by analysis. He was often +vague, fragmentary, and inconclusive, like all men of his type; but he +had a genius for getting at the heart of things. His statements often +need qualification, but he is almost always on the tight track. When he +says that the great traditions, in which both the memory and the +imagination of a race were engaged, and which were still living in +the mouths of the people, "of themselves took on poetic form," he is +using language which is too general to convey a definite impression +of method, but he is probably suggesting the deepest truth with +regard to these popular stories. They actually were of community +origin; they actually were common property; they were given a great +variety of forms by a great number of persons; the forms which have +come down to us are very likely the survivors of a kind of in formal +competition, which went on for years at the fireside and at the +festivals of a whole country side. + +Barger, whose "Lenore" is one of the most widely known of modern +ballads, held the same view of the origin of popular song, and was +even more definite in his confession of faith than Herder. He +declared in the most uncompromising terms that all real poetry must +have a popular origin; "can be and must be of the people, for that is +the seal of its perfection." And he comments on the delight with +which he has listened, in village street and home, to unwritten +songs; the poetry which finds its way in quiet rivulets to the +remotest peasant home. In like manner, Helene Vacaresco overheard the +songs of the Roumanian people; hiding in the maize to catch the +reaping songs; listening at spinning parties, at festivals, at death- +beds, at taverns; taking the songs down from the lips of peasant +women, fortune-tellers, gypsies, and all manner of humble folk who +were the custodians of this vagrant community verse. We have passed +so entirely out of the song-making period, and literature has become +to us so exclusively the work of a professional class, that we find +it difficult to imagine the intellectual and social conditions which +fostered improvisation on a great scale, and trained the ear of great +populations to the music of spoken poetry. It is almost impossible +for us to disassociate literature from writing. There is still, +however, a considerable volume of unwritten literature in the world +in the form of stories, songs, proverbs, and pithy phrases; a +literature handed down in large part from earlier times, but still +receiving additions from contemporary men and women. + +This unwritten literature is to be found, it is hardly necessary to +say, almost exclusively among country people remote from towns, and +whose mental attitude and community feeling reproduce, in a way, the +conditions under which the English and Scotch ballads were originally +composed. The Roumanian peasants sing their songs upon every +occasion of domestic or local interest; and sowing and harvesting, +birth, christening, marriage, the burial, these notable events in +the life of the country side are all celebrated by unknown poets; +or, rather, by improvisers who give definite form to sentiments, +phrases, and words which are on many lips. The Russian peasant +tells his stories as they were told to him; those heroic epics whose +life is believed, in some cases, to date back at least a thousand +years. These great popular stories form a kind of sacred +inheritance bequeathed by one generation to another as a possession +of the memory, and are almost entirely unrelated to the written +literature of the country. Miss Hapgood tells a very interesting +story of a government official, stationed on the western shore of +Lake Onega, who became so absorbed in the search for this +literature of the people that he followed singers and reciters from +place to place, eager to learn from their lips the most widely known +of these folk tales. On such an expedition of discovery he found +himself, one stormy night, on an island in the lake. The hut of +refuge was already full of stormbound peasants when he entered. +Having made himself some tea, and spread his blanket in a vacant +place, he fell asleep. He was presently awakened by a murmur of +recurring sounds. Sitting up, he found the group of peasants +hanging on the words of an old man, of kindly face, expressive eyes, +and melodious voice, from whose lips flowed a marvellous song; grave +and gay by turns, monotonous and passionate in succession; but +wonderfully fresh, picturesque, and fascinating. The listener soon +became aware that he was hearing, for the first time, the famous +story of "Sadko, the Merchant of Novgorod." It was like being +present at the birth of a piece of literature! + +The fact that unwritten songs and stories still exist in great +numbers among remote country-folk of our own time, and that additions +are still made to them, help us to understand the probable origin of +our own popular ballads, and what community authorship may really +mean. To put ourselves, even in thought, in touch with the ballad- +making period in English and Scotch history, we must dismiss from our +minds all modern ideas of authorship; all notions of individual +origination and ownership of any form of words. Professor ten Brink +tells us that in the ballad-making age there was no production; +there was only reproduction. There was a stock of traditions, +memories, experiences, held in common by large populations, in +constant use on the lips of numberless persons; told and retold in +many forms, with countless changes, variations, and modifications; +without conscious artistic purpose, with no sense of personal +control or possession, with no constructive aim either in plot or +treatment; no composition in the modern sense of the term. Such a +mass of poetic material in the possession of a large community +was, in a sense, fluid, and ran into a thousand forms almost without +direction or premeditation. Constant use of such rich material gave a +poetic turn of thought and speech to countless persons who, under +other conditions, would have given no sign of the possession of the +faculty of imagination. + +There was not only the stimulus to the faculty which sees events and +occurrences with the eyes of the imagination, but there was also +constant and familiar use of the language of poetry. To speak +metrically or rhythmically is no difficult matter if one is in the +atmosphere or habit of verse-making; and there is nothing surprising +either in the feats of memory or of improvisation performed by the +minstrels and balladists of the old time. The faculty of +improvising was easily developed and was very generally used by +people of all classes. This facility is still possessed by rural +populations, among whom songs are still composed as they are sting, +each member of the company contributing a new verse or a variation, +suggested by local conditions, of a well-known stanza. When to the +possession of a mass of traditions and stories and of facility of +improvisation is added the habit of singing and dancing, it is not +difficult to reconstruct in our own thought the conditions under +which popular poetry came into being, nor to understand in what +sense a community can make its own songs. In the brave days when +ballads were made, the rustic peoples were not mute, as they are +to-day; nor sad, as they have become in so many parts of England. +They sang and they danced by instinct and as an expression of social +feeling. Originally the ballads were not only sung, but they gave +measure to the dance; they grew from mouth to mouth in the very act +of dancing; individual dancers adding verse to verse, and the +frequent refrain coming in as a kind of chorus. Gesture and, to a +certain extent, acting would naturally accompany so free and general +an expression of community feeling. There was no poet, because all +were poets. To quote Professor ten Brink once more:-- + +"Song and playing were cultivated by peasants, and even by freedmen +and serfs. At beer-feasts the harp went from hand to hand. Herein +lies the essential difference between that age and our own. The +result of poetical activity was not the property and was not the +production of a single person, but of the community. The work of the +individual endured only as long as its delivery lasted. He gained +personal distinction only as a virtuoso. The permanent elements of +what he presented, the material, the ideas, even the style and metre, +already existed. 'The work of the singer was only a ripple in the +stream of national poetry. Who can say how much the individual +contributed to it, or where in his poetical recitation memory ceased +and creative impulse began! In any case the work of the individual +lived on only as the ideal possession of the aggregate body of the +people, and it soon lost the stamp of originality. In view of such +a development of poetry, we must assume a time when the collective +consciousness of a people or race is paramount in its unity; when +the intellectual life of each is nourished from the same treasury of +views and associations, of myths and sagas; when similar interests +stir each breast; and the ethical judgment of all applies itself to +the same standard. In such an age the form of poetical expression +will also be common to all, necessarily solemn, earnest, and simple." + +When the conditions which produced the popular ballads become clear +to the imagination, their depth of rootage, not only in the community +life but in the community love, becomes also clear. We under stand +the charm which these old songs have for us of a later age, and the +spell which they cast upon men and women who knew the secret of +their birth; we understand why the minstrels of the lime, when +popular poetry was in its best estate, were held in such honour, why +Taillefer sang the song of Roland at the head of the advancing +Normans on the day of Hastings, and why good Bishop Aldhelm, when he +wanted to get the ears of his people, stood on the bridge and sang a +ballad! These old songs were the flowering of the imagination of +the people; they drew their life as directly from the general +experience, the common memory, the universal feelings, as did the +Greek dramas in those primitive times, when they were part of rustic +festivity and worship. The popular ballads have passed away with +the conditions which produced them. Modern poets have, in several +instances, written ballads of striking picturesqueness and power, +but as unlike the ballad of popular origin as the world of to-day is +unlike the world in which "Chevy Chase" was first sung. These +modern ballads are not necessarily better or worse than their +predecessors; but they are necessarily different. It is idle to +exalt the wild flower at the expense of the garden flower; each has +its fragrance, its beauty, its sentiment; and the world is wide! + +In the selection of the ballads which appear in this volume, no +attempt has been made to follow a chronological order or to enforce a +rigid principle of selection of any kind. The aim has been to bring +within moderate compass a collection of these songs of the people +which should fairly represent the range, the descriptive felicity, +the dramatic power, and the genuine poetic feeling of a body of verse +which is still, it is to be feared, unfamiliar to a large number of +those to whom it would bring refreshment and delight. + + +HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE + + + + + +Chevy Chace + + + +God prosper long our noble king, +Our liffes and safetyes all; +A woefull hunting once there did +In Chevy-Chace befall. + +To drive the deere with hound and horne, +Erle Percy took his way; +The child may rue that is unborne +The hunting of that day. + +The stout Erle of Northumberland +A vow to God did make, +His pleasure in the Scottish woods +Three summers days to take; + +The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace +To kill and beare away: +These tydings to Erle Douglas came, +In Scotland where he lay. + +Who sent Erie Percy present word, +He wold prevent his sport; +The English Erle not fearing that, +Did to the woods resort, + +With fifteen hundred bow-men bold, +All chosen men of might, +Who knew full well in time of neede +To ayme their shafts arright. + +The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, +To chase the fallow deere; +On Munday they began to hunt, +Ere day-light did appeare; + +And long before high noone they had +An hundred fat buckes slaine; +Then having din'd, the drovyers went +To rouze the deare againe. + +The bow-men mustered on the hills, +Well able to endure; +Theire backsides all, with speciall care, +That day were guarded sure. + +The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, +The nimble deere to take, +That with their cryes the hills and dales +An eccho shrill did make. + +Lord Percy to the quarry went, +To view the tender deere; +Quoth he, "Erle Douglas promised +This day to meet me heere; + +"But if I thought he wold not come, +Noe longer wold I stay." +With that, a brave younge gentleman +Thus to the Erle did say: + +"Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, +His men in armour bright; +Full twenty hundred Scottish speres, +All marching in our sight. + +"All men of pleasant Tivydale, +Fast by the river Tweede:" +"O cease your sport," Erle Percy said, +"And take your bowes with speede. + +"And now with me, my countrymen, +Your courage forth advance; +For never was there champion yett +In Scotland or in France, + +"That ever did on horsebacke come, +But, if my hap it were, +I durst encounter man for man, +With him to breake a spere." + +Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, +Most like a baron bold, +Rode formost of his company, +Whose armour shone like gold. + +"Show me," sayd hee, "whose men you bee, +That hunt soe boldly heere, +That, without my consent, doe chase +And kill my fallow-deere." + +The man that first did answer make +Was noble Percy hee; +Who sayd, "Wee list not to declare, +Nor shew whose men wee bee. + +"Yet will wee spend our deerest blood, +Thy cheefest harts to slay;" +Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, +And thus in rage did say; + +"Ere thus I will out-braved bee, +One of us two shall dye: +I know thee well, an erle thou art; +Lord Percy, soe am I. + +"But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, +And great offence, to kill +Any of these our guiltlesse men, +For they have done no ill. + +"Let thou and I the battell trye, + And set our men aside." +"Accurst bee he," Erle Percy sayd, +"By whome this is denyed." + +Then stept a gallant squier forth, +Witherington was his name, +Who said, "I wold not have it told +To Henry our king for shame, + +"That ere my captaine fought on foote, +And I stood looking on: +You bee two erles," sayd Witherington, +"And I a squier alone. + +"Ile doe the best that doe I may, +While I have power to stand; +While I have power to weeld my sword, +Ile fight with hart and hand." + +Our English archers bent their bowes, +Their harts were good and trew; +Att the first flight of arrowes sent, +Full four-score Scots they slew. + +[Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, +As Chieftain stout and good, +As valiant Captain, all unmov'd +The shock he firmly stood. + +His host he parted had in three, +As Leader ware and try'd, +And soon his spearmen on their foes +Bare down on every side. + +Throughout the English archery +They dealt full many a wound; +But still our valiant Englishmen +All firmly kept their ground. + +And throwing strait their bows away, +They grasp'd their swords so bright: +And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, +On shields and helmets light.] + +They clos'd full fast on everye side, +Noe slacknes there was found; +And many a gallant gentleman +Lay gasping on the ground. + +O Christ! it was a griefe to see, +And likewise for to heare, +The cries of men lying in their gore, +And scattered here and there. + +At last these two stout erles did meet, +Like captaines of great might; +Like lyons wood they layd on lode, +And made a cruell fight. + +They fought, untill they both did sweat, +With swords of tempered steele; +Until the blood, like drops of rain, +They trickling downe did feele. + +"Yeeld thee, Lord Percy," Douglas sayd +"In faith I will thee bringe, +Where thou shalt high advanced bee +By James our Scottish king. + +"Thy ransom I will freely give, +And thus report of thee, +Thou art the most couragious knight +That ever I did see." + +"Noe, Douglas," quoth Erle Percy then, +"Thy proffer I doe scorne +I will not yeelde to any Scott, +That ever yett was borne." + +With that, there came an arrow keene +Out of an English bow, +Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, +A deepe and deadlye blow: + +Who never spake more words than these, +"Fight on, my merry men all; +For why, my life is at an end: +Lord Percy sees my fall." + +Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke +The dead man by the hand; +And said, "Erle Douglas, for thy life +Wold I had lost my land! + +"O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed +With sorrow for thy sake; +For sure, a more renowned knight +Mischance cold never take." + +A knight amongst the Scotts there was, +Which saw Erle Douglas dye, +Who streight in wrath did vow revenge +Upon the Lord Percye; + +Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he call'd, +Who, with a spere most bright, +Well-mounted on a gallant steed, +Ran fiercely through the fight; + +And past the English archers all, +Without all dread or feare, +And through Earl Percyes body then +He thrust his hatefull spere + +With such a vehement force and might +He did his body gore, +The speare ran through the other side +A large cloth-yard, and more. + +So thus did both these nobles dye, +Whose courage none could staine; +An English archer then perceiv'd +The noble erle was slaine. + +He had a bow bent in his hand, +Made of a trusty tree; +An arrow of a cloth-yard long +Up to the head drew hee. + +Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, +So right the shaft he sett, +The grey goose-wing that was thereon +In his harts bloode was wett. + +This fight did last from breake of day +Till setting of the sun; +For when they rung the evening bell, +The battel scarce was done. + +With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine, +Sir John of Egerton, +Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, +Sir James, that bold Bar n. + +And with Sir George and stout Sir James, +Both knights of good account, +Good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slaine, +Whose prowesse did surmount. + +For Witherington needs must I wayle, +As one in doleful dumpes; +For when his legs were smitten off, +He fought upon his stumpes. + +And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine +Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, +Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld +One foote wold never flee. + +Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, +His sisters sonne was hee; +Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, +Yet saved cold not bee. + +And the Lord Maxwell in like case +Did with Erle Douglas dye; +Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, +Scarce fifty-five did flye. + +Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, +Went home but fifty-three; +The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, +Under the greene wood tree. + +Next day did many widowes come, +Their husbands to bewayle; +They washt their wounds in brinish teares, +But all wold not prevayle. + +Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple blood, +They bore with them away: +They kist them dead a thousand times, +Ere they were cladd in clay. + +This newes was brought to Eddenborrow, +Where Scotlands king did raigne, +That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye +Was with an arrow slaine. + +"O heavy newes," King James did say; +"Scottland can witnesse bee, +I have not any captaine more +Of such account as hee." + +Like tydings to King Henry came, +Within as short a space, +That Percy of Northumberland +Was slaine in Chevy-Chace. + +"Now God be with him," said our king, +"Sith it will noe better bee; +I trust I have, within my realme, +Five hundred as good as hee. + +"Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, +But I will vengeance take, +I'll be revenged on them all, +For brave Erle Percyes sake." + +This vow full well the king perform'd +After, at Humbledowne; +In one day, fifty knights were slayne, +With lordes of great renowne. + +And of the rest, of small account, +Did many thousands dye: +Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy-Chace, +Made by the Erle Percy. + +God save our king, and bless this land +In plentye, joy, and peace; +And grant henceforth, that foule debate +'Twixt noblemen may cease! + + + + + +King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid + + + +I read that once in Affrica +A princely wight did raine, +Who had to name Cophetua, +As poets they did faine. +From natures lawes he did decline, +For sure he was not of my minde, +He cared not for women-kind +But did them all disdaine. +But marke what hapned on a day; +As he out of his window lay, +He saw a beggar all in gray. +The which did cause his paine. + +The blinded boy that shootes so trim +From heaven downe did hie, +He drew a dart and shot at him, +In place where he did lye: +Which soone did pierse him to the quicke, +And when he felt the arrow pricke, +Which in his tender heart did sticke, +He looketh as he would dye. +"What sudden chance is this," quoth he, +"That I to love must subject be, +Which never thereto would agree, +But still did it defie?" + +Then from the window he did come, +And laid him on his bed; +A thousand heapes of care did runne +Within his troubled head. +For now he meanes to crave her love, +And now he seekes which way to proove +How he his fancie might remoove, +And not this beggar wed. +But Cupid had him so in snare, +That this poor begger must prepare +A salve to cure him of his care, +Or els he would be dead. + +And as he musing thus did lye, +He thought for to devise +How he might have her companye, +That so did 'maze his eyes. +"In thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; +For surely thou shalt be my wife, +Or else this hand with bloody knife, +The Gods shall sure suffice." +Then from his bed he soon arose, +And to his pallace gate he goes; +Full little then this begger knowes +When she the king espies. + +"The gods preserve your majesty," +The beggers all gan cry; +"Vouchsafe to give your charity, +Our childrens food to buy." +The king to them his purse did cast, +And they to part it made great haste; +This silly woman was the last +That after them did hye. +The king he cal'd her back againe, +And unto her he gave his chaine; +And said, "With us you shal remaine +Till such time as we dye. + +"For thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, +And honoured for my queene; +With thee I meane to lead my life, +As shortly shall be seene: +Our wedding shall appointed be, +And every thing in its degree; +Come on," quoth he, "and follow me, +Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. +What is thy name, faire maid?" quoth he. +"Penelophon, O King," quoth she; +With that she made a lowe courtsey; +A trim one as I weene. + +Thus hand in hand along they walke +Unto the king's pallace: +The king with courteous, comly talke +This begger doth embrace. +The begger blusheth scarlet red, +And straight againe as pale as lead, +But not a word at all she said, +She was in such amaze. +At last she spake with trembling voyce, +And said, "O King, I doe rejoyce +That you wil take me for your choyce, +And my degree so base." + +And when the wedding day was come, +The king commanded strait +The noblemen, both all and some, +Upon the queene to wait. +And she behaved herself that day +As if she had never walkt the way; +She had forgot her gowne of gray, +Which she did weare of late. +The proverbe old is come to passe, +The priest, when he begins his masse, +Forgets that ever clerke he was +He knowth not his estate. + +Here you may read Cophetua, +Through long time fancie-fed, +Compelled by the blinded boy +The begger for to wed: +He that did lovers lookes disdaine, +To do the same was glad and faine, +Or else he would himselfe have slaine, +In storie, as we read. +Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, +But pitty now thy servant heere, +Least that it hap to thee this yeare, +As to that king it did. + +And thus they led a quiet life +During their princely raine, +And in a tombe were buried both, +As writers sheweth plaine. +The lords they tooke it grievously, +The ladies tooke it heavily, +The commons cryed pitiously, +Their death to them was paine. +Their fame did sound so passingly, +That it did pierce the starry sky, +And throughout all the world did flye +To every princes realme. + + + + + +King Leir and his Three Daughters + + + +King Leir once ruled in this land +With princely power and peace, +And had all things with hearts content, +That might his joys increase. +Amongst those things that nature gave, +Three daughters fair had he, +So princely seeming beautiful, +As fairer could not be. + +So on a time it pleas'd the king +A question thus to move, +Which of his daughters to his grace +Could shew the dearest love: +"For to my age you bring content," +Quoth he, "then let me hear, +Which of you three in plighted troth +The kindest will appear." + +To whom the eldest thus began: +"Dear father, mind," quoth she, +"Before your face, to do you good, +My blood shall render'd be. +And for your sake my bleeding heart +Shall here be cut in twain, +Ere that I see your reverend age +The smallest grief sustain." + +"And so will I," the second said; +"Dear father, for your sake, +The worst of all extremities +I'll gently undertake: +And serve your highness night and day +With diligence and love; +That sweet content and quietness +Discomforts may remove." + +"In doing so, you glad my soul," +The aged king reply'd; +"But what sayst thou, my youngest girl, +How is thy love ally'd?" +"My love" (quoth young Cordelia then), +"Which to your grace I owe, +Shall be the duty of a child, +And that is all I'll show." + +"And wilt thou shew no more," quoth he, +"Than doth thy duty bind? +I well perceive thy love is small, +When as no more I find. +Henceforth I banish thee my court; +Thou art no child of mine; +Nor any part of this my realm +By favour shall be thine. + +"Thy elder sisters' loves are more +Than well I can demand; +To whom I equally bestow +My kingdome and my land, +My pompal state and all my goods, +That lovingly I may +With those thy sisters be maintain'd +Until my dying day." + +Thus flattering speeches won renown, +By these two sisters here; +The third had causeless banishment, +Yet was her love more dear. +For poor Cordelia patiently +Went wandring up and down, +Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, +Through many an English town: + +Untill at last in famous France +She gentler fortunes found; +Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd +The fairest on the ground: +Where when the king her virtues heard, +And this fair lady seen, +With full consent of all his court +He made his wife and queen. + +Her father, old King Leir, this while +With his two daughters staid; +Forgetful of their promis'd loves, +Full soon the same decay'd; +And living in Queen Ragan's court, +The eldest of the twain, +She took from him his chiefest means, +And most of all his train. + +For whereas twenty men were wont +To wait with bended knee, +She gave allowance but to ten, +And after scarce to three, +Nay, one she thought too much for him; +So took she all away, +In hope that in her court, good king, +He would no longer stay. + +"Am I rewarded thus," quoth he, +"In giving all I have +Unto my children, and to beg +For what I lately gave? +I'll go unto my Gonorell: +My second child, I know, +Will be more kind and pitiful, +And will relieve my woe." + +Full fast he hies then to her court; +Where when she heard his moan, +Return'd him answer, that she griev'd +That all his means were gone, +But no way could relieve his wants; +Yet if that he would stay +Within her kitchen, he should have +What scullions gave away. + +When he had heard, with bitter tears, +He made his answer then; +"In what I did, let me be made +Example to all men. +I will return again," quoth he, +"Unto my Ragan's court; +She will not use me thus, I hope, +But in a kinder sort." + +Where when he came, she gave command +To drive him thence away: +When he was well within her court, +(She said) he would not stay. +Then back again to Gonorel +The woeful king did hie, +That in her kitchen he might have +What scullion boys set by. + +But there of that he was deny'd +Which she had promis'd late +For once refusing, he should not, +Come after to her gate. +Thus twixt his daughters for relief +He wandred up and down, +Being glad to feed on beggars' food +That lately wore a crown. + +And calling to remembrance then +His youngest daughters words, +That said, the duty of a child +Was all that love affords-- +But doubting to repair to her, +Whom he had ban'sh'd so, +Grew frantic mad; for in his mind +He bore the wounds of woe. + +Which made him rend his milk-white locks +And tresses from his head, +And all with blood bestain his cheeks, +With age and honour spread. +To hills and woods and watry founts, +He made his hourly moan, +Till hills and woods and senseless things +Did seem to sigh and groan. + +Even thus possest with discontents, +He passed o'er to France, +In hopes from fair Cordelia there +To find some gentler chance. +Most virtuous dame! which, when she heard +Of this her father's grief, +As duty bound, she quickly sent +Him comfort and relief. + +And by a train of noble peers, +In brave and gallant sort, +She gave in charge he should be brought +To Aganippus' court; +Whose royal king, with noble mind, +So freely gave consent +To muster up his knights at arms, +To fame and courage bent. + +And so to England came with speed, +To repossesse King Leir, +And drive his daughters from their thrones +By his Cordelia dear. +Where she, true-hearted, noble queen, +Was in the battel stain; +Yet he, good king, in his old days, +Possest his crown again. + +But when he heard Cordelia's death, +Who died indeed for love +Of her dear father, in whose cause +She did this battle move, +He swooning fell upon her breast, +From whence he never parted; +But on her bosom left his life +That was so truly hearted. + +The lords and nobles, when they saw +The end of these events, +The other sisters unto death +They doomed by consents; +And being dead, their crowns they left +Unto the next of kin: +Thus have you seen the fall of pride, +And disobedient sin. + + + + + +Fair Rosamond + + + +When as King Henry rulde this land, +The second of that name, +Besides the queene, he dearly lovde +A faire and comely dame. + +Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, +Her favour, and her face; +A sweeter creature in this worlde +Could never prince embrace. + +Her crisped lockes like threads of golde, +Appeard to each man's sight; +Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, +Did cast a heavenlye light. + +The blood within her crystal cheekes +Did such a colour drive, +As though the lillye and the rose +For mastership did strive. + +Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde, +Her name was called so, +To whom our queene, Dame Ellinor, +Was known a deadlye foe. + +The king therefore, for her defence +Against the furious queene, +At Woodstocke builded such a bower, +The like was never seene. + +Most curiously that bower was built, +Of stone and timber strong; +An hundered and fifty doors +Did to this bower belong: + +And they so cunninglye contriv'd, +With turnings round about, +That none but with a clue of thread +Could enter in or out. + +And for his love and ladyes sake, +That was so faire and brighte, +The keeping of this bower he gave +Unto a valiant knighte. + +But fortune, that doth often frowne +Where she before did smile, +The kinges delighte and ladyes joy +Full soon shee did beguile: + +For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, +Whom he did high advance, +Against his father raised warres +Within the realme of France. + +But yet before our comelye king +The English land forsooke, +Of Rosamond, his lady faire, +His farewelle thus he tooke: + +"My Rosamonde, my only Rose, +That pleasest best mine eye, +The fairest flower in all the worlde +To feed my fantasye,-- + +"The flower of mine affected heart, +Whose sweetness doth excelle, +My royal Rose, a thousand times +I bid thee nowe farwelle! + +"For I must leave my fairest flower, +My sweetest Rose, a space, +And cross the seas to famous France, +Proud rebelles to abase. + +"But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt +My coming shortlye see, +And in my heart, when hence I am, +Ile beare my Rose with mee." + +When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, +Did heare the king saye soe, +The sorrowe of her grieved heart +Her outward lookes did showe. + +And from her cleare and crystall eyes +The teares gusht out apace, +Which, like the silver-pearled dewe, +Ranne downe her comely face. + +Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, +Did waxe both wan and pale, +And for the sorrow she conceivde +Her vitall spirits faile. + +And falling downe all in a swoone +Before King Henryes face, +Full oft he in his princelye armes +Her bodye did embrace. + +And twentye times, with watery eyes, +He kist her tender cheeke, +Untill he had revivde againe +Her senses milde and meeke. + +"Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?" +The king did often say: +"Because," quoth shee, "to bloodye warres +My lord must part awaye. + +"But since your Grace on forrayne coastes, +Amonge your foes unkinde, +Must goe to hazard life and limbe, +Why should I staye behinde? + +"Nay, rather let me, like a page, +Your sworde and target beare; +That on my breast the blowes may lighte, +Which would offend you there. + +"Or lett mee, in your royal tent, +Prepare your bed at nighte, +And with sweete baths refresh your grace, +At your returne from fighte. + +"So I your presence may enjoye +No toil I will refuse; +But wanting you, my life is death: +Nay, death Ild rather chuse." + +"Content thy self, my dearest love, +Thy rest at home shall bee, +In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle; +For travell fits not thee. + +"Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; +Soft peace their sexe delightes; +Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; +Gay feastes, not cruell fightes. + +"My Rose shall safely here abide, +With musicke passe the daye, +Whilst I amonge the piercing pikes +My foes seeke far awaye. + +"My Rose shall shine in pearle and golde, +Whilst Ime in armour dighte; +Gay galliards here my love shall dance, +Whilst I my foes goe fighte. + +"And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste +To bee my loves defence, +Be carefull of my gallant Rose +When I am parted hence." + +And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, +As though his heart would breake; +And Rosamonde, for very griefe, +Not one plaine word could speake. + +And at their parting well they mighte +In heart be grieved sore: +After that daye, faire Rosamonde +The king did see no more. + +For when his Grace had past the seas, +And into France was gone, +With envious heart, Queene Ellinor +To Woodstocke came anone. + +And forth she calls this trustye knighte +In an unhappy houre, +Who, with his clue of twined-thread, +Came from this famous bower. + +And when that they had wounded him, +The queene this thread did gette, +And wente where Ladye Rosamonde +Was like an angell sette. + +But when the queene with stedfast eye + Beheld her beauteous face, +She was amazed in her minde +At her exceeding grace. + +"Cast off from thee those robes," she said, +"That riche and costlye bee; +And drinke thou up this deadlye draught +Which I have brought to thee." + +Then presentlye upon her knees +Sweet Rosamonde did falle; +And pardon of the queene she crav'd +For her offences all. + +"Take pitty on my youthfull yeares," +Faire Rosamonde did crye; +"And lett mee not with poison stronge +Enforced bee to dye. + +"I will renounce my sinfull life, +And in some cloyster bide; +Or else be banisht, if you please, +To range the world soe wide. + +"And for the fault which I have done, +Though I was forc'd theretoe, +Preserve my life, and punish mee +As you thinke meet to doe." + +And with these words, her lillie handes +She wrunge full often there; +And downe along her lovely face +Did trickle many a teare. + +But nothing could this furious queene +Therewith appeased bee; +The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, +As she knelt on her knee, + +She gave this comelye dame to drinke; +Who tooke it in her hand, +And from her bended knee arose, +And on her feet did stand, + +And casting up her eyes to heaven, +Shee did for mercye calle; +And drinking up the poison stronge, +Her life she lost withalle. + +And when that death through everye limbe +Had showde its greatest spite, +Her chiefest foes did plain confesse +Shee was a glorious wight. + +Her body then they did entomb, +When life was fled away, +At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, +As may be seene this day. + + + + + +Phillida and Corydon + + + +In the merrie moneth of Maye, +In a morne by break of daye, +With a troope of damselles playing +Forthe 'I yode' forsooth a maying; + +When anon by a wood side, +Where that Maye was in his pride, +I espied all alone +Phillida and Corydon. + +Much adoe there was, God wot: +He wold love, and she wold not. +She sayde, "Never man was trewe;" +He sayes, "None was false to you." + +He sayde, hee had lovde her longe; +She sayes, love should have no wronge. +Corydon wold kisse her then; +She sayes, "Maydes must kisse no men, + +"Tyll they doe for good and all." +When she made the shepperde call +All the heavens to wytnes truthe, +Never loved a truer youthe. + +Then with manie a prettie othe, +Yea and nay, and faithe and trothe, +Suche as seelie shepperdes use +When they will not love abuse, + +Love, that had bene long deluded, +Was with kisses sweete concluded; +And Phillida with garlands gaye +Was made the lady of the Maye. + + + + + +Fair Margaret and Sweet William + + + +As it fell out on a long summer's day, +Two lovers they sat on a hill; +They sat together that long summer's day, +And could not talk their fill. + +"I see no harm by you, Margaret, +And you see none by mee; +Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock +A rich wedding you shall see." + +Fair Margaret sat in her bower-wind w, +Combing her yellow hair; +There she spyed sweet William and his bride, +As they were a riding near. + +Then down she layd her ivory combe, +And braided her hair in twain: +She went alive out of her bower, +But ne'er came alive in't again. + +When day was gone, and night was come, +And all men fast asleep, +Then came the spirit of Fair Marg'ret, +And stood at William's feet. + +"Are you awake, sweet William?" shee said, +"Or, sweet William, are you asleep? +God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, +And me of my winding sheet." + +When day was come, and night was gone, +And all men wak'd from sleep, +Sweet William to his lady sayd, +"My dear, I have cause to weep. + +"I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, +Such dreames are never good: +I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,' +And my bride-bed full of blood." + +"Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, +They never do prove good; +To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,' +And thy bride-bed full of blood." + +He called up his merry men all, +By one, by two, and by three; +Saying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower, +By the leave of my ladie." + +And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower, +He knocked at the ring; +And who so ready as her seven brethren +To let sweet William in. + +Then he turned up the covering-sheet; +"Pray let me see the dead; +Methinks she looks all pale and wan. +She hath lost her cherry red. + +"I'll do more for thee, Margaret, +Than any of thy kin: +For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, +Though a smile I cannot win." + +With that bespake the seven brethren, +Making most piteous mone, +"You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, +And let our sister alone." + +"If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, +I do but what is right; +I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, +By day, nor yet by night. + +"Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, +Deal on your cake and your wine: +For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, +Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine." + +Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, +Sweet William dyed the morrow: +Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love, +Sweet William dyed for sorrow. + +Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, +And William in the higher: +Out of her brest there sprang a rose, +And out of his a briar. + +They grew till they grew unto the church top, +And then they could grow no higher; +And there they tyed in a true lover's knot, +Which made all the people admire. + +Then came the clerk of the parish, +As you the truth shall hear, +And by misfortune cut them down, +Or they had now been there. + + + + + +Annan Water + + + +"Annan Water's wading deep, +And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; +I will keep my tryst to-night, +And win the heart o' lovely Annie." + +He's loupen on his bonny grey, +He rade the right gate and the ready', +For a' the storm he wadna stay, +For seeking o' his bonny lady. + +And he has ridden o'er field and fell, +Through muir and moss, and stones and mire; +His spurs o' steel were sair to bide, +And frae her four feet flew the fire. + +"My bonny grey, noo play your part! +Gin ye be the steed that wins my dearie, +Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, +And never spur sail mak' you wearie." + +The grey was a mare, and a right gude mare: +But when she wan the Annan Water, +She couldna hae found the ford that night +Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. + +"O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, +Put off your boat for gouden money!" +But for a' the goud in fair Scotland, +He dared na tak' him through to Annie. + +"O I was sworn sae late yestreen, +Not by a single aith, but mony. +I'll cross the drumly stream to-night, +Or never could I face my honey." + +The side was stey, and the bottom deep, +Frae bank to brae the water pouring; +The bonny grey mare she swat for fear, +For she heard the water-kelpy roaring. + +He spurred her forth into the flood, +I wot she swam both strong and steady; +But the stream was broad, her strength did fail, +And he never saw his bonny lady. + +O wae betide the frush saugh wand! +And wae betide the bush of brier! +That bent and brake into his hand, +When strength of man and horse did tire. + +And wae betide ye, Annan Water! +This night ye are a drumly river; +But over thee we'll build a brig, +That ye nae mair true love may sever. + + + + + +The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington + + + +There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, +And he was a squire's son; +He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, +That lived in Islington. + +Yet she was coye, and would not believe +That he did love her soe, +Noe nor at any time would she +Any countenance to him showe. + +But when his friendes did understand +His fond and foolish minde, +They sent him up to faire London, +An apprentice for to binde. + +And when he had been seven long yeares, +And never his love could see,-- +"Many a teare have I shed for her sake, +When she little thought of mee." + +Then all the maids of Islington +Went forth to sport and playe, +All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; +She secretly stole awaye. + +She pulled off her gowne of greene, +And put on ragged attire, +And to faire London she would go +Her true love to enquire. + +And as she went along the high road, +The weather being hot and drye, +She sat her downe upon a green bank, +And her true love came riding bye. + +She started up, with a colour soe redd, +Catching hold of his bridle-reine; +"One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, +"Will ease me of much paine." + +"Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, +Praye tell me where you were borne." +"At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, +"Where I have had many a scorne." + +"I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, +O tell me, whether you knowe +The bayliffes daughter of Islington." +"She is dead, sir, long agoe." + +"If she be dead, then take my horse, +My saddle and bridle also; +For I will into some farr countrye, +Where noe man shall me knowe." + +"O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, +She standeth by thy side; +She is here alive, she is not dead, +And readye to be thy bride." + +"O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, +Ten thousand times therefore; +For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, +Whom I thought I should never see more." + + + + + +Barbara Allen's Cruelty + + + +All in the merry month of May, +When green buds they were swelling, +Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay +For love o' Barbara Allen. + +He sent his man unto her then, +To the town where she was dwelling: +"O haste and come to my master dear, +If your name be Barbara Allen." + +Slowly, slowly rase she up, +And she cam' where he was lying; +And when she drew the curtain by, +Says, "Young man, I think you're dying." + +"O it's I am sick, and very, very sick, +And it's a' for Barbara Allen." +"O the better for me ye'se never be, +Tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling! + +"O dinna ye min', young man," she says, +"When the red wine ye were filling, +That ye made the healths gae round and round +And ye slighted Barbara Allen?" + +He turn'd his face unto the wa', +And death was wi' him dealing: +"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'; +Be kind to Barbara Allen." + +As she was walking o'er the fields, +She heard the dead-bell knelling; + +And every jow the dead-bell gave, +It cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!" + +"O mother, mother, mak' my bed, +To lay me down in sorrow. +My love has died for me to-day, +I'll die for him to-morrow." + + + + + +The Douglas Tragedy + + + +"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, +"And put on your armour so bright; +Sweet William will hae Lady Margaret awi' +Before that it be light. + +"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, +And put on your armour so bright, +And take better care of your youngest sister, +For your eldest's awa' the last night." + +He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, +And himself on a dapple grey, +With a buglet horn hung down by his side +And lightly they rode away. + +Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, +To see what he could see, +And there he spied her seven brethren bold +Come riding o'er the lea. + +"Light down, light down, Lady Margaret," he said, +"And hold my steed in your hand, +Until that against your seven brethren bold, +And your father I make a stand." + +She held his steed in her milk-white hand, +And never shed one tear, +Until that she saw her seven brethren fa' +And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. + +"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, +"For your strokes they are wondrous sair; +True lovers I can get many a ane, +But a father I can never get mair." + +O, she's ta'en out her handkerchief, +It was o' the holland sae fine, +And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, +That were redder than the wine. + +"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margaret," he said, +"O whether will ye gang or bide?" +"I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, +"For you have left me nae other guide." + +He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, +And himself on a dapple grey, +With a buglet horn hung down by his side, +And slowly they baith rade away. + +O they rade on, and on they rade, +And a' by the light of the moon, +Until they came to yon wan water, +And there they lighted down. + +They lighted down to tak a drink +Of the spring that ran sae clear; +And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, +And sair she 'gan to fear. + +"Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, +"For I fear that you are slain!" +"'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, +That shines in the water sae plain." + +O they rade on, and on they rade, +And a' by the light of the moon, +Until they came to his mother's ha' door, +And there they lighted down. + +"Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, +"Get up, and let me in! +Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, +"For this night my fair lady I've win. + +"O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, +"O mak it braid and deep! +And lay Lady Margaret close at my back, +And the sounder I will sleep." + +Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, +Lady Margaret lang ere day: +And all true lovers that go thegither, +May they have mair luck than they! + +Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk, +Lady Margaret in Marie's quire; +Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, +And out o' the knight's a brier. + +And they twa met, and they twa plat +And fain they wad be near; +And a' the world might ken right weel, +They were twa lovers dear. + +But bye and rade the black Douglas +And wow but he was rough! +For he pulled up the bonny brier, +And flanged in St. Marie's Loch. + + + + + +Young Waters + + + +About Yule, when the wind blew cool; +And the round tables began, +A' there is come to our king's court +Mony a well-favoured man. + +The queen looked o'er the castle wa', +Beheld baith dale and down, +And then she saw young Waters +Come riding to the town. + +His footmen they did rin before, +His horsemen rade behind; +Ane mantle of the burning gowd +Did keep him frae the wind. + +Gowden graith'd[FN#1] his horse before, +And siller shod behind; +The horse young Waters rade upon +Was fleeter than the wind. + + + +[FN#1] Graitih'd, girthed. + + + +Out then spake a wily lord, +Unto the queen said he: +"O tell me wha's the fairest face +Rides in the company?" + +"I've seen lord, and I've seen laird, +And knights of high degree, +But a fairer face than young Waters +Mine eyen did never see." + +Out then spake the jealous king +And an angry man was he: +"O if he had been twice as fair, +You might have excepted me." + +"You're neither laird nor lord," she says, +"But the king that wears the crown; +There is not a knight in fair Scotland, +But to thee maun bow down." + +For a' that she could do or say, +Appeased he wad nae be; +But for the words which she had said, +Young Waters he maun dee. + +They hae ta'en young Waters, +And put fetters to his feet; +They hae ta'en young Waters, +And thrown him in dungeon deep. + +"Aft I have ridden thro' Stirling town, +In the wind but and the weet; +But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town +Wi' fetters at my feet. + +"Aft have I ridden thro' Stirling town, +In the wind but and the rain; +But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town +Ne'er to return again." + +They hae ta'en to the heading-hill +His young son in his cradle; +And they hae ta'en to the heading-hill +His horse but and his saddle. + +They hae ta'en to the heading-hill +His lady fair to see; +And for the words the queen had spoke +Young Waters he did dee. + + + + + +Flodden Field + + + +King Jamie hath made a vow, +Keepe it well if he may: +That he will be at lovely London +Upon Saint James his day. + +Upon Saint James his day at noone, +At faire London will I be, +And all the lords in merrie Scotland, +They shall dine there with me. + +"March out, march out, my merry men, +Of hie or low degree; +I'le weare the crowne in London towne, +And that you soon shall be." + +Then bespake good Queene Margaret, +The teares fell from her eye: +"Leave off these warres, most noble King, +Keepe your fidelitie. + +"The water runnes swift, and wondrous deepe, +From bottome unto the brimme; +My brother Henry hath men good enough; +England is hard to winne." + +"Away" quoth he "with this silly foole! +In prison fast let her lie: +For she is come of the English bloud, +And for these words she shall dye." + +With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard, +The Queenes chamberlaine that day: +"If that you put Queene Margaret to death, +Scotland shall rue it alway." + +Then in a rage King Jamie did say, +"Away with this foolish mome; +He shall be hanged, and the other be burned, +So soone as I come home." + +At Flodden Field the Scots came in, +Which made our English men faine; +At Bramstone Greene this battaile was seene, +There was King Jamie slaine. + +His bodie never could be found, +When he was over throwne, +And he that wore faire Scotland's crowne +That day could not be knowne. + +Then presently the Scot did flie, +Their cannons they left behind; +Their ensignes gay were won all away, +Our souldiers did beate them blinde. + +To tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine, +That to the fight did stand, +And many prisoners tooke that day, +The best in all Scotland. + +That day made many [a] fatherlesse child, +And many a widow poore, +And many a Scottish gay lady +Sate weeping in her bower. + +Jack with a feather was lapt all in leather, +His boastings were all in vaine; +He had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance +He never went home againe. + +--- + +This was written to adapt the ballad to the seventeenth century. + + +Now heaven we laude that never more +Such biding shall come to hand; +Our King, by othe, is King of both +England and faire Scotland. + + + + + +Helen of Kirkconnell + + + +I wad I were where Helen lies; +Night and day on me she cries; +O that I were where Helen lies, +On fair Kirkconnell 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 but my heart was sair +When my Love dropt and spak nae mair! +I laid her down wi' meikle care, +On fair Kirkconnell lea. + +As I went down the water side, +Nane but my foe to be my guide, +Nane but my foe to be my guide, +On fair Kirkconnell lea. + +I lighted down my sword to draw, +I hacked him in pieces sma', +I hacked him in pieces sma', +For her sake that died for me. + +O Helen fair, beyond compare! +I'll make a garland of thy hair, +Shall bind my heart for evermair, +Until the day I dee! + +O that I were where Helen lies +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 were blest, +Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, +On fair Kirkconnell lea. + +I wad my grave were growing green, +A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, +And I in Helen's arms lying, +On fair Kirkconnell lea. + +I wad I were where Helen lies! +Night and day on me she cries, +And I am weary of the skies, +Since my Love died for me. + + + + + +Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale + + + +Come listen to me, you gallants so free, +All you that love mirth for to hear, +And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, +That lived in Nottinghamshire. + +As Robin Hood in the forest stood +All under the greenwood tree, +There he was aware of a brave young man, +As fine as fine might be. + +The youngster was clad in scarlet red, +In scarlet fine and gay +And he did frisk it over the plain, +And chaunted a roundelay. + +As Robin Hood next morning stood +Amongst the leaves so gay, +There did he espy the same young man +Come drooping along the way. + +The scarlet he wore the day before +It was clean cast away; +And at every step he fetched a sigh, +"Alas! and a well-a-day!" + +Then stepped forth brave Little John, +And Midge, the miller's son; +Which made the young man bend his bow, +When as he see them come. + +"Stand off! stand off!" the young man said, +"What is your will with me?" +"You must come before our master straight, +Under yon greenwood tree." + +And when he came bold Robin before, +Robin asked him courteously, +O, hast thou any money to spare, +For my merry men and me? + +"I have no money," the young man said, +"But five shillings and a ring; +And that I have kept this seven long years, +To have at my wedding. + +"Yesterday I should have married a maid, +But she was from me ta'en, +And chosen to be an old knight's delight, +Whereby my poor heart is slain." + +"What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood, +"Come tell me, without any fail." +"By the faith of my body," then said the young man, +"My name it is Allen-a-Dale." + +"What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, +"In ready gold or fee, +To help thee to thy true love again, +And deliver her unto thee?" + +"I have no money," then quoth the young man, +"No ready gold nor fee, +But I will swear upon a book +Thy true servant for to be." + +"How many miles is it to thy true love? +Come tell me without guile." +"By the faith of my body," then said the young man, +"It is but five little mile." + +Then Robin he hasted over the plain, +He did neither stint nor lin, +Until he came unto the church +Where Allen should keep his weddin'. + +"What hast thou here?" the bishop then said, +"I prithee now tell unto me." +"I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, +"And the best in the north country." + +"O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said, +"That music best pleaseth me." +"You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, +"Till the bride and bridegroom I see." + +With that came in a wealthy knight, +Which was both grave and old; +And after him a finikin lass, +Did shine like the glistering gold. + +"This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, +"That you do seem to make here; +For since we are come into the church, +The bride shall chuse her own dear." + +Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, +And blew blasts two and three; +When four-and-twenty bowmen bold +Came leaping over the lea. + +And when they came into the church-yard, +Marching all in a row, +The first man was Allen-a-Dale, +To give bold Robin his bow. + +"This is thy true love," Robin he said, +Young Allen, as I hear say; +And you shall be married this same time, +Before we depart away." + +"That shall not be," the bishop he cried, +"For thy word shall not stand; +They shall be three times asked in the church, +As the law is of our land." + +Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat, +And put it upon Little John; +"By the faith of my body," then Robin said, +"This cloth doth make thee a man." + +When Little John went into the quire, +The people began to laugh; +He asked them seven times into church, +Lest three times should not be enough. + +"Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, +Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; +And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, +Full dearly he shall her buy." + +And then having ended this merry wedding, +The bride looked like a queen; +And so they returned to the merry greenwood, +Amongst the leaves so green. + + + + + +Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne + + + +When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, +And leaves both large and longe, +Itt is merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest +To heare the small birdes songe. + +The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, +Sitting upon the spraye, +Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, +In the greenwood where he lay. + +"Now, by my faye," sayd jollye Robin, +"A sweaven I had this night; +I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, +That fast with me can fight. + +"Methought they did mee beate and binde, +And tooke my bow mee froe; +Iff I be Robin alive in this lande, +Ile be wroken on them towe." + +"Sweavens are swift, master," quoth John, +"As the wind that blowes ore the hill; +For if itt be never so loude this night, +To-morrow it may be still." + +"Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, +And John shall goe with mee, +For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, +In greenwood where the bee." + +Then they cast on their gownes of grene, +And tooke theyr bowes each one; +And they away to the greene forrest +A shooting forth are gone; + +Untill they came to the merry greenwood, +Where they had gladdest to bee; +There were they ware of a wight yeoman, +His body leaned to a tree. + +A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, +Of manye a man the bane; +And he was clad in his capull hyde, +Topp and tayll and mayne. + +"Stand you still, master," quoth Little John, +"Under this tree so grene, +And I will go to yond wight yeoman +To know what he doth meane." + +"Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, +And that I farley finde: +How offt send I my men beffore, +And tarry my selfe behinde! + +"It is no cunning a knave to ken, +And a man but heare him speake; +And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, +John, I thy head wold breake." + +As often wordes they breeden bale, +So they parted Robin and John; +And John is gone to Barnesdale; +The gates he knoweth eche one. + +But when he came to Barnesdale, +Great heavinesse there hee hadd, +For he found tow of his owne fell wes +Were slaine both in a slade. + +And Scarlette he was flying a-foote +Faste over stocke and stone, +For the sheriffe with seven score men +Fast after him is gone. + +"One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John, +"With Christ his might and mayne; +Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, +To stopp he shall be fayne." + +Then John bent up his long bende-bowe, +And fetteled him to shoote: +The bow was made of tender boughe, +And fell down to his foote. + +"Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, +That ere thou grew on a tree; +For now this day thou art my bale, +My boote when thou shold bee." + +His shoote it was but loosely shott, +Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, +For itt mett one of the sherriffes men, +Good William a Trent was slaine. + +It had bene better of William a Trent +To have bene abed with sorrowe, +Than to be that day in the green-wood slade +To meet with Little Johns arrowe. + +But as it is said, when men be mett +Fyve can doe more than three, +The sheriffe hath taken Little John, +And bound him fast to a tree. + +"Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, +And hanged hye on a hill." +"But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth John, +"If itt be Christ his will." + +Lett us leave talking of Little John, +And thinke of Robin Hood, +How he is gone to the wight yeoman, +Where under the leaves he stood. + +"Good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd Robin so fayre, +"Good morrowe, good fellow," quoth he. +"Methinks by this bowe thou beares in thy hande, +A good archere thou sholdst bee." + +"I am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeoman, +"And of my morning tyde:" +"Ile lead thee through the wood," sayd Robin, +"Good fellow, Ile be thy guide." + +"I seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd, +"Men call him Robin Hood; +Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe +Than fortye pound soe good." + +"Now come with me, thou wight yeman, +And Robin thou soone shalt see; +But first let us some pastime find +Under the greenwood tree. + +"First let us some masterye make +Among the woods so even; +We may chance to meet with Robin Hood +Here att some unsett steven." + +They cutt them down two summer shroggs, +That grew both under a breere, +And set them threescore rood in twaine, +To shoote the prickes y-fere. + +"Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood, +"Leade on, I doe bidd thee." +"Nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd, +"My leader thou shalt bee." + +The first time Robin shot at the pricke, +He mist but an inch it fro; +The yeoman he was an archer good, +But he cold never shoote soe. + +The second shoote had the wightye yeoman, +He shote within the garlande; +But Robin he shott far better than hee, +For he clave the good pricke-wande. + +"A blessing upon thy heart," he sayd, +"Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode +For an thy hart be as good as thy hand, +Thou wert better then Robin Hoode. + +Now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he, +"Under the leaves of lyne." +"Nay, by my faith," quoth bolde Robin, +"Till thou have told me thine." + +"I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee, +"And Robin to take Ime sworne; +And when I am called by my right name, +I am Guy of good Gisbrne." + +"My dwelling is in this wood," sayes Robin, +"By thee I set right nought: +I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale, +Whom thou so long hast sought." + +He that had neither beene kithe nor kin, +Might have seen a full fayre sight, +To see how together these yeomen went +With blades both browne and bright: + +To see how these yeomen together they fought +Two howres of a summers day, +Yett neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy +Them fettled to flye away. + +Robin was reachles on a roote, +And stumbled at that tyde; +And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all, +And hitt him ore the left side. + +"Ah, deere Lady," sayd Robin Hood tho, +"Thou art but mother and may'; +I think it was never mans destinye +To dye before his day." + +Robin thought on Our Ladye deere, +And soone leapt up againe, +And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke, +And he Sir Guy hath slayne. + +He took Sir Guy's head by the hayre, +And stuck itt upon his bowes end: +"Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, +Which thing must have an end." + +Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, +And nicked Sir Guy in the face, +That he was never on woman born +Cold tell whose head it was. + +Sayes, "Lye there, lye there now, Sir Guy, +And with me be not wrothe; +Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand, +Thou shalt have the better clothe." + +Robin did off his gowne of greene, +And on Sir Guy did throwe, +And hee put on that capull hyde, +That cladd him topp to toe. + +"The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, +Now with me I will beare; +For I will away to Barnesdale, +To see how my men doe fare." + +Robin Hood sett Guy's horne to his mouth, +And a loud blast in it did blow: +That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, +As he leaned under a lowe. + +"Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe, +"I heare nowe tydings good, +For yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, +And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. + +"Yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, +Itt blowes soe well in tyde, +And yonder comes that wightye yeoman, +Cladd in his capull hyde. + +"Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy, +Aske what thou wilt of mee." +"O I will none of thy gold," sayd Robin, +"Nor I will none of thy fee. + +"But now I have slaine the master," he sayes, +"Let me goe strike the knave; +For this is all the rewarde I aske. +Nor noe other will I have." + +"Thou art a madman," said the sheriffe, +"Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee; +But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, +Well granted it shale be." + +When Little John heard his master speake, +Well knewe he it was his steven; +"Now shall I be looset," quoth Little John, +"With Christ his might in heaven." + +Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John, +He thought to loose him belive: +The sheriffe and all his companye +Fast after him can drive. + +"Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin; +"Why draw you mee so neere? +Itt was never the use in our countrye, +Ones shrift another shold heere." + +But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife, +And losed John hand and foote, +And gave him Sir Guy's bow into his hand, +And bade it be his boote. + +Then John he took Guy's bow in his hand, +His boltes and arrowes eche one: +When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, +He fettled him to be gone. + +Towards his house in Nottingham towne +He fled full fast away, +And soe did all the companye, +Not one behind wold stay. + +But he cold neither runne soe fast, +Nor away soe fast cold ryde, +But Little John with an arrowe soe broad +He shott him into the 'backe'-syde. + + + + + +Robin Hood's Death and Burial + + + +When Robin Hood and Little John +Down a down, a down, a down, +Went o'er yon bank of broom, +Said Robin Hood to Little John, +"We have shot for many a pound: +Hey down, a down, a down. + +"But I am not able to shoot one shot more, +My arrows will not flee; +But I have a cousin lives down below, +Please God, she will bleed me." + +Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, +As fast as he can win; +But before he came there, as we do hear, +He was taken very ill. + +And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, +He knocked all at the ring, +But none was so ready as his cousin herself +For to let bold Robin in. + +"Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, +"And drink some beer with me?" +"No, I will neither eat nor drink, +Till I am blooded by thee." + +"Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, +"Which you did never see; +And if you please to walk therein, +You blooded by me shall be." + +She took him by the lily-white hand, +And led him to a private room; +And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, +Whilst one drop of blood would run. + +She blooded him in the vein of the arm, +And locked him up in the room; +There did he bleed all the live-long day, +Until the next day at noon. + +He then bethought him of a casement door, +Thinking for to begone; +He was so weak he could not leap, +Nor he could not get down. + +He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, +Which hung low down to his knee, +He set his horn unto his mouth, +And blew out weak blasts three. + +Then Little John, when hearing him, +As he sat under the tree, +"I fear my master is near dead, +He blows so wearily." + +Then Little John to Fair Kirkley is gone, +As fast as he can dree; +But when he came to Kirkley-hall, +He broke locks two or three; + +Until he came bold Robin to, +Then he fell on his knee; +"A boon, a boon," cries Little John, +"Master, I beg of thee." + +"What is that boon," quoth Robin Hood, +"Little John, thou begst of me?" +"It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, +And all their nunnery." + +"Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, +"That boon I'll not grant thee; +I never hurt woman in all my life, +Nor man in woman's company. + +"I never hurt fair maid in all my time, +Nor at my end shall it be; +But give me my bent bow in my hand, +And a broad arrow I'll let flee; +And where this arrow is taken up, +There shall my grave digged be. + +"Lay me a green sod under my head, +And another under my feet; +And lay my bent bow by my side, +Which was my music sweet; +And make my grave of gravel and green, +Which is most right and meet. + +"Let me have length and breadth enough, +With a green sod under my head; +That they may say when I am dead, +Here lies bold Robin Hood." + +These words they readily promised him, +Which did bold Robin please; +And there they buried bold Robin Hood, +Near to the fair Kirkleys. + + + + + +The Twa Corbies + + + +As I was walking all alane, +I heard twa corbies making a maen: +The tane unto the t'ither did say, +"Whaur shall we gang and dine the day?" + +"O doun beside yon auld fail dyke, +I wot there lies a new-slain knight; +And naebody kens that he lies there +But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. + +"His hound is to the hunting gane, +His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, +His lady's ta'en another mate, +Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. + +"O we'll sit on his white hause bane, +And I'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en; +Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair +We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. + +"Mony a ane for him makes maen, +But nane shall ken whaur he is gane. +Over his banes when they are bare, +The wind shall blaw for evermair." + + + + + +Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny + + + +A SCOTTISH SONG + + +O waly, waly up the bank, +And waly, waly down the brae, +And waly, waly yon burn side, +Where I and my love were wont to gae. +I leant my back unto an aik, +I thought it was a trusty tree; +But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, +Sae my true love did lichtly me. + +O waly, waly, but gin love be bonny, +A little time while it is new; +But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, +And fades awa' like morning dew. +O wherfore shuld I busk my head? +Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair? +For my true love has me forsook, +And says he'll never loe me mair. + +Now Arthur-Seat sall be my bed, +The sheets shall neir be prest 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 cum? +For of my life I am wearye. + +'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, +Nor blawing snaws inclemencye; +'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, +But my love's heart grown cauld to me. +Whan we came in by Glasgow town, +We were a comely sight to see; +My love was clad in black velvet, +And I myself in cramasye. + +But had I wist, before I kist, +That love had been sae ill to win, +I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, +And pinnd it with a siller pin. +And, oh! that my young babe were born, +And set upon the nurse's knee, +And I myself were dead and gane! +And the green grass growing over me. + + + + + +The Nut-brown Maid + + + +Be it right, or wrong, these men among +On women do complain; +Affirming this, how that it is +A labour spent in vain +To love them wele; for never a dele +They love a man again: +For let a man do what he can, +Their favour to attain, +Yet, if a new do them pursue, +Their first true lover then +Laboureth for nought; for from her thought +He is a banished man. + +I say not nay, but that all day +It is both writ and said +That woman's faith is, as who saith, +All utterly decayed; +But, nevertheless, right good witness +In this case might be laid, +That they love true, and continue, +Record the Nut-brown Maid: +Which, when her love came, her to prove, +To her to make his moan, +Would not depart; for in her heart +She loved but him alone. + +Then between us let us discuss +What was all the manere +Between them two: we will also +Tell all the pain, and fere, +That she was in. Now I begin, +So that ye me answere; +Wherefore, all ye, that present be +I pray you, give an ear. +I am the knight; I come by night, +As secret as I can; +Saying,' Alas! thus standeth the case, + I am a banished man.' + + +SHE + +And I your will for to fulfil +In this will not refuse; +Trusting to shew, in wordes few, +That men have an ill use +(To their own shame) women to blame, +And causeless them accuse: +Therefore to you I answer now, +All women to excuse,-- +Mine own heart dear, with you what chere? +I pray you, tell anone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +It standeth so; a dede is do +Whereof great harm shall grow +My destiny is for to die +A shameful death, I trowe; +Or else to flee: the one must be. +None other way I know, +But to withdraw as an outlaw, +And take me to my bow. +Wherefore, adieu, my own heart true! +None other rede I can: +For I must to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +O Lord, what is this worldys bliss, +That changeth as the moon! +My summer's day in lusty May +Is darked before the noon. +I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay, +We depart not so soon. +Why say ye so? wheder will ye go? +Alas! what have ye done? +All my welfare to sorrow and care +Should change, if ye were gone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +I can believe, it shall you grieve, +And somewhat you distrain; +But, afterward, your paines hard +Within a day or twain +Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take +Comfort to you again. +Why should ye ought? for, to make thought +Your labour were in vain. +And thus I do; and pray you to, +As heartily as I can; +For I must to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Now, sith that ye have shewed to me +The secret of your mind, +I shall be plain to you again, +Like as ye shall me find. +Sith it is so, that ye will go, +I wolle not leave behind; +Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid +Was to her love unkind: +Make you ready, for so am I, +Although it were anone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Yet I you rede to take good heed +What men will think and say: +Of young and old it shall be told, +That ye be gone away, +Your wanton will for to fulfil, +In green wood you to play; +And that ye might from your delight +No longer make delay. +Rather than ye should thus for me +Be called an ill woman, +Yet would I to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Though it be sung of old and young, +That I should be to blame, +Theirs be the charge, that speak so large +In hurting of my name: +For I will prove, that, faithful love +It is devoid of shame; +In your distress, and heaviness, +To part with you, the same: +And sure all tho, that do not so, +True lovers are they none; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +I counsel you, remember how, +It is no maiden's law, +Nothing to doubt, but to renne out +To wood with an outlaw: +For ye must there in your hand bear +A bow, ready to draw; +And, as a thief, thus must you live, +Ever in dread and awe; +Whereby to you great harm might grow: +Yet had I lever than, +That I had to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +I think not nay, but as ye say, +It is no maiden's lore; +But love may make me for your sake, +As I have said before, +To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot +To get us meat in store; +For so that I your company +May have, I ask no more: +From which to part, it maketh my heart +As cold as any stone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +For an outlaw this is the law, +That men him take and bind; +Without pity, hanged to be, +And waver with the wind. +If I had nede, (as God forbede!) +What rescue could ye find? +Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow +For fear would draw behind: +And no mervayle: for little avail +Were in your counsel then: +Wherefore I will to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Right well know ye, that women be +But feeble for to fight; +No womanhede it is indeed +To be bold as a knight: +Yet, in such fear if that ye were +With enemies day or night, +I would withstand, with bow in hand, +To greve them as I might, +And you to save; as women have +From death men many a one: +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Yet take good hede; for ever I drede +That ye could not sustain +The thorny ways, the deep valleys, +The snow, the frost, the rain, +The cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, +We must lodge on the plain; +And, us above, none other roof +But a brake bush, or twain; +Which soon should grieve you, I believe, +And ye would gladly then +That I had to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Sith I have here been partynere +With you of joy and bliss, +I must als part of your woe +Endure, as reason is: +Yet am I sure of one pleasure; +And, shortly, it is this: +That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde, +I could not fare amiss. +Without more speech, I you beseech +That we were soon agone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +If ye go thyder, ye must consider, +When ye have lust to dine, +There shall no meat be for you gete, +Nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine. +No shetes clean, to lie between, +Made of thread and twine; +None other house, but leaves and boughs, +To cover your head and mine; +O mine heart sweet, this evil diete +Should make you pale and wan; +Wherefore I will to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Among the wild dere, such an archere, +As men say that ye be, +Ne may not fail of good vitayle, +Where is so great plenty: +And water clear of the ryvere +Shall be full sweet to me; +With which in hele I shall right wele +Endure, as ye shall see; +And, or we go, a bed or two +I can provide anone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Lo! yet, before, ye must do more, +If ye will go with me: +As cut your hair up by your ear, +Your kirtle by the knee; +With bow in hand, for to withstand +Your enemies, if need be: +And this same night before day-light, +To wood-ward will I flee. +If that ye will all this fulfil, +Do it shortly as ye can +Else will I to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +I shall as now do more for you +Than 'longeth to womanhede; +To shorte my hair, a bow to bear, +To shoot in time of need. +O my sweet mother, before all other +For you I have most drede: +But now, adieu! I must ensue, +Where fortune doth me lead. +All this make ye: Now let us flee; +The day cometh fast upon; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, +And I shall tell ye why,-- +Your appetite is to be light +Of love, I wele espy: +For, like as ye have said to me, +In like wise hardely +Ye would answere whosoever it were +In way of company. +It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold +And so is a woman. +Wherefore I to the wood will go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +If ye take heed, it is no need +Such words to say by me; +For oft ye prayed, and long assayed, +Or I you loved, parde: +And though that I of ancestry +A baron's daughter be, +Yet have you proved how I you loved +A squire of low degree; +And ever shall, whatso befall; +To die therefore anone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +A baron's child to be beguiled! +It were a cursed dede; +To be felawe with an outlawe! +Almighty God forbede! +Yet better were, the poor squyere +Alone to forest yede, +Than ye should say another day, +That, by my cursed dede, +Ye were betrayed: Wherefore, good maid, +The best rede that I can, +Is, that I to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Whatever befall, I never shall +Of this thing you upbraid: +But if ye go, and leave me so, +Then have ye me betrayed. +Remember you wele, how that ye dele; +For, if ye, as ye said, +Be so unkind, to leave behind, +Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, +Trust me truly, that I shall die +Soon after ye be gone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +If that ye went, ye should repent; +For in the forest now +I have purvayed me of a maid, +Whom I love more than you; +Another fayrere, than ever ye were, +I dare it wele avow; +And of you both each should be wroth +With other, as I trow: +It were mine ease, to live in peace; +So will I, if I can; +Wherefore I to the wood will go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Though in the wood I understood +Ye had a paramour, +All this may nought remove my thought, +But that I will be your: +And she shall find me soft and kind, +And courteys every hour; +Glad to fulfil all that she will +Command me to my power: +For had ye, lo! an hundred mo, +Of them I would be one; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Mine own dear love, I see the proof +That ye be kind and true; +Of maid, and wife, in all my life, +The best that ever I knew. +Be merry and glad, be no more sad, +The case is changed new; +For it were ruth, that, for your truth, +Ye should have cause to rue. +Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said +To you, when I began; +I will not to the green wood go, +I am no banished man. + + +SHE + +These tidings be more glad to me, +Than to be made a queen, +If I were sure they should endure: +But it is often seen, +When men will break promise, they speak +The wordes on the splene. +Ye shape some wile me to beguile, +And steal from me, I ween: +Then, were the case worse than it was, +And I more wo-begone: +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Ye shall not nede further to drede; +I will not disparage +You, (God defend!) sith ye descend +Of so great a lineage. +Now understand; to Westmoreland, +Which is mine heritage, +I will you bring; and with a ring, +By way of marriage +I will you take, and lady make, +As shortly as I can: +Thus have you won an erly's son, +And not a banished man. + + +AUTHOR + +Here may ye see, that women be +In love, meek, kind, and stable; +Let never man reprove them then, +Or call them variable; +But, rather, pray God that we may +To them be comfortable; +Which sometime proveth such, as he loveth, +If they be charitable. +For sith men would that women should +Be meek to them each one; +Much more ought they to God obey, +And serve but Him alone. + + + + + +The Fause Lover + + + +A fair maid sat in her bower door, +Wringing her lily hands; +And by it came a sprightly youth, +Fast tripping o'er the strands. + +"Where gang ye, young John," she says, +"Sae early in the day? +It gars me think, by your fast trip, +Your journey's far away." + +He turn'd about wi' surly look, +And said, "What's that to thee? +I'm ga'en to see a lovely maid, +Mair fairer far than ye." + +"Now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, +In simmer, 'mid the flowers? +I shall repay ye back again, +In winter, 'mid the showers." + +"But again, dear love, and again, dear love, +Will ye not turn again? +For as ye look to ither women, +I shall do to other men." + +"Make your choice o' whom you please, +For I my choice will have; +I've chosen a maid more fair than thee, +I never will deceive." + +But she's kilt up her claithing fine, +And after him gaed she; +But aye he said, "Ye'll turn again, +Nae farder gae wi' me." + +"But again, dear love, and again, dear love, +Will ye never love me again? +Alas! for loving you sae well, +And you na me again." + +The firstan' town that they came till, +He bought her brooch and ring; +But aye he bade her turn again, +And gang nae farder wi' him. + +"But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + +The nextan' town that they came till, +He bought her muff and gloves; +But aye he bade her turn again, +And choose some other loves. + +"But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + +The nextan' town that they came till, +His heart it grew mair fain; +And he was deep in love wi' her. +As she was ower again. + +The nextan' town that they came till, +He bought her wedding gown; +And made her lady o' ha's and bowers, +In sweet Berwick town. + + + + + +The Mermaid + + + +To yon fause stream that, near the sea, +Hides mony an elf and plum, +And rives wi' fearful din the stanes, +A witless knicht did come. + +The day shines clear--far in he's gane +Whar shells are silver bright, +Fishes war loupin' a' aroun', +And sparklin' to the light. + +Whan, as he laved, sounds cam sae sweet +Frae ilka rock an' tree; +The brief was out, 'twas him it doomed +The mermaid's face to see. + +Frae 'neath a rock, sune, sune she rose, +And stately on she swam, +Stopped i' the midst, and becked and sang +To him to stretch his han'. + +Gowden glist the yellow links +That round her neck she'd twine; +Her een war o' the skyie blue, +Her lips did mock the wine; + +The smile upon her bonnie cheek +Was sweeter than the bee; +Her voice excelled the birdie's sang +Upon the birchen tree. + +Sae couthie, couthie did she look, +And meikle had she fleeched; +Out shot his hand--alas! alas! +Fast in the swirl he screeched. + +The mermaid leuch, her brief was gane, +And kelpie's blast was blawin', +Fu' low she duked, ne'er raise again, +For deep, deep was the fawin'. + +Aboon the stream his wraith was seen, +Warlochs tirled lang at gloamin'; +That e'en was coarse, the blast blew hoarse, +Ere lang the waves war foamin'. + + + + + +The Battle of Otterburn + + + +THE FIRST FYTTE + + +It fell about the Lammas tide, +When husbands winn their hay, +The doughty Douglas bound him to ride +Into England to take a prey. + +The Earl of Fife, withouten strife, +He bound him over Solway; +The great would ever together ride +That race they may rue for aye. + +Over Ottercap hill they came in, +And so down by Rotheley crag, +Upon Green Leighton they lighted down, +Styrande many a stag; + +And boldly brente Northumberland, +And harried many a town; +They did our Englishmen great wrong +To battle that were not bown. + +Then spake a berne upon the bent, +Of comfort that was not cold, +And said, "We have brente Northumberland, +We have all wealth in holde. + +"Now we have harried all Bamborough shire +All the wealth in the world have we; +I rede we ride to Newcastle, +So still and stalworthlye." + +Upon the morrow, when it was day, +The standards shone full bright; +To the Newcastle they took the way, +And thither they came full right. + +Sir Henry Percy lay at the Newcastle, +I tell you, withouten dread; +He has been a March-man all his days, +And kept Berwick upon Tweed. + +To the Newcastle when they came, +The Scots they cried on hyght: +"Sir Harry Percy, an thou bist within, +Come to the field and fight: + +"For we have brente Northumberland, +Thy heritage good and right; +And syne my lodging I have take, +With my brand dubbed many a knight." + +Sir Harry Percy came to the walls, +The Scottish host for to see: +"And thou hast brente Northumberland, +Full sore it rueth me. + +"If thou hast harried all Bamborough shire, +Thou hast done me great envy; +For the trespass thou hast me done, +The one of us shall die." + +"Where shall I bide thee?" said the Douglas; +"Or where wilt thou come to me?" +"At Otterburn in the high way, +There mayst thou well lodged be. + +"The roe full reckless there she runs, +To make thee game and glee; +The falcon and the pheasant both, +Among the holtes on hee. + +"There mayst thou have thy wealth at will, +Well lodged there mayst thou be; +It shall not be long ere I come thee till," +Said Sir Harry Percye. + +"There shall I bide thee," said the Douglas, +"By the faith of my body." +"Thither shall I come," said Sir Harry Percy, +"My troth I plight to thee." + +A pipe of wine he gave them over the walls, +For sooth, as I you say; +There he made the Douglas drink, +And all his host that day. + +The Douglas turned him homeward again, +For sooth withouten nay; +He took his lodging at Otterburn +Upon a Wednesday; + +And there he pyght his standard down. +His getting more and less; +And syne he warned his men to go +And get their geldings gress. + +A Scottish knight hoved upon the bent, +A watch I dare well say; +So was he ware on the noble Percy +In the dawning of the day. + +He pricked to his pavilion door, +As fast as he might ronne; +"Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, +"For His love that sits in throne. + +"Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, +"For thou mayst waken with wynne; +Yonder have I spied the proud Percy, +And seven standards with him." + +"Nay, by my troth," the Douglas said, +"It is but a feigned tale; +He durst not look on my broad banner, +For all England so hayle. + +"Was I not yesterday at the Newcastle, +That stands so fair on Tyne? +For all the men the Percy had, +He could not garre me once to dyne." + +He stepped out at his pavilion door, +To look, and it were less; +"Array you, lordyngs, one and all, +For here begins no peace. + +"The Earl of Menteith, thou art my eme, +The forward I give to thee; +The Earl of Huntley cawte and keen, +He shall with thee be. + +"The Lord of Buchan, in armour bright, +On the other hand he shall be; +Lord Johnstone, and Lord Maxwell, +They two shall be with me. + +"Swynton fair field upon your pride +To battle make you bowen; +Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, +Sir John of Agerstone." + + + +THE SECOND FYTTE + + +The Percy came before his host, +Which ever was a gentle knight, +Upon the Douglas loud did he cry, + "I will hold that I have hight; + +"For thou hast brente Northumberland, +And done me great envy; +For this trespass thou hast me done +The one of us shall die." + +The Douglas answered him again, +With great words up on hee, +And said, "I have twenty against thy one, +Behold, and thou mayst see." + +With that the Percy was grieved sore, +For sooth as I you say; +He lighted down upon his foot, +And shot his horse clean away. + +Every man saw that he did so, +That ryall was ever in rout; +Every man shot his horse him fro, +And light him round about. + +Thus Sir Harry Percy took the field, +For sooth as I you say, +Jesu Christ in heaven on high, +Did help him well that day. + +But nine thousand, there was no more, +If chronicle will not layne; +Forty thousand Scots and four +That day fought them again, + +But when the battle began to join, +In haste there came a knight, +Then letters fair forth hath he ta'en, +And thus he said full right: + +"My lord, your father he greets you well, +With many a noble knight; +He desires you to bide, +That he may see this fight. + +"The baron of Grastock is come out of the west, +With him a noble company; +All they lodge at your father's this night, +And the battle fain would they see." + +"For Jesu's love," said Sir Harry Percy, +"That died for you and me, +Wend to my lord, my father, again, +And say thou saw me not with ee; + +"My troth is plight to yon Scottish knight, +It needs me not to layne, +That I should bide him upon this bent, +And I have his troth again; + +"And if that I wend off this ground, +For sooth unfoughten away, +He would me call but a coward knight, +In his land another day. + +"Yet had I lever to be rynde and rent, +By Mary that mykel may, +Than ever my manhood should be reproved +With a Scot another day. + +"Wherefore shoot, archers, for my sake, +And let sharp arrows flee; +Minstrels, play up for your warison, +And well quit it shall be. + +"Every man think on his true love, +And mark him to the Trinity; +For to God I make mine a-vow +This day will I not flee." + +The bloody heart in the Douglas' arms, +His standard stood on high, +That every man might full well know; +Beside stood starres three. + +The white Li n on the English part, +For sooth as I you sayne, +The luces and the crescents both +The Scots fought them again. + +Upon Saint Andrew loud did they cry, +And thrice they shout on hyght, +And syne marked them on our Englishmen, +As I have told you right. + +Saint George the bright, our Lady's knight, +To name they were full fain, +Our Englishmen they cried on hyght, +And thrice they shout again. + +With that sharp arrows began to flee, +I tell you in certain; +Men of arms began to join; +Many a doughty man was there slain. + +The Percy and the Douglas met, +That either of them was fain; +They schapped together, while that they sweat, +With swords of fine Collayne; + +Till the blood from their basenets ran +As the roke doth in the rain. +"Yield thee to me," said the Douglas, +"Or else thou shalt be slain; + +"For I see by thy bright basenet, +Thou art some man of might; +And so I do by thy burnished brand, +Thou art an earl, or else a knight." + +"By my good faith," said the noble Percy, +"Now hast thou rede full right; +Yet will I never yield me to thee, +While I may stand and fight." + +They swapped together, while that they sweat, +With swordes sharp and long; +Each on other so fast they beat, +Till their helms came in pieces down. + +The Percy was a man of strength, +I tell you in this stound +He smote the Douglas at the sword's length, +That he felled him to the ground. + +The sword was sharp, and sore did byte, +I tell you in certain; +To the heart he did him smite, +Thus was the Douglas slain. + +The standards stood still on each side; +With many a grievous groan, +There they fought the day, and all the night, +And many a doughty man was slone. + +There was no freyke that there would fly, +But stiffly in stour did stand, +Echone hewing on other while they might dry, +With many a baleful brand. + +There was slain upon the Scottes side, +For sooth and certainly, +Sir James of Douglas there was slain, +That day that he did die. + +The Earl of Menteith he was slain. +Grysely groaned upon the ground; +Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, +Sir John of Agerstone. + +Sir Charles Murray in that place, +That never a foot would fly; +Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was, +With the Douglas did he die. + +There was slain upon the Scottes side, +For sooth as I you say, +Of four and forty thousand Scots, +Went but eighteen away. + +There was slain upon the English side, +For sooth and certainly, +A gentle knight, Sir John Fitzhugh, +It was the more pity. + +Sir James Harebotell there was slain, +For him their hearts were sore +The gentle Lovel there was slain, +That the Percy's standard bore. + +There was slain upon the English side, +For sooth as I you say, +Of nine thousand Englishmen, +Five hundred came away; + +The others were slayne in the field, +Christ keep their souls from woe, +Seeing there were so few friends +Against so many a foe! + +Then on the morn they made them biers +Of birch and hazel gray; +Many a widow with weeping tears +Their makes they fetch away. + +This fray began at Otterburn, +Between the night and the day; +There the Douglas lost his life, +And the Percy was led away. + +Then was there a Scottish prisoner ta'en, +Sir Hugh Montgomery was his name, +For sooth as I you say, +He borrowed the Percy home again. + +Now let us all for the Percy pray, +To Jesu most of might, +To bring his soul to the bliss of heaven, +For he was a gentle knight. + + + + + +The Lament of the Border Widow + + + +My love he built me a bonny bower, +And clad it a' wi' a lilye flower, +A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, +Than my true love he built for me. + +There came a man, by middle day, +He spied his sport and went away, +And brought the king that very night, +Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. + +He slew my knight, to me so dear; +He slew my knight, and poined his gear; +My servants all for life did flee, +And left me in extremitie. + +I sewed his sheet, making my mane; +I watched the corpse, myself alane; +I watched his body, night and day; +No living creature came that way. + +I took his body on my back, +And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat, +I digged a grave, and laid him in, +And happed him with the sod so green. + +But think na ye my heart was sair, +When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair; +Think na ye my heart was wae, +When I turned about, away to gae? + +Nae living man I'll love again, +Since that my lovely knight is slain; +W? ae lock of his yellow hair +I'll chain my heart for evermair. + + + + + +The Banks o' Yarrow + + + +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. + +"What though ye be my sister's lord, +We'll cross our swords to-morrow." +"What though my wife your sister be, +I'll meet ye then on Yarrow." + +"O stay at hame, my ain gude lord! +O stay, my ain dear marrow! +My cruel brither will you betray +On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + +"O fare ye weel, my lady dear! +And put aside your sorrow; +For if I gae, I'll sune return +Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + +She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, +As oft she'd done before, O; +She belted him wi' his gude brand, +And he's awa' to Yarrow. + +When he gaed up the Tennies bank, +As he gaed mony a morrow, +Nine armed men lay in a den, +On the dowie braes o' Yarrow. + +"O come ye here to hunt or hawk +The bonny Forest thorough? +Or come ye here to wield your brand +Upon the banks o' Yarrow?" + +"I come not here to hunt or hawk, +As oft I've dune before, O, +But I come here to wield my brand +Upon the banks o' Yarrow. + +"If ye attack me nine to ane, +Then may God send ye sorrow!-- +Yet will I fight while stand I may, +On the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + +Two has he hurt, and three has slain, +On the bloody braes o' Yarrow; +But the stubborn knight crept in behind, +And pierced his body thorough. + +"Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John, +And tell your sister sorrow,-- +To come and lift her leafu' lord +On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + +Her brither John gaed ower yon hill, +As oft he'd dune before, O; +There he met his sister dear, +Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow. + +"I dreamt a dream last night," she says, +"I wish it binna sorrow; +I dreamt I pu'd the heather green +Wi' my true love on Yarrow." + +"I'll read your dream, sister," he says, +"I'll read it into sorrow; +Ye're bidden go take up your love, +He's sleeping sound on Yarrow." + +She's torn the ribbons frae her head +That were baith braid and narrow; +She's kilted up her lang claithing, +And she's awa' to Yarrow. + +She's ta'en him in her arms twa, +And gi'en him kisses thorough; +She sought to bind his mony wounds, +But he lay dead on Yarrow. + +"O haud your tongue," her father says, +"And let be a' your sorrow; +I'll wed you to a better lord +Than him ye lost on Yarrow." + +"O haud your tongue, father," she says, +"Far warse ye mak' my sorrow; +A better lord could never be +Than him that lies on Yarrow." + +She kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair, +As aft she had dune before, O; +And there wi' grief her heart did break, +Upon the banks o' Yarrow. + + + + + +Hugh of Lincoln + + + +SHOWING THE CRUELTY OF A JEW'S DAUGHTER + + +Four and twenty bonny boys +Were playing at the ba', +And up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh, +The flower among them a'. + +He kicked the ba' there wi' his foot, +And keppit it wi' his knee, +Till even in at the Jew's window +He gart the bonny ba' flee. + +"Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, +Cast out the ba' to me." +"Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter, +Till ye come up to me." + +"Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, +Come up and get the ba'." +"I winna come, I mayna come, +Without my bonny boys a'." + +She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden, +Where the grass grew lang and green, +She's pu'd an apple red and white, +To wyle the bonny boy in. + +She's wyled him in through ae chamber, +She's wyled him in through twa, +She's wyled him into the third chamber, +And that was the warst o' a'. + +She's tied the little boy, hands and feet, +She's pierced him wi' a knife, +She's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup, +And twinn'd him o' his life. + +She row'd him in a cake o' lead, +Bade him lie still and sleep, +She cast him in a deep draw-well +Was fifty fathom deep. + +When bells were rung, and mass was sung, +And every bairn went hame, +Then ilka lady had her young son, +But Lady Helen had nane. + +She row'd her mantle her about, +And sair, sair 'gan she weep; +And she ran unto the Jew's house, +When they were all asleep. + +"My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh, +I pray thee to me speak!" +"Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-well +'Gin ye your son wad seek." + +Lady Helen ran to the deep draw-well, +And knelt upon her knee: +"My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here, +I pray thee speak to me!" + +"The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, +The well is wondrous deep; +A keen penknife sticks in my heart, +It is hard for me to speak. + +"Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, +Fetch me my winding-sheet; +And at the back o' merry Lincoln, +It's there we twa sall meet." + +Now Lady Helen she's gane hame, +Made him a winding-sheet; +And at the back o' merry Lincoln, +The dead corpse did her meet. + +And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln +Without men's hands were rung; +And a' the books o' merry Lincoln +Were read without men's tongue: +Never was such a burial +Sin' Adam's days begun. + + + + + +Sir Patrick Spens + + + +The king sits in Dunfermline town, +Drinking the blude-red wine; +"O whare will I get a skeely skipper, +To sail this new ship of mine?" + +O up and spak' an eldern knight, +Sat at the king's right knee, +"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, +That ever sailed the sea." + +Our king has written a braid letter, +And seated 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 of Noroway +'Tis thou maun bring her hame." + +The first word that Sir Patrick read, +Sae loud loud laughed he; +The neist word that Sir Patrick read, +The tear blinded his ee. + +"O wha is this has done this deed, +And tauld the king o' me, +To send us out at this time of the 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 of Noroway, +'Tis we must fetch her hame." + +They hoysed their sails an Moneday morn, +Wi' a' the speed they may; +They hae landed in Noroway, +Upon a Wednesday. + +They hadna been a week, a week, +In Noroway, but twae, +When that the lords o' Noroway +Began aloud to say: + +"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, +And a' our queen's fee." +"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! +Fu' loud I hear ye lie; + +"For I brought as much white monie, +As gane my men and me, +And I brought a half-fou of gude red goud, +Out o'er the sea wi' me. + +"Make ready, make ready, my merry men a', +Our gude ship sails the morn." +"Now, ever alake, my master dear, +I fear a deadly storm! + +"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, +Wi' the old moon in her arm; +And, if we gang to sea, master, +I fear we'll come to harm." + +They hadna sailed a league, a league, +A league but barely three, +When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud +And gurly grew the sea. + +The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, +It was sic a deadly storm; +And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, +Till a' her sides were torn. + +"O where will I get a gude sail r, +To take my helm in hand, +Till I get up to the tall top-mast, +To see if I can spy land?" + +"O here am I, a sailor gude, +To take the helm in hand, +Till you go up to the tall top-mast; +But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." + +He hadna gane a step, a step, +A step but barely ane, +When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, +And the salt sea it cam in. + +"Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith, +Another o' the twine, +And wap them into our ship's side, +And let nae the sea come in." + +They fetched a web o' the silken claith, +Another o' the twine, +And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, +But still the sea cam in. + +O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords +To weet their cork-heeled shoon! +But lang or a' the play was played, +They wat their hats aboon. + +And mony was the feather bed, +That flattered on the faem; +And mony was the gude lord's son, +That never mair cam hame. + +The ladies wrang their fingers white, +The maidens tore their hair, +A' for the sake of their true loves +For them they'll see nae mair. + +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, +With their goud kaims in their hair +A' waiting for their ain dear loves, +For them they'll see nae mair! + +O forty miles off Aberdeen, +'Tis fifty fathoms deep, +And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens +Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Old English Ballads +by George Wharton Edwards + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + +This file should be named 9boeb10.txt or 9boeb10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 9boeb11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 9boeb10a.txt + +Produced by John B. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Book of Old English Ballads + +Author: George Wharton Edwards + +Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9405] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 29, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by John B. Hare + + + + +A BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS + +with an + +Accompaniment of Decorative Drawings + + + +by + + +George Wharton Edwards + + + +And an Introduction by + +Hamilton W. Mabie + + + + +[1896] + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +Introduction + +Chevy Chace + +King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid + +King Leir and his Three Daughters + +Fair Rosamond + +Phillida and Corydon + +Fair Margaret and Sweet William + +Annan Water + +The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington + +Barbara Allen's Cruelty + +The Douglas Tragedy + +Young Waters + +Flodden Field + +Helen of Kirkconnell + +Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale + +Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne + +Robin Hood's Death and Burial + +The Twa Corbies + +Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny + +The Nut-brown Maid + +The Fause Lover + +The Mermaid + +The Battle of Otterburn + +The Lament of the Border Widow + +The Banks o' Yarrow + +Hugh of Lincoln + +Sir Patrick Spens + + + + + +Introduction + + + +Goethe, who saw so many things with such clearness of vision, +brought out the charm of the popular ballad for readers of a later +day in his remark that the value of these songs of the people is to +be found in the fact that their motives are drawn directly from +nature; and he added, that in the art of saying things compactly, +uneducated men have greater skill than those who are educated. It is +certainly true that no kind of verse is so completely out of the +atmosphere of modern writing as the popular ballad. No other form of +verse has, therefore, in so great a degree, the charm of freshness. +In material, treatment, and spirit, these bat lads are set in sharp +contrast with the poetry of the hour. They deal with historical +events or incidents, with local traditions, with personal adventure +or achievement. They are, almost without exception, entirely +objective. Contemporary poetry is, on the other hand, very largely +subjective; and even when it deals with events or incidents it +invests them to such a degree with personal emotion and imagination, +it so modifies and colours them with temperamental effects, that the +resulting poem is much more a study of subjective conditions than a +picture or drama of objective realities. This projection of the +inward upon the outward world, in such a degree that the dividing +line between the two is lost, is strikingly illustrated in +Maeterlinck's plays. Nothing could be in sharper contrast, for +instance, than the famous ballad of "The Hunting of the Cheviot" and +Maeterlinck's "Princess Maleine." There is no atmosphere, in a +strict use of the word, in the spirited and compact account of the +famous contention between the Percies and the Douglases, of which +Sir Philip Sidney said "that I found not my heart moved more than +with a Trumpet." It is a breathless, rushing narrative of a swift +succession of events, told with the most straight-forward +simplicity. In the "Princess Maleine," on the other hand, the +narrative is so charged with subjective feeling, the world in which +the action takes place is so deeply tinged with lights that never +rested on any actual landscape, that all sense of reality is lost. +The play depends for its effect mainly upon atmosphere. Certain +very definite impressions are produced with singular power, but +there is no clear, clean stamping of occurrences on the mind. The +imagination is skilfully awakened and made to do the work of +observation. + +The note of the popular ballad is its objectivity; it not only takes +us out of doors, but it also takes us out of the individual +consciousness. The manner is entirely subordinated to the matter; the +poet, if there was a poet in the case, obliterates himself. What we +get is a definite report of events which have taken place, not a +study of a man's mind nor an account of a man's feelings. The true +balladist is never introspective; he is concerned not with himself +but with his story. There is no self-disclosure in his song. To the +mood of Senancour and Amiel he was a stranger. Neither he nor the +men to whom he recited or sang would have understood that mood. +They were primarily and unreflectively absorbed in the world outside +of themselves. They saw far more than they meditated; they recorded +far more than they moralized. The popular ballads are, as a rule, +entirely free from didacticism in any form; that is one of the main +sources of their unfailing charm. They show not only a childlike +curiosity about the doings of the day and the things that befall +men, but a childlike indifference to moral inference and +justification. The bloodier the fray the better for ballad +purposes; no one feels the necessity of apology either for ruthless +aggression or for useless blood-letting; the scene is reported as it +was presented to the eye of the spectator, not to his moralizing +faculty. He is expected to see and to sing, not to scrutinize and +meditate. In those rare cases in which a moral inference is drawn, +it is always so obvious and elementary that it gives the impression +of having been fastened on at the end of the song, in deference to +ecclesiastical rather than popular feeling. + +The social and intellectual conditions which fostered self- +unconsciousness,--interest in things, incidents, and adventures +rather than in moods and inward experiences,--and the unmoral or non +moralizing attitude towards events, fostered also that delightful +naivete which contributes greatly to the charm of many of the best +ballads; a naivete which often heightens the pathos, and, at times, +softens it with touches of apparently unconscious humour; the naivete +of the child which has in it something of the freshness of a +wildflower, and yet has also a wonderful instinct for making the +heart of the matter plain. This quality has almost entirely +disappeared from contemporary verse among cultivated races; one must +go to the peasants of remote parts of the Continent to discover even +a trace of its presence. It has a real, but short-lived charm, like +the freshness which shines on meadow and garden in the brief dawn +which hastens on to day. + +This frank, direct play of thought and feeling on an incident, or +series of incidents, compensates for the absence of a more perfect +art in the ballads; using the word "art" in its true sense as +including complete, adequate, and beautiful handling of subject- +matter, and masterly working out of its possibilities. These +popular songs, so dear to the hearts of the generations on whose +lips they were fashioned, and to all who care for the fresh note, +the direct word, the unrestrained emotion, rarely touch the highest +points of poetic achievement. Their charm lies, not in their +perfection of form, but in their spontaneity, sincerity, and graphic +power. They are not rivers of song, wide, deep, and swift; they are +rather cool, clear springs among the hills. In the reactions +against sophisticated poetry which set in from lime to time, the +popular ballad--the true folk-song--has often been exalted at the +expense of other forms of verse. It is idle to attempt to arrange +the various forms of poetry in an order of absolute values; it is +enough that each has its own quality, and, therefore, its own value. +The drama, the epic, the ballad, the lyric, each strikes its note in +the complete expression of human emotion and experience. Each +belongs to a particular stage of development, and each has the +authority and the enduring charm which attach to every authentic +utterance of the spirit of man under the conditions of life. + +In this wide range of human expression the ballad follows the epic +as a kind of aftermath; a second and scattered harvest, springing +without regularity or nurture out of a rich and unexhausted soil. The +epic fastens upon some event of such commanding importance that it +marks a main current of history; some story, historic, or mythologic; +some incident susceptible of extended narrative treatment. It is +always, in its popular form, a matter of growth it is direct, simple, +free from didacticism; representing, as Aristotle says, "a single +action, entire and complete." It subordinates character to action; it +delights in episode and dialogue; it is content to tell the story as +a story, and leave the moralization to hearers or readers. The +popular ballad is so closely related to the popular epic that it may +be said to reproduce its qualities and characteristics within a +narrower compass, and on a smaller scale. It also is a piece of the +memory of the people, or a creation of the imagination of the people; +but the tradition or fact which it preserves is of local, rather +than national importance. It is indifferent to nice distinctions and +delicate gradations or shadings; its power springs from its +directness, vigour, and simplicity. It is often entirely occupied +with the narration or description of a single episode; it has no room +for dialogue, but it often secures the effect of the dialogue by its +unconventional freedom of phrase, and sometimes by the introduction +of brief and compact charge and denial, question and reply. Sometimes +the incidents upon which the ballad makers fastened, have a unity or +connection with each other which hints at a complete story. The +ballads which deal with Robin Hood are so numerous and so closely +related that they constantly suggest, not only the possibility, but +the probability of epic treatment. It is surprising that the richness +of the material, and its notable illustrative quality, did not +inspire some earlier Chaucer to combine the incidents in a sustained +narrative. But the epic poet did not appear, and the most +representative of English popular heroes remains the central figure +in a series of detached episodes and adventures, preserved in a long +line of disconnected ballads. + +This apparent arrest, in the ballad stage, of a story which seemed +destined to become an epic, naturally suggests the vexed question of +the author ship of the popular ballads. They are in a very real sense +the songs of the people; they make no claim to individual authorship; +on the contrary, the inference of what may be called community +authorship is, in many instances, irresistible. They are the product +of a social condition which, so to speak, holds song of this kind in +solution; of an age in which improvisation, singing, and dancing are +the most natural and familiar forms of expression. They deal almost +without exception with matters which belong to the community memory +or imagination; they constantly reappear with variations so +noticeable as to indicate free and common handling of themes of wide +local interest. All this is true of the popular ballad; but all this +does not decisively settle the question of authorship. What share did +the community have in the making of these songs, and what share fell +to individual singers? + +Herder, whose conception of the origin and function of literature +was so vitalizing in the general aridity of thinking about the +middle of the last century, and who did even more for ballad verse +in Germany than Bishop Percy did in England, laid emphasis almost +exclusively on community authorship. His profound instinct for +reality in all forms of art, his deep feeling for life, and the +immense importance he attached to spontaneity and unconsciousness in +the truest productivity made community authorship not only +attractive but inevitable to him. In his pronounced reaction +against the superficial ideas of literature so widely held in the +Germany of his time, he espoused the conception of community +authorship as the only possible explanation of the epics, ballads, +and other folk-songs. In nature and popular life, or universal +experience, he found the rich sources of the poetry whose charm he +felt so deeply, and whose power and beauty he did so much to reveal +to his contemporaries. Genius and nature are magical words with him, +because they suggested such depths of being under all forms of +expression; such unity of the whole being of a race in its thought, +its emotion, and its action; such entire unconsciousness of self or +of formulated aim, and such spontaneity of spirit and speech. The +language of those times, when words had not yet been divided into +nobles, middle-class, and plebeians, was, he said, the richest for +poetical purposes. "Our tongue, compared with the idiom of the +savage, seems adapted rather for reflection than for the senses or +imagination. The rhythm of popular verse is so delicate, so rapid, +so precise, that it is no easy matter to defect it with our eyes; +but do not imagine it to have been equally difficult for those +living populations who listened to, instead of reading it; who were +accustomed to the sound of it from their infancy; who themselves +sang it, and whose ear had been formed by its cadence." This +conception of poetry as arising in the hearts of the people and +taking form on their lips is still more definitely and strikingly +expressed in two sentences, which let us into, the heart of Herder's +philosophy of poetry: "Poetry in those happy days lived in the ears +of the people, on the lips and in the harps of living bards; it sang +of history, of the events of the day, of mysteries, miracles, and +signs. It was the flower of a nation's character, language, and +country; of its occupations, its prejudices, its passions, its +aspirations, and its soul." In these words, at once comprehensive +and vague, after the manner of Herder, we find ourselves face to +face with that conception not only of popular song in all its forms, +but with literature as a whole, which has revolutionized literary +study in this century, and revitalized it as well. For Herder was a +man of prophetic instinct; he sometimes felt more clearly than he saw; +he divined where he could not reach results by analysis. He was often +vague, fragmentary, and inconclusive, like all men of his type; but he +had a genius for getting at the heart of things. His statements often +need qualification, but he is almost always on the tight track. When he +says that the great traditions, in which both the memory and the +imagination of a race were engaged, and which were still living in +the mouths of the people, "of themselves took on poetic form," he is +using language which is too general to convey a definite impression +of method, but he is probably suggesting the deepest truth with +regard to these popular stories. They actually were of community +origin; they actually were common property; they were given a great +variety of forms by a great number of persons; the forms which have +come down to us are very likely the survivors of a kind of in formal +competition, which went on for years at the fireside and at the +festivals of a whole country side. + +Barger, whose "Lenore" is one of the most widely known of modern +ballads, held the same view of the origin of popular song, and was +even more definite in his confession of faith than Herder. He +declared in the most uncompromising terms that all real poetry must +have a popular origin; "can be and must be of the people, for that is +the seal of its perfection." And he comments on the delight with +which he has listened, in village street and home, to unwritten +songs; the poetry which finds its way in quiet rivulets to the +remotest peasant home. In like manner, Helene Vacaresco overheard the +songs of the Roumanian people; hiding in the maize to catch the +reaping songs; listening at spinning parties, at festivals, at death- +beds, at taverns; taking the songs down from the lips of peasant +women, fortune-tellers, gypsies, and all manner of humble folk who +were the custodians of this vagrant community verse. We have passed +so entirely out of the song-making period, and literature has become +to us so exclusively the work of a professional class, that we find +it difficult to imagine the intellectual and social conditions which +fostered improvisation on a great scale, and trained the ear of great +populations to the music of spoken poetry. It is almost impossible +for us to disassociate literature from writing. There is still, +however, a considerable volume of unwritten literature in the world +in the form of stories, songs, proverbs, and pithy phrases; a +literature handed down in large part from earlier times, but still +receiving additions from contemporary men and women. + +This unwritten literature is to be found, it is hardly necessary to +say, almost exclusively among country people remote from towns, and +whose mental attitude and community feeling reproduce, in a way, the +conditions under which the English and Scotch ballads were originally +composed. The Roumanian peasants sing their songs upon every +occasion of domestic or local interest; and sowing and harvesting, +birth, christening, marriage, the burial, these notable events in +the life of the country side are all celebrated by unknown poets; +or, rather, by improvisers who give definite form to sentiments, +phrases, and words which are on many lips. The Russian peasant +tells his stories as they were told to him; those heroic epics whose +life is believed, in some cases, to date back at least a thousand +years. These great popular stories form a kind of sacred +inheritance bequeathed by one generation to another as a possession +of the memory, and are almost entirely unrelated to the written +literature of the country. Miss Hapgood tells a very interesting +story of a government official, stationed on the western shore of +Lake Onega, who became so absorbed in the search for this +literature of the people that he followed singers and reciters from +place to place, eager to learn from their lips the most widely known +of these folk tales. On such an expedition of discovery he found +himself, one stormy night, on an island in the lake. The hut of +refuge was already full of stormbound peasants when he entered. +Having made himself some tea, and spread his blanket in a vacant +place, he fell asleep. He was presently awakened by a murmur of +recurring sounds. Sitting up, he found the group of peasants +hanging on the words of an old man, of kindly face, expressive eyes, +and melodious voice, from whose lips flowed a marvellous song; grave +and gay by turns, monotonous and passionate in succession; but +wonderfully fresh, picturesque, and fascinating. The listener soon +became aware that he was hearing, for the first time, the famous +story of "Sadko, the Merchant of Novgorod." It was like being +present at the birth of a piece of literature! + +The fact that unwritten songs and stories still exist in great +numbers among remote country-folk of our own time, and that additions +are still made to them, help us to understand the probable origin of +our own popular ballads, and what community authorship may really +mean. To put ourselves, even in thought, in touch with the ballad- +making period in English and Scotch history, we must dismiss from our +minds all modern ideas of authorship; all notions of individual +origination and ownership of any form of words. Professor ten Brink +tells us that in the ballad-making age there was no production; +there was only reproduction. There was a stock of traditions, +memories, experiences, held in common by large populations, in +constant use on the lips of numberless persons; told and retold in +many forms, with countless changes, variations, and modifications; +without conscious artistic purpose, with no sense of personal +control or possession, with no constructive aim either in plot or +treatment; no composition in the modern sense of the term. Such a +mass of poetic material in the possession of a large community +was, in a sense, fluid, and ran into a thousand forms almost without +direction or premeditation. Constant use of such rich material gave a +poetic turn of thought and speech to countless persons who, under +other conditions, would have given no sign of the possession of the +faculty of imagination. + +There was not only the stimulus to the faculty which sees events and +occurrences with the eyes of the imagination, but there was also +constant and familiar use of the language of poetry. To speak +metrically or rhythmically is no difficult matter if one is in the +atmosphere or habit of verse-making; and there is nothing surprising +either in the feats of memory or of improvisation performed by the +minstrels and balladists of the old time. The faculty of +improvising was easily developed and was very generally used by +people of all classes. This facility is still possessed by rural +populations, among whom songs are still composed as they are sting, +each member of the company contributing a new verse or a variation, +suggested by local conditions, of a well-known stanza. When to the +possession of a mass of traditions and stories and of facility of +improvisation is added the habit of singing and dancing, it is not +difficult to reconstruct in our own thought the conditions under +which popular poetry came into being, nor to understand in what +sense a community can make its own songs. In the brave days when +ballads were made, the rustic peoples were not mute, as they are +to-day; nor sad, as they have become in so many parts of England. +They sang and they danced by instinct and as an expression of social +feeling. Originally the ballads were not only sung, but they gave +measure to the dance; they grew from mouth to mouth in the very act +of dancing; individual dancers adding verse to verse, and the +frequent refrain coming in as a kind of chorus. Gesture and, to a +certain extent, acting would naturally accompany so free and general +an expression of community feeling. There was no poet, because all +were poets. To quote Professor ten Brink once more:-- + +"Song and playing were cultivated by peasants, and even by freedmen +and serfs. At beer-feasts the harp went from hand to hand. Herein +lies the essential difference between that age and our own. The +result of poetical activity was not the property and was not the +production of a single person, but of the community. The work of the +individual endured only as long as its delivery lasted. He gained +personal distinction only as a virtuoso. The permanent elements of +what he presented, the material, the ideas, even the style and metre, +already existed. 'The work of the singer was only a ripple in the +stream of national poetry. Who can say how much the individual +contributed to it, or where in his poetical recitation memory ceased +and creative impulse began! In any case the work of the individual +lived on only as the ideal possession of the aggregate body of the +people, and it soon lost the stamp of originality. In view of such +a development of poetry, we must assume a time when the collective +consciousness of a people or race is paramount in its unity; when +the intellectual life of each is nourished from the same treasury of +views and associations, of myths and sagas; when similar interests +stir each breast; and the ethical judgment of all applies itself to +the same standard. In such an age the form of poetical expression +will also be common to all, necessarily solemn, earnest, and simple." + +When the conditions which produced the popular ballads become clear +to the imagination, their depth of rootage, not only in the community +life but in the community love, becomes also clear. We under stand +the charm which these old songs have for us of a later age, and the +spell which they cast upon men and women who knew the secret of +their birth; we understand why the minstrels of the lime, when +popular poetry was in its best estate, were held in such honour, why +Taillefer sang the song of Roland at the head of the advancing +Normans on the day of Hastings, and why good Bishop Aldhelm, when he +wanted to get the ears of his people, stood on the bridge and sang a +ballad! These old songs were the flowering of the imagination of +the people; they drew their life as directly from the general +experience, the common memory, the universal feelings, as did the +Greek dramas in those primitive times, when they were part of rustic +festivity and worship. The popular ballads have passed away with +the conditions which produced them. Modern poets have, in several +instances, written ballads of striking picturesqueness and power, +but as unlike the ballad of popular origin as the world of to-day is +unlike the world in which "Chevy Chase" was first sung. These +modern ballads are not necessarily better or worse than their +predecessors; but they are necessarily different. It is idle to +exalt the wild flower at the expense of the garden flower; each has +its fragrance, its beauty, its sentiment; and the world is wide! + +In the selection of the ballads which appear in this volume, no +attempt has been made to follow a chronological order or to enforce a +rigid principle of selection of any kind. The aim has been to bring +within moderate compass a collection of these songs of the people +which should fairly represent the range, the descriptive felicity, +the dramatic power, and the genuine poetic feeling of a body of verse +which is still, it is to be feared, unfamiliar to a large number of +those to whom it would bring refreshment and delight. + + +HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE + + + + + +Chevy Chace + + + +God prosper long our noble king, +Our liffes and safetyes all; +A woefull hunting once there did +In Chevy-Chace befall. + +To drive the deere with hound and horne, +Erle Percy took his way; +The child may rue that is unborne +The hunting of that day. + +The stout Erle of Northumberland +A vow to God did make, +His pleasure in the Scottish woods +Three summers days to take; + +The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace +To kill and beare away: +These tydings to Erle Douglas came, +In Scotland where he lay. + +Who sent Erie Percy present word, +He wold prevent his sport; +The English Erle not fearing that, +Did to the woods resort, + +With fifteen hundred bow-men bold, +All chosen men of might, +Who knew full well in time of neede +To ayme their shafts arright. + +The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, +To chase the fallow deere; +On Munday they began to hunt, +Ere day-light did appeare; + +And long before high noone they had +An hundred fat buckes slaine; +Then having din'd, the drovyers went +To rouze the deare againe. + +The bow-men mustered on the hills, +Well able to endure; +Theire backsides all, with speciall care, +That day were guarded sure. + +The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, +The nimble deere to take, +That with their cryes the hills and dales +An eccho shrill did make. + +Lord Percy to the quarry went, +To view the tender deere; +Quoth he, "Erle Douglas promised +This day to meet me heere; + +"But if I thought he wold not come, +Noe longer wold I stay." +With that, a brave younge gentleman +Thus to the Erle did say: + +"Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, +His men in armour bright; +Full twenty hundred Scottish speres, +All marching in our sight. + +"All men of pleasant Tivydale, +Fast by the river Tweede:" +"O cease your sport," Erle Percy said, +"And take your bowes with speede. + +"And now with me, my countrymen, +Your courage forth advance; +For never was there champion yett +In Scotland or in France, + +"That ever did on horsebacke come, +But, if my hap it were, +I durst encounter man for man, +With him to breake a spere." + +Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, +Most like a baron bold, +Rode formost of his company, +Whose armour shone like gold. + +"Show me," sayd hee, "whose men you bee, +That hunt soe boldly heere, +That, without my consent, doe chase +And kill my fallow-deere." + +The man that first did answer make +Was noble Percy hee; +Who sayd, "Wee list not to declare, +Nor shew whose men wee bee. + +"Yet will wee spend our deerest blood, +Thy cheefest harts to slay;" +Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, +And thus in rage did say; + +"Ere thus I will out-braved bee, +One of us two shall dye: +I know thee well, an erle thou art; +Lord Percy, soe am I. + +"But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, +And great offence, to kill +Any of these our guiltlesse men, +For they have done no ill. + +"Let thou and I the battell trye, + And set our men aside." +"Accurst bee he," Erle Percy sayd, +"By whome this is denyed." + +Then stept a gallant squier forth, +Witherington was his name, +Who said, "I wold not have it told +To Henry our king for shame, + +"That ere my captaine fought on foote, +And I stood looking on: +You bee two erles," sayd Witherington, +"And I a squier alone. + +"Ile doe the best that doe I may, +While I have power to stand; +While I have power to weeld my sword, +Ile fight with hart and hand." + +Our English archers bent their bowes, +Their harts were good and trew; +Att the first flight of arrowes sent, +Full four-score Scots they slew. + +[Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, +As Chieftain stout and good, +As valiant Captain, all unmov'd +The shock he firmly stood. + +His host he parted had in three, +As Leader ware and try'd, +And soon his spearmen on their foes +Bare down on every side. + +Throughout the English archery +They dealt full many a wound; +But still our valiant Englishmen +All firmly kept their ground. + +And throwing strait their bows away, +They grasp'd their swords so bright: +And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, +On shields and helmets light.] + +They clos'd full fast on everye side, +Noe slacknes there was found; +And many a gallant gentleman +Lay gasping on the ground. + +O Christ! it was a griefe to see, +And likewise for to heare, +The cries of men lying in their gore, +And scattered here and there. + +At last these two stout erles did meet, +Like captaines of great might; +Like lyons wood they layd on lode, +And made a cruell fight. + +They fought, untill they both did sweat, +With swords of tempered steele; +Until the blood, like drops of rain, +They trickling downe did feele. + +"Yeeld thee, Lord Percy," Douglas sayd +"In faith I will thee bringe, +Where thou shalt high advanced bee +By James our Scottish king. + +"Thy ransom I will freely give, +And thus report of thee, +Thou art the most couragious knight +That ever I did see." + +"Noe, Douglas," quoth Erle Percy then, +"Thy proffer I doe scorne +I will not yeelde to any Scott, +That ever yett was borne." + +With that, there came an arrow keene +Out of an English bow, +Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, +A deepe and deadlye blow: + +Who never spake more words than these, +"Fight on, my merry men all; +For why, my life is at an end: +Lord Percy sees my fall." + +Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke +The dead man by the hand; +And said, "Erle Douglas, for thy life +Wold I had lost my land! + +"O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed +With sorrow for thy sake; +For sure, a more renowned knight +Mischance cold never take." + +A knight amongst the Scotts there was, +Which saw Erle Douglas dye, +Who streight in wrath did vow revenge +Upon the Lord Percye; + +Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he call'd, +Who, with a spere most bright, +Well-mounted on a gallant steed, +Ran fiercely through the fight; + +And past the English archers all, +Without all dread or feare, +And through Earl Percyes body then +He thrust his hatefull spere + +With such a vehement force and might +He did his body gore, +The speare ran through the other side +A large cloth-yard, and more. + +So thus did both these nobles dye, +Whose courage none could staine; +An English archer then perceiv'd +The noble erle was slaine. + +He had a bow bent in his hand, +Made of a trusty tree; +An arrow of a cloth-yard long +Up to the head drew hee. + +Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, +So right the shaft he sett, +The grey goose-wing that was thereon +In his harts bloode was wett. + +This fight did last from breake of day +Till setting of the sun; +For when they rung the evening bell, +The battel scarce was done. + +With stout Erle Percy, there was slaine, +Sir John of Egerton, +Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, +Sir James, that bold Bar n. + +And with Sir George and stout Sir James, +Both knights of good account, +Good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slaine, +Whose prowesse did surmount. + +For Witherington needs must I wayle, +As one in doleful dumpes; +For when his legs were smitten off, +He fought upon his stumpes. + +And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine +Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, +Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld +One foote wold never flee. + +Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, +His sisters sonne was hee; +Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, +Yet saved cold not bee. + +And the Lord Maxwell in like case +Did with Erle Douglas dye; +Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, +Scarce fifty-five did flye. + +Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, +Went home but fifty-three; +The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, +Under the greene wood tree. + +Next day did many widowes come, +Their husbands to bewayle; +They washt their wounds in brinish teares, +But all wold not prevayle. + +Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple blood, +They bore with them away: +They kist them dead a thousand times, +Ere they were cladd in clay. + +This newes was brought to Eddenborrow, +Where Scotlands king did raigne, +That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye +Was with an arrow slaine. + +"O heavy newes," King James did say; +"Scottland can witnesse bee, +I have not any captaine more +Of such account as hee." + +Like tydings to King Henry came, +Within as short a space, +That Percy of Northumberland +Was slaine in Chevy-Chace. + +"Now God be with him," said our king, +"Sith it will noe better bee; +I trust I have, within my realme, +Five hundred as good as hee. + +"Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, +But I will vengeance take, +I'll be revenged on them all, +For brave Erle Percyes sake." + +This vow full well the king perform'd +After, at Humbledowne; +In one day, fifty knights were slayne, +With lordes of great renowne. + +And of the rest, of small account, +Did many thousands dye: +Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy-Chace, +Made by the Erle Percy. + +God save our king, and bless this land +In plentye, joy, and peace; +And grant henceforth, that foule debate +'Twixt noblemen may cease! + + + + + +King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid + + + +I read that once in Affrica +A princely wight did raine, +Who had to name Cophetua, +As poets they did faine. +From natures lawes he did decline, +For sure he was not of my minde, +He cared not for women-kind +But did them all disdaine. +But marke what hapned on a day; +As he out of his window lay, +He saw a beggar all in gray. +The which did cause his paine. + +The blinded boy that shootes so trim +From heaven downe did hie, +He drew a dart and shot at him, +In place where he did lye: +Which soone did pierse him to the quicke, +And when he felt the arrow pricke, +Which in his tender heart did sticke, +He looketh as he would dye. +"What sudden chance is this," quoth he, +"That I to love must subject be, +Which never thereto would agree, +But still did it defie?" + +Then from the window he did come, +And laid him on his bed; +A thousand heapes of care did runne +Within his troubled head. +For now he meanes to crave her love, +And now he seekes which way to proove +How he his fancie might remoove, +And not this beggar wed. +But Cupid had him so in snare, +That this poor begger must prepare +A salve to cure him of his care, +Or els he would be dead. + +And as he musing thus did lye, +He thought for to devise +How he might have her companye, +That so did 'maze his eyes. +"In thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; +For surely thou shalt be my wife, +Or else this hand with bloody knife, +The Gods shall sure suffice." +Then from his bed he soon arose, +And to his pallace gate he goes; +Full little then this begger knowes +When she the king espies. + +"The gods preserve your majesty," +The beggers all gan cry; +"Vouchsafe to give your charity, +Our childrens food to buy." +The king to them his purse did cast, +And they to part it made great haste; +This silly woman was the last +That after them did hye. +The king he cal'd her back againe, +And unto her he gave his chaine; +And said, "With us you shal remaine +Till such time as we dye. + +"For thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, +And honoured for my queene; +With thee I meane to lead my life, +As shortly shall be seene: +Our wedding shall appointed be, +And every thing in its degree; +Come on," quoth he, "and follow me, +Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. +What is thy name, faire maid?" quoth he. +"Penelophon, O King," quoth she; +With that she made a lowe courtsey; +A trim one as I weene. + +Thus hand in hand along they walke +Unto the king's pallace: +The king with courteous, comly talke +This begger doth embrace. +The begger blusheth scarlet red, +And straight againe as pale as lead, +But not a word at all she said, +She was in such amaze. +At last she spake with trembling voyce, +And said, "O King, I doe rejoyce +That you wil take me for your choyce, +And my degree so base." + +And when the wedding day was come, +The king commanded strait +The noblemen, both all and some, +Upon the queene to wait. +And she behaved herself that day +As if she had never walkt the way; +She had forgot her gowne of gray, +Which she did weare of late. +The proverbe old is come to passe, +The priest, when he begins his masse, +Forgets that ever clerke he was +He knowth not his estate. + +Here you may read Cophetua, +Through long time fancie-fed, +Compelled by the blinded boy +The begger for to wed: +He that did lovers lookes disdaine, +To do the same was glad and faine, +Or else he would himselfe have slaine, +In storie, as we read. +Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, +But pitty now thy servant heere, +Least that it hap to thee this yeare, +As to that king it did. + +And thus they led a quiet life +During their princely raine, +And in a tombe were buried both, +As writers sheweth plaine. +The lords they tooke it grievously, +The ladies tooke it heavily, +The commons cryed pitiously, +Their death to them was paine. +Their fame did sound so passingly, +That it did pierce the starry sky, +And throughout all the world did flye +To every princes realme. + + + + + +King Leir and his Three Daughters + + + +King Leir once ruled in this land +With princely power and peace, +And had all things with hearts content, +That might his joys increase. +Amongst those things that nature gave, +Three daughters fair had he, +So princely seeming beautiful, +As fairer could not be. + +So on a time it pleas'd the king +A question thus to move, +Which of his daughters to his grace +Could shew the dearest love: +"For to my age you bring content," +Quoth he, "then let me hear, +Which of you three in plighted troth +The kindest will appear." + +To whom the eldest thus began: +"Dear father, mind," quoth she, +"Before your face, to do you good, +My blood shall render'd be. +And for your sake my bleeding heart +Shall here be cut in twain, +Ere that I see your reverend age +The smallest grief sustain." + +"And so will I," the second said; +"Dear father, for your sake, +The worst of all extremities +I'll gently undertake: +And serve your highness night and day +With diligence and love; +That sweet content and quietness +Discomforts may remove." + +"In doing so, you glad my soul," +The aged king reply'd; +"But what sayst thou, my youngest girl, +How is thy love ally'd?" +"My love" (quoth young Cordelia then), +"Which to your grace I owe, +Shall be the duty of a child, +And that is all I'll show." + +"And wilt thou shew no more," quoth he, +"Than doth thy duty bind? +I well perceive thy love is small, +When as no more I find. +Henceforth I banish thee my court; +Thou art no child of mine; +Nor any part of this my realm +By favour shall be thine. + +"Thy elder sisters' loves are more +Than well I can demand; +To whom I equally bestow +My kingdome and my land, +My pompal state and all my goods, +That lovingly I may +With those thy sisters be maintain'd +Until my dying day." + +Thus flattering speeches won renown, +By these two sisters here; +The third had causeless banishment, +Yet was her love more dear. +For poor Cordelia patiently +Went wandring up and down, +Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, +Through many an English town: + +Untill at last in famous France +She gentler fortunes found; +Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd +The fairest on the ground: +Where when the king her virtues heard, +And this fair lady seen, +With full consent of all his court +He made his wife and queen. + +Her father, old King Leir, this while +With his two daughters staid; +Forgetful of their promis'd loves, +Full soon the same decay'd; +And living in Queen Ragan's court, +The eldest of the twain, +She took from him his chiefest means, +And most of all his train. + +For whereas twenty men were wont +To wait with bended knee, +She gave allowance but to ten, +And after scarce to three, +Nay, one she thought too much for him; +So took she all away, +In hope that in her court, good king, +He would no longer stay. + +"Am I rewarded thus," quoth he, +"In giving all I have +Unto my children, and to beg +For what I lately gave? +I'll go unto my Gonorell: +My second child, I know, +Will be more kind and pitiful, +And will relieve my woe." + +Full fast he hies then to her court; +Where when she heard his moan, +Return'd him answer, that she griev'd +That all his means were gone, +But no way could relieve his wants; +Yet if that he would stay +Within her kitchen, he should have +What scullions gave away. + +When he had heard, with bitter tears, +He made his answer then; +"In what I did, let me be made +Example to all men. +I will return again," quoth he, +"Unto my Ragan's court; +She will not use me thus, I hope, +But in a kinder sort." + +Where when he came, she gave command +To drive him thence away: +When he was well within her court, +(She said) he would not stay. +Then back again to Gonorel +The woeful king did hie, +That in her kitchen he might have +What scullion boys set by. + +But there of that he was deny'd +Which she had promis'd late +For once refusing, he should not, +Come after to her gate. +Thus twixt his daughters for relief +He wandred up and down, +Being glad to feed on beggars' food +That lately wore a crown. + +And calling to remembrance then +His youngest daughters words, +That said, the duty of a child +Was all that love affords-- +But doubting to repair to her, +Whom he had ban'sh'd so, +Grew frantic mad; for in his mind +He bore the wounds of woe. + +Which made him rend his milk-white locks +And tresses from his head, +And all with blood bestain his cheeks, +With age and honour spread. +To hills and woods and watry founts, +He made his hourly moan, +Till hills and woods and senseless things +Did seem to sigh and groan. + +Even thus possest with discontents, +He passed o'er to France, +In hopes from fair Cordelia there +To find some gentler chance. +Most virtuous dame! which, when she heard +Of this her father's grief, +As duty bound, she quickly sent +Him comfort and relief. + +And by a train of noble peers, +In brave and gallant sort, +She gave in charge he should be brought +To Aganippus' court; +Whose royal king, with noble mind, +So freely gave consent +To muster up his knights at arms, +To fame and courage bent. + +And so to England came with speed, +To repossesse King Leir, +And drive his daughters from their thrones +By his Cordelia dear. +Where she, true-hearted, noble queen, +Was in the battel stain; +Yet he, good king, in his old days, +Possest his crown again. + +But when he heard Cordelia's death, +Who died indeed for love +Of her dear father, in whose cause +She did this battle move, +He swooning fell upon her breast, +From whence he never parted; +But on her bosom left his life +That was so truly hearted. + +The lords and nobles, when they saw +The end of these events, +The other sisters unto death +They doomed by consents; +And being dead, their crowns they left +Unto the next of kin: +Thus have you seen the fall of pride, +And disobedient sin. + + + + + +Fair Rosamond + + + +When as King Henry rulde this land, +The second of that name, +Besides the queene, he dearly lovde +A faire and comely dame. + +Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, +Her favour, and her face; +A sweeter creature in this worlde +Could never prince embrace. + +Her crisped lockes like threads of golde, +Appeard to each man's sight; +Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, +Did cast a heavenlye light. + +The blood within her crystal cheekes +Did such a colour drive, +As though the lillye and the rose +For mastership did strive. + +Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde, +Her name was called so, +To whom our queene, Dame Ellinor, +Was known a deadlye foe. + +The king therefore, for her defence +Against the furious queene, +At Woodstocke builded such a bower, +The like was never seene. + +Most curiously that bower was built, +Of stone and timber strong; +An hundered and fifty doors +Did to this bower belong: + +And they so cunninglye contriv'd, +With turnings round about, +That none but with a clue of thread +Could enter in or out. + +And for his love and ladyes sake, +That was so faire and brighte, +The keeping of this bower he gave +Unto a valiant knighte. + +But fortune, that doth often frowne +Where she before did smile, +The kinges delighte and ladyes joy +Full soon shee did beguile: + +For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, +Whom he did high advance, +Against his father raised warres +Within the realme of France. + +But yet before our comelye king +The English land forsooke, +Of Rosamond, his lady faire, +His farewelle thus he tooke: + +"My Rosamonde, my only Rose, +That pleasest best mine eye, +The fairest flower in all the worlde +To feed my fantasye,-- + +"The flower of mine affected heart, +Whose sweetness doth excelle, +My royal Rose, a thousand times +I bid thee nowe farwelle! + +"For I must leave my fairest flower, +My sweetest Rose, a space, +And cross the seas to famous France, +Proud rebelles to abase. + +"But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt +My coming shortlye see, +And in my heart, when hence I am, +Ile beare my Rose with mee." + +When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, +Did heare the king saye soe, +The sorrowe of her grieved heart +Her outward lookes did showe. + +And from her cleare and crystall eyes +The teares gusht out apace, +Which, like the silver-pearled dewe, +Ranne downe her comely face. + +Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, +Did waxe both wan and pale, +And for the sorrow she conceivde +Her vitall spirits faile. + +And falling downe all in a swoone +Before King Henryes face, +Full oft he in his princelye armes +Her bodye did embrace. + +And twentye times, with watery eyes, +He kist her tender cheeke, +Untill he had revivde againe +Her senses milde and meeke. + +"Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?" +The king did often say: +"Because," quoth shee, "to bloodye warres +My lord must part awaye. + +"But since your Grace on forrayne coastes, +Amonge your foes unkinde, +Must goe to hazard life and limbe, +Why should I staye behinde? + +"Nay, rather let me, like a page, +Your sworde and target beare; +That on my breast the blowes may lighte, +Which would offend you there. + +"Or lett mee, in your royal tent, +Prepare your bed at nighte, +And with sweete baths refresh your grace, +At your returne from fighte. + +"So I your presence may enjoye +No toil I will refuse; +But wanting you, my life is death: +Nay, death Ild rather chuse." + +"Content thy self, my dearest love, +Thy rest at home shall bee, +In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle; +For travell fits not thee. + +"Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; +Soft peace their sexe delightes; +Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; +Gay feastes, not cruell fightes. + +"My Rose shall safely here abide, +With musicke passe the daye, +Whilst I amonge the piercing pikes +My foes seeke far awaye. + +"My Rose shall shine in pearle and golde, +Whilst Ime in armour dighte; +Gay galliards here my love shall dance, +Whilst I my foes goe fighte. + +"And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste +To bee my loves defence, +Be carefull of my gallant Rose +When I am parted hence." + +And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, +As though his heart would breake; +And Rosamonde, for very griefe, +Not one plaine word could speake. + +And at their parting well they mighte +In heart be grieved sore: +After that daye, faire Rosamonde +The king did see no more. + +For when his Grace had past the seas, +And into France was gone, +With envious heart, Queene Ellinor +To Woodstocke came anone. + +And forth she calls this trustye knighte +In an unhappy houre, +Who, with his clue of twined-thread, +Came from this famous bower. + +And when that they had wounded him, +The queene this thread did gette, +And wente where Ladye Rosamonde +Was like an angell sette. + +But when the queene with stedfast eye + Beheld her beauteous face, +She was amazed in her minde +At her exceeding grace. + +"Cast off from thee those robes," she said, +"That riche and costlye bee; +And drinke thou up this deadlye draught +Which I have brought to thee." + +Then presentlye upon her knees +Sweet Rosamonde did falle; +And pardon of the queene she crav'd +For her offences all. + +"Take pitty on my youthfull yeares," +Faire Rosamonde did crye; +"And lett mee not with poison stronge +Enforced bee to dye. + +"I will renounce my sinfull life, +And in some cloyster bide; +Or else be banisht, if you please, +To range the world soe wide. + +"And for the fault which I have done, +Though I was forc'd theretoe, +Preserve my life, and punish mee +As you thinke meet to doe." + +And with these words, her lillie handes +She wrunge full often there; +And downe along her lovely face +Did trickle many a teare. + +But nothing could this furious queene +Therewith appeased bee; +The cup of deadlye poyson stronge, +As she knelt on her knee, + +She gave this comelye dame to drinke; +Who tooke it in her hand, +And from her bended knee arose, +And on her feet did stand, + +And casting up her eyes to heaven, +Shee did for mercye calle; +And drinking up the poison stronge, +Her life she lost withalle. + +And when that death through everye limbe +Had showde its greatest spite, +Her chiefest foes did plain confesse +Shee was a glorious wight. + +Her body then they did entomb, +When life was fled away, +At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne, +As may be seene this day. + + + + + +Phillida and Corydon + + + +In the merrie moneth of Maye, +In a morne by break of daye, +With a troope of damselles playing +Forthe 'I yode' forsooth a maying; + +When anon by a wood side, +Where that Maye was in his pride, +I espied all alone +Phillida and Corydon. + +Much adoe there was, God wot: +He wold love, and she wold not. +She sayde, "Never man was trewe;" +He sayes, "None was false to you." + +He sayde, hee had lovde her longe; +She sayes, love should have no wronge. +Corydon wold kisse her then; +She sayes, "Maydes must kisse no men, + +"Tyll they doe for good and all." +When she made the shepperde call +All the heavens to wytnes truthe, +Never loved a truer youthe. + +Then with manie a prettie othe, +Yea and nay, and faithe and trothe, +Suche as seelie shepperdes use +When they will not love abuse, + +Love, that had bene long deluded, +Was with kisses sweete concluded; +And Phillida with garlands gaye +Was made the lady of the Maye. + + + + + +Fair Margaret and Sweet William + + + +As it fell out on a long summer's day, +Two lovers they sat on a hill; +They sat together that long summer's day, +And could not talk their fill. + +"I see no harm by you, Margaret, +And you see none by mee; +Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock +A rich wedding you shall see." + +Fair Margaret sat in her bower-wind w, +Combing her yellow hair; +There she spyed sweet William and his bride, +As they were a riding near. + +Then down she layd her ivory combe, +And braided her hair in twain: +She went alive out of her bower, +But ne'er came alive in't again. + +When day was gone, and night was come, +And all men fast asleep, +Then came the spirit of Fair Marg'ret, +And stood at William's feet. + +"Are you awake, sweet William?" shee said, +"Or, sweet William, are you asleep? +God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, +And me of my winding sheet." + +When day was come, and night was gone, +And all men wak'd from sleep, +Sweet William to his lady sayd, +"My dear, I have cause to weep. + +"I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, +Such dreames are never good: +I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,' +And my bride-bed full of blood." + +"Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, +They never do prove good; +To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,' +And thy bride-bed full of blood." + +He called up his merry men all, +By one, by two, and by three; +Saying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower, +By the leave of my ladie." + +And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower, +He knocked at the ring; +And who so ready as her seven brethren +To let sweet William in. + +Then he turned up the covering-sheet; +"Pray let me see the dead; +Methinks she looks all pale and wan. +She hath lost her cherry red. + +"I'll do more for thee, Margaret, +Than any of thy kin: +For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, +Though a smile I cannot win." + +With that bespake the seven brethren, +Making most piteous mone, +"You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, +And let our sister alone." + +"If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, +I do but what is right; +I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, +By day, nor yet by night. + +"Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, +Deal on your cake and your wine: +For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, +Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine." + +Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, +Sweet William dyed the morrow: +Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love, +Sweet William dyed for sorrow. + +Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, +And William in the higher: +Out of her brest there sprang a rose, +And out of his a briar. + +They grew till they grew unto the church top, +And then they could grow no higher; +And there they tyed in a true lover's knot, +Which made all the people admire. + +Then came the clerk of the parish, +As you the truth shall hear, +And by misfortune cut them down, +Or they had now been there. + + + + + +Annan Water + + + +"Annan Water's wading deep, +And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; +I will keep my tryst to-night, +And win the heart o' lovely Annie." + +He's loupen on his bonny grey, +He rade the right gate and the ready', +For a' the storm he wadna stay, +For seeking o' his bonny lady. + +And he has ridden o'er field and fell, +Through muir and moss, and stones and mire; +His spurs o' steel were sair to bide, +And frae her four feet flew the fire. + +"My bonny grey, noo play your part! +Gin ye be the steed that wins my dearie, +Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, +And never spur sail mak' you wearie." + +The grey was a mare, and a right gude mare: +But when she wan the Annan Water, +She couldna hae found the ford that night +Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. + +"O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, +Put off your boat for gouden money!" +But for a' the goud in fair Scotland, +He dared na tak' him through to Annie. + +"O I was sworn sae late yestreen, +Not by a single aith, but mony. +I'll cross the drumly stream to-night, +Or never could I face my honey." + +The side was stey, and the bottom deep, +Frae bank to brae the water pouring; +The bonny grey mare she swat for fear, +For she heard the water-kelpy roaring. + +He spurred her forth into the flood, +I wot she swam both strong and steady; +But the stream was broad, her strength did fail, +And he never saw his bonny lady. + +O wae betide the frush saugh wand! +And wae betide the bush of brier! +That bent and brake into his hand, +When strength of man and horse did tire. + +And wae betide ye, Annan Water! +This night ye are a drumly river; +But over thee we'll build a brig, +That ye nae mair true love may sever. + + + + + +The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington + + + +There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, +And he was a squire's son; +He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, +That lived in Islington. + +Yet she was coye, and would not believe +That he did love her soe, +Noe nor at any time would she +Any countenance to him showe. + +But when his friendes did understand +His fond and foolish minde, +They sent him up to faire London, +An apprentice for to binde. + +And when he had been seven long yeares, +And never his love could see,-- +"Many a teare have I shed for her sake, +When she little thought of mee." + +Then all the maids of Islington +Went forth to sport and playe, +All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; +She secretly stole awaye. + +She pulled off her gowne of greene, +And put on ragged attire, +And to faire London she would go +Her true love to enquire. + +And as she went along the high road, +The weather being hot and drye, +She sat her downe upon a green bank, +And her true love came riding bye. + +She started up, with a colour soe redd, +Catching hold of his bridle-reine; +"One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, +"Will ease me of much paine." + +"Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, +Praye tell me where you were borne." +"At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, +"Where I have had many a scorne." + +"I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, +O tell me, whether you knowe +The bayliffes daughter of Islington." +"She is dead, sir, long agoe." + +"If she be dead, then take my horse, +My saddle and bridle also; +For I will into some farr countrye, +Where noe man shall me knowe." + +"O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, +She standeth by thy side; +She is here alive, she is not dead, +And readye to be thy bride." + +"O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, +Ten thousand times therefore; +For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, +Whom I thought I should never see more." + + + + + +Barbara Allen's Cruelty + + + +All in the merry month of May, +When green buds they were swelling, +Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay +For love o' Barbara Allen. + +He sent his man unto her then, +To the town where she was dwelling: +"O haste and come to my master dear, +If your name be Barbara Allen." + +Slowly, slowly rase she up, +And she cam' where he was lying; +And when she drew the curtain by, +Says, "Young man, I think you're dying." + +"O it's I am sick, and very, very sick, +And it's a' for Barbara Allen." +"O the better for me ye'se never be, +Tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling! + +"O dinna ye min', young man," she says, +"When the red wine ye were filling, +That ye made the healths gae round and round +And ye slighted Barbara Allen?" + +He turn'd his face unto the wa', +And death was wi' him dealing: +"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'; +Be kind to Barbara Allen." + +As she was walking o'er the fields, +She heard the dead-bell knelling; + +And every jow the dead-bell gave, +It cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!" + +"O mother, mother, mak' my bed, +To lay me down in sorrow. +My love has died for me to-day, +I'll die for him to-morrow." + + + + + +The Douglas Tragedy + + + +"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, +"And put on your armour so bright; +Sweet William will hae Lady Margaret awi' +Before that it be light. + +"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, +And put on your armour so bright, +And take better care of your youngest sister, +For your eldest's awa' the last night." + +He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, +And himself on a dapple grey, +With a buglet horn hung down by his side +And lightly they rode away. + +Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, +To see what he could see, +And there he spied her seven brethren bold +Come riding o'er the lea. + +"Light down, light down, Lady Margaret," he said, +"And hold my steed in your hand, +Until that against your seven brethren bold, +And your father I make a stand." + +She held his steed in her milk-white hand, +And never shed one tear, +Until that she saw her seven brethren fa' +And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. + +"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, +"For your strokes they are wondrous sair; +True lovers I can get many a ane, +But a father I can never get mair." + +O, she's ta'en out her handkerchief, +It was o' the holland sae fine, +And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, +That were redder than the wine. + +"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margaret," he said, +"O whether will ye gang or bide?" +"I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, +"For you have left me nae other guide." + +He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, +And himself on a dapple grey, +With a buglet horn hung down by his side, +And slowly they baith rade away. + +O they rade on, and on they rade, +And a' by the light of the moon, +Until they came to yon wan water, +And there they lighted down. + +They lighted down to tak a drink +Of the spring that ran sae clear; +And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, +And sair she 'gan to fear. + +"Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, +"For I fear that you are slain!" +"'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, +That shines in the water sae plain." + +O they rade on, and on they rade, +And a' by the light of the moon, +Until they came to his mother's ha' door, +And there they lighted down. + +"Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, +"Get up, and let me in! +Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, +"For this night my fair lady I've win. + +"O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, +"O mak it braid and deep! +And lay Lady Margaret close at my back, +And the sounder I will sleep." + +Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, +Lady Margaret lang ere day: +And all true lovers that go thegither, +May they have mair luck than they! + +Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk, +Lady Margaret in Marie's quire; +Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, +And out o' the knight's a brier. + +And they twa met, and they twa plat +And fain they wad be near; +And a' the world might ken right weel, +They were twa lovers dear. + +But bye and rade the black Douglas +And wow but he was rough! +For he pulled up the bonny brier, +And flanged in St. Marie's Loch. + + + + + +Young Waters + + + +About Yule, when the wind blew cool; +And the round tables began, +A' there is come to our king's court +Mony a well-favoured man. + +The queen looked o'er the castle wa', +Beheld baith dale and down, +And then she saw young Waters +Come riding to the town. + +His footmen they did rin before, +His horsemen rade behind; +Ane mantle of the burning gowd +Did keep him frae the wind. + +Gowden graith'd[FN#1] his horse before, +And siller shod behind; +The horse young Waters rade upon +Was fleeter than the wind. + + + +[FN#1] Graitih'd, girthed. + + + +Out then spake a wily lord, +Unto the queen said he: +"O tell me wha's the fairest face +Rides in the company?" + +"I've seen lord, and I've seen laird, +And knights of high degree, +But a fairer face than young Waters +Mine eyen did never see." + +Out then spake the jealous king +And an angry man was he: +"O if he had been twice as fair, +You might have excepted me." + +"You're neither laird nor lord," she says, +"But the king that wears the crown; +There is not a knight in fair Scotland, +But to thee maun bow down." + +For a' that she could do or say, +Appeased he wad nae be; +But for the words which she had said, +Young Waters he maun dee. + +They hae ta'en young Waters, +And put fetters to his feet; +They hae ta'en young Waters, +And thrown him in dungeon deep. + +"Aft I have ridden thro' Stirling town, +In the wind but and the weet; +But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town +Wi' fetters at my feet. + +"Aft have I ridden thro' Stirling town, +In the wind but and the rain; +But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town +Ne'er to return again." + +They hae ta'en to the heading-hill +His young son in his cradle; +And they hae ta'en to the heading-hill +His horse but and his saddle. + +They hae ta'en to the heading-hill +His lady fair to see; +And for the words the queen had spoke +Young Waters he did dee. + + + + + +Flodden Field + + + +King Jamie hath made a vow, +Keepe it well if he may: +That he will be at lovely London +Upon Saint James his day. + +Upon Saint James his day at noone, +At faire London will I be, +And all the lords in merrie Scotland, +They shall dine there with me. + +"March out, march out, my merry men, +Of hie or low degree; +I'le weare the crowne in London towne, +And that you soon shall be." + +Then bespake good Queene Margaret, +The teares fell from her eye: +"Leave off these warres, most noble King, +Keepe your fidelitie. + +"The water runnes swift, and wondrous deepe, +From bottome unto the brimme; +My brother Henry hath men good enough; +England is hard to winne." + +"Away" quoth he "with this silly foole! +In prison fast let her lie: +For she is come of the English bloud, +And for these words she shall dye." + +With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard, +The Queenes chamberlaine that day: +"If that you put Queene Margaret to death, +Scotland shall rue it alway." + +Then in a rage King Jamie did say, +"Away with this foolish mome; +He shall be hanged, and the other be burned, +So soone as I come home." + +At Flodden Field the Scots came in, +Which made our English men faine; +At Bramstone Greene this battaile was seene, +There was King Jamie slaine. + +His bodie never could be found, +When he was over throwne, +And he that wore faire Scotland's crowne +That day could not be knowne. + +Then presently the Scot did flie, +Their cannons they left behind; +Their ensignes gay were won all away, +Our souldiers did beate them blinde. + +To tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine, +That to the fight did stand, +And many prisoners tooke that day, +The best in all Scotland. + +That day made many [a] fatherlesse child, +And many a widow poore, +And many a Scottish gay lady +Sate weeping in her bower. + +Jack with a feather was lapt all in leather, +His boastings were all in vaine; +He had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance +He never went home againe. + +--- + +This was written to adapt the ballad to the seventeenth century. + + +Now heaven we laude that never more +Such biding shall come to hand; +Our King, by othe, is King of both +England and faire Scotland. + + + + + +Helen of Kirkconnell + + + +I wad I were where Helen lies; +Night and day on me she cries; +O that I were where Helen lies, +On fair Kirkconnell 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 but my heart was sair +When my Love dropt and spak nae mair! +I laid her down wi' meikle care, +On fair Kirkconnell lea. + +As I went down the water side, +Nane but my foe to be my guide, +Nane but my foe to be my guide, +On fair Kirkconnell lea. + +I lighted down my sword to draw, +I hacked him in pieces sma', +I hacked him in pieces sma', +For her sake that died for me. + +O Helen fair, beyond compare! +I'll make a garland of thy hair, +Shall bind my heart for evermair, +Until the day I dee! + +O that I were where Helen lies +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 were blest, +Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, +On fair Kirkconnell lea. + +I wad my grave were growing green, +A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, +And I in Helen's arms lying, +On fair Kirkconnell lea. + +I wad I were where Helen lies! +Night and day on me she cries, +And I am weary of the skies, +Since my Love died for me. + + + + + +Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale + + + +Come listen to me, you gallants so free, +All you that love mirth for to hear, +And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, +That lived in Nottinghamshire. + +As Robin Hood in the forest stood +All under the greenwood tree, +There he was aware of a brave young man, +As fine as fine might be. + +The youngster was clad in scarlet red, +In scarlet fine and gay +And he did frisk it over the plain, +And chaunted a roundelay. + +As Robin Hood next morning stood +Amongst the leaves so gay, +There did he espy the same young man +Come drooping along the way. + +The scarlet he wore the day before +It was clean cast away; +And at every step he fetched a sigh, +"Alas! and a well-a-day!" + +Then stepped forth brave Little John, +And Midge, the miller's son; +Which made the young man bend his bow, +When as he see them come. + +"Stand off! stand off!" the young man said, +"What is your will with me?" +"You must come before our master straight, +Under yon greenwood tree." + +And when he came bold Robin before, +Robin asked him courteously, +O, hast thou any money to spare, +For my merry men and me? + +"I have no money," the young man said, +"But five shillings and a ring; +And that I have kept this seven long years, +To have at my wedding. + +"Yesterday I should have married a maid, +But she was from me ta'en, +And chosen to be an old knight's delight, +Whereby my poor heart is slain." + +"What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood, +"Come tell me, without any fail." +"By the faith of my body," then said the young man, +"My name it is Allen-a-Dale." + +"What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, +"In ready gold or fee, +To help thee to thy true love again, +And deliver her unto thee?" + +"I have no money," then quoth the young man, +"No ready gold nor fee, +But I will swear upon a book +Thy true servant for to be." + +"How many miles is it to thy true love? +Come tell me without guile." +"By the faith of my body," then said the young man, +"It is but five little mile." + +Then Robin he hasted over the plain, +He did neither stint nor lin, +Until he came unto the church +Where Allen should keep his weddin'. + +"What hast thou here?" the bishop then said, +"I prithee now tell unto me." +"I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, +"And the best in the north country." + +"O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said, +"That music best pleaseth me." +"You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, +"Till the bride and bridegroom I see." + +With that came in a wealthy knight, +Which was both grave and old; +And after him a finikin lass, +Did shine like the glistering gold. + +"This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, +"That you do seem to make here; +For since we are come into the church, +The bride shall chuse her own dear." + +Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, +And blew blasts two and three; +When four-and-twenty bowmen bold +Came leaping over the lea. + +And when they came into the church-yard, +Marching all in a row, +The first man was Allen-a-Dale, +To give bold Robin his bow. + +"This is thy true love," Robin he said, +Young Allen, as I hear say; +And you shall be married this same time, +Before we depart away." + +"That shall not be," the bishop he cried, +"For thy word shall not stand; +They shall be three times asked in the church, +As the law is of our land." + +Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat, +And put it upon Little John; +"By the faith of my body," then Robin said, +"This cloth doth make thee a man." + +When Little John went into the quire, +The people began to laugh; +He asked them seven times into church, +Lest three times should not be enough. + +"Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, +Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; +And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, +Full dearly he shall her buy." + +And then having ended this merry wedding, +The bride looked like a queen; +And so they returned to the merry greenwood, +Amongst the leaves so green. + + + + + +Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne + + + +When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, +And leaves both large and longe, +Itt is merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest +To heare the small birdes songe. + +The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, +Sitting upon the spraye, +Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, +In the greenwood where he lay. + +"Now, by my faye," sayd jollye Robin, +"A sweaven I had this night; +I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, +That fast with me can fight. + +"Methought they did mee beate and binde, +And tooke my bow mee froe; +Iff I be Robin alive in this lande, +Ile be wroken on them towe." + +"Sweavens are swift, master," quoth John, +"As the wind that blowes ore the hill; +For if itt be never so loude this night, +To-morrow it may be still." + +"Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, +And John shall goe with mee, +For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, +In greenwood where the bee." + +Then they cast on their gownes of grene, +And tooke theyr bowes each one; +And they away to the greene forrest +A shooting forth are gone; + +Untill they came to the merry greenwood, +Where they had gladdest to bee; +There were they ware of a wight yeoman, +His body leaned to a tree. + +A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, +Of manye a man the bane; +And he was clad in his capull hyde, +Topp and tayll and mayne. + +"Stand you still, master," quoth Little John, +"Under this tree so grene, +And I will go to yond wight yeoman +To know what he doth meane." + +"Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, +And that I farley finde: +How offt send I my men beffore, +And tarry my selfe behinde! + +"It is no cunning a knave to ken, +And a man but heare him speake; +And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, +John, I thy head wold breake." + +As often wordes they breeden bale, +So they parted Robin and John; +And John is gone to Barnesdale; +The gates he knoweth eche one. + +But when he came to Barnesdale, +Great heavinesse there hee hadd, +For he found tow of his owne fell wes +Were slaine both in a slade. + +And Scarlette he was flying a-foote +Faste over stocke and stone, +For the sheriffe with seven score men +Fast after him is gone. + +"One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John, +"With Christ his might and mayne; +Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, +To stopp he shall be fayne." + +Then John bent up his long bende-bowe, +And fetteled him to shoote: +The bow was made of tender boughe, +And fell down to his foote. + +"Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, +That ere thou grew on a tree; +For now this day thou art my bale, +My boote when thou shold bee." + +His shoote it was but loosely shott, +Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, +For itt mett one of the sherriffes men, +Good William a Trent was slaine. + +It had bene better of William a Trent +To have bene abed with sorrowe, +Than to be that day in the green-wood slade +To meet with Little Johns arrowe. + +But as it is said, when men be mett +Fyve can doe more than three, +The sheriffe hath taken Little John, +And bound him fast to a tree. + +"Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, +And hanged hye on a hill." +"But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth John, +"If itt be Christ his will." + +Lett us leave talking of Little John, +And thinke of Robin Hood, +How he is gone to the wight yeoman, +Where under the leaves he stood. + +"Good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd Robin so fayre, +"Good morrowe, good fellow," quoth he. +"Methinks by this bowe thou beares in thy hande, +A good archere thou sholdst bee." + +"I am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeoman, +"And of my morning tyde:" +"Ile lead thee through the wood," sayd Robin, +"Good fellow, Ile be thy guide." + +"I seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd, +"Men call him Robin Hood; +Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe +Than fortye pound soe good." + +"Now come with me, thou wight yeman, +And Robin thou soone shalt see; +But first let us some pastime find +Under the greenwood tree. + +"First let us some masterye make +Among the woods so even; +We may chance to meet with Robin Hood +Here att some unsett steven." + +They cutt them down two summer shroggs, +That grew both under a breere, +And set them threescore rood in twaine, +To shoote the prickes y-fere. + +"Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood, +"Leade on, I doe bidd thee." +"Nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd, +"My leader thou shalt bee." + +The first time Robin shot at the pricke, +He mist but an inch it fro; +The yeoman he was an archer good, +But he cold never shoote soe. + +The second shoote had the wightye yeoman, +He shote within the garlande; +But Robin he shott far better than hee, +For he clave the good pricke-wande. + +"A blessing upon thy heart," he sayd, +"Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode +For an thy hart be as good as thy hand, +Thou wert better then Robin Hoode. + +Now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he, +"Under the leaves of lyne." +"Nay, by my faith," quoth bolde Robin, +"Till thou have told me thine." + +"I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee, +"And Robin to take Ime sworne; +And when I am called by my right name, +I am Guy of good Gisbrne." + +"My dwelling is in this wood," sayes Robin, +"By thee I set right nought: +I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale, +Whom thou so long hast sought." + +He that had neither beene kithe nor kin, +Might have seen a full fayre sight, +To see how together these yeomen went +With blades both browne and bright: + +To see how these yeomen together they fought +Two howres of a summers day, +Yett neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy +Them fettled to flye away. + +Robin was reachles on a roote, +And stumbled at that tyde; +And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all, +And hitt him ore the left side. + +"Ah, deere Lady," sayd Robin Hood tho, +"Thou art but mother and may'; +I think it was never mans destinye +To dye before his day." + +Robin thought on Our Ladye deere, +And soone leapt up againe, +And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke, +And he Sir Guy hath slayne. + +He took Sir Guy's head by the hayre, +And stuck itt upon his bowes end: +"Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, +Which thing must have an end." + +Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, +And nicked Sir Guy in the face, +That he was never on woman born +Cold tell whose head it was. + +Sayes, "Lye there, lye there now, Sir Guy, +And with me be not wrothe; +Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand, +Thou shalt have the better clothe." + +Robin did off his gowne of greene, +And on Sir Guy did throwe, +And hee put on that capull hyde, +That cladd him topp to toe. + +"The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, +Now with me I will beare; +For I will away to Barnesdale, +To see how my men doe fare." + +Robin Hood sett Guy's horne to his mouth, +And a loud blast in it did blow: +That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, +As he leaned under a lowe. + +"Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe, +"I heare nowe tydings good, +For yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, +And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. + +"Yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe, +Itt blowes soe well in tyde, +And yonder comes that wightye yeoman, +Cladd in his capull hyde. + +"Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy, +Aske what thou wilt of mee." +"O I will none of thy gold," sayd Robin, +"Nor I will none of thy fee. + +"But now I have slaine the master," he sayes, +"Let me goe strike the knave; +For this is all the rewarde I aske. +Nor noe other will I have." + +"Thou art a madman," said the sheriffe, +"Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee; +But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, +Well granted it shale be." + +When Little John heard his master speake, +Well knewe he it was his steven; +"Now shall I be looset," quoth Little John, +"With Christ his might in heaven." + +Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John, +He thought to loose him belive: +The sheriffe and all his companye +Fast after him can drive. + +"Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin; +"Why draw you mee so neere? +Itt was never the use in our countrye, +Ones shrift another shold heere." + +But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife, +And losed John hand and foote, +And gave him Sir Guy's bow into his hand, +And bade it be his boote. + +Then John he took Guy's bow in his hand, +His boltes and arrowes eche one: +When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, +He fettled him to be gone. + +Towards his house in Nottingham towne +He fled full fast away, +And soe did all the companye, +Not one behind wold stay. + +But he cold neither runne soe fast, +Nor away soe fast cold ryde, +But Little John with an arrowe soe broad +He shott him into the 'backe'-syde. + + + + + +Robin Hood's Death and Burial + + + +When Robin Hood and Little John +Down a down, a down, a down, +Went o'er yon bank of broom, +Said Robin Hood to Little John, +"We have shot for many a pound: +Hey down, a down, a down. + +"But I am not able to shoot one shot more, +My arrows will not flee; +But I have a cousin lives down below, +Please God, she will bleed me." + +Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, +As fast as he can win; +But before he came there, as we do hear, +He was taken very ill. + +And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, +He knocked all at the ring, +But none was so ready as his cousin herself +For to let bold Robin in. + +"Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, +"And drink some beer with me?" +"No, I will neither eat nor drink, +Till I am blooded by thee." + +"Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, +"Which you did never see; +And if you please to walk therein, +You blooded by me shall be." + +She took him by the lily-white hand, +And led him to a private room; +And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, +Whilst one drop of blood would run. + +She blooded him in the vein of the arm, +And locked him up in the room; +There did he bleed all the live-long day, +Until the next day at noon. + +He then bethought him of a casement door, +Thinking for to begone; +He was so weak he could not leap, +Nor he could not get down. + +He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, +Which hung low down to his knee, +He set his horn unto his mouth, +And blew out weak blasts three. + +Then Little John, when hearing him, +As he sat under the tree, +"I fear my master is near dead, +He blows so wearily." + +Then Little John to Fair Kirkley is gone, +As fast as he can dree; +But when he came to Kirkley-hall, +He broke locks two or three; + +Until he came bold Robin to, +Then he fell on his knee; +"A boon, a boon," cries Little John, +"Master, I beg of thee." + +"What is that boon," quoth Robin Hood, +"Little John, thou begst of me?" +"It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, +And all their nunnery." + +"Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, +"That boon I'll not grant thee; +I never hurt woman in all my life, +Nor man in woman's company. + +"I never hurt fair maid in all my time, +Nor at my end shall it be; +But give me my bent bow in my hand, +And a broad arrow I'll let flee; +And where this arrow is taken up, +There shall my grave digged be. + +"Lay me a green sod under my head, +And another under my feet; +And lay my bent bow by my side, +Which was my music sweet; +And make my grave of gravel and green, +Which is most right and meet. + +"Let me have length and breadth enough, +With a green sod under my head; +That they may say when I am dead, +Here lies bold Robin Hood." + +These words they readily promised him, +Which did bold Robin please; +And there they buried bold Robin Hood, +Near to the fair Kirkleys. + + + + + +The Twa Corbies + + + +As I was walking all alane, +I heard twa corbies making a maen: +The tane unto the t'ither did say, +"Whaur shall we gang and dine the day?" + +"O doun beside yon auld fail dyke, +I wot there lies a new-slain knight; +And naebody kens that he lies there +But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. + +"His hound is to the hunting gane, +His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, +His lady's ta'en another mate, +Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. + +"O we'll sit on his white hause bane, +And I'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en; +Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair +We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. + +"Mony a ane for him makes maen, +But nane shall ken whaur he is gane. +Over his banes when they are bare, +The wind shall blaw for evermair." + + + + + +Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny + + + +A SCOTTISH SONG + + +O waly, waly up the bank, +And waly, waly down the brae, +And waly, waly yon burn side, +Where I and my love were wont to gae. +I leant my back unto an aik, +I thought it was a trusty tree; +But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, +Sae my true love did lichtly me. + +O waly, waly, but gin love be bonny, +A little time while it is new; +But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, +And fades awa' like morning dew. +O wherfore shuld I busk my head? +Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair? +For my true love has me forsook, +And says he'll never loe me mair. + +Now Arthur-Seat sall be my bed, +The sheets shall neir be prest 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 cum? +For of my life I am wearýe. + +'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, +Nor blawing snaws inclemencýe; +'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, +But my love's heart grown cauld to me. +Whan we came in by Glasgow town, +We were a comely sight to see; +My love was clad in black velvet, +And I myself in cramasýe. + +But had I wist, before I kist, +That love had been sae ill to win, +I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, +And pinnd it with a siller pin. +And, oh! that my young babe were born, +And set upon the nurse's knee, +And I myself were dead and gane! +And the green grass growing over me. + + + + + +The Nut-brown Maid + + + +Be it right, or wrong, these men among +On women do complain; +Affirming this, how that it is +A labour spent in vain +To love them wele; for never a dele +They love a man again: +For let a man do what he can, +Their favour to attain, +Yet, if a new do them pursue, +Their first true lover then +Laboureth for nought; for from her thought +He is a banished man. + +I say not nay, but that all day +It is both writ and said +That woman's faith is, as who saith, +All utterly decayed; +But, nevertheless, right good witness +In this case might be laid, +That they love true, and continue, +Record the Nut-brown Maid: +Which, when her love came, her to prove, +To her to make his moan, +Would not depart; for in her heart +She loved but him alone. + +Then between us let us discuss +What was all the manere +Between them two: we will also +Tell all the pain, and fere, +That she was in. Now I begin, +So that ye me answere; +Wherefore, all ye, that present be +I pray you, give an ear. +I am the knight; I come by night, +As secret as I can; +Saying,' Alas! thus standeth the case, + I am a banished man.' + + +SHE + +And I your will for to fulfil +In this will not refuse; +Trusting to shew, in wordes few, +That men have an ill use +(To their own shame) women to blame, +And causeless them accuse: +Therefore to you I answer now, +All women to excuse,-- +Mine own heart dear, with you what chere? +I pray you, tell anone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +It standeth so; a dede is do +Whereof great harm shall grow +My destiny is for to die +A shameful death, I trowe; +Or else to flee: the one must be. +None other way I know, +But to withdraw as an outlaw, +And take me to my bow. +Wherefore, adieu, my own heart true! +None other rede I can: +For I must to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +O Lord, what is this worldys bliss, +That changeth as the moon! +My summer's day in lusty May +Is darked before the noon. +I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay, +We depart not so soon. +Why say ye so? wheder will ye go? +Alas! what have ye done? +All my welfare to sorrow and care +Should change, if ye were gone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +I can believe, it shall you grieve, +And somewhat you distrain; +But, afterward, your paines hard +Within a day or twain +Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take +Comfort to you again. +Why should ye ought? for, to make thought +Your labour were in vain. +And thus I do; and pray you to, +As heartily as I can; +For I must to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Now, sith that ye have shewed to me +The secret of your mind, +I shall be plain to you again, +Like as ye shall me find. +Sith it is so, that ye will go, +I wolle not leave behind; +Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid +Was to her love unkind: +Make you ready, for so am I, +Although it were anone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Yet I you rede to take good heed +What men will think and say: +Of young and old it shall be told, +That ye be gone away, +Your wanton will for to fulfil, +In green wood you to play; +And that ye might from your delight +No longer make delay. +Rather than ye should thus for me +Be called an ill woman, +Yet would I to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Though it be sung of old and young, +That I should be to blame, +Theirs be the charge, that speak so large +In hurting of my name: +For I will prove, that, faithful love +It is devoid of shame; +In your distress, and heaviness, +To part with you, the same: +And sure all tho, that do not so, +True lovers are they none; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +I counsel you, remember how, +It is no maiden's law, +Nothing to doubt, but to renne out +To wood with an outlaw: +For ye must there in your hand bear +A bow, ready to draw; +And, as a thief, thus must you live, +Ever in dread and awe; +Whereby to you great harm might grow: +Yet had I lever than, +That I had to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +I think not nay, but as ye say, +It is no maiden's lore; +But love may make me for your sake, +As I have said before, +To come on foot, to hunt, and shoot +To get us meat in store; +For so that I your company +May have, I ask no more: +From which to part, it maketh my heart +As cold as any stone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +For an outlaw this is the law, +That men him take and bind; +Without pity, hanged to be, +And waver with the wind. +If I had nede, (as God forbede!) +What rescue could ye find? +Forsooth, I trow, ye and your bow +For fear would draw behind: +And no mervayle: for little avail +Were in your counsel then: +Wherefore I will to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Right well know ye, that women be +But feeble for to fight; +No womanhede it is indeed +To be bold as a knight: +Yet, in such fear if that ye were +With enemies day or night, +I would withstand, with bow in hand, +To greve them as I might, +And you to save; as women have +From death men many a one: +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Yet take good hede; for ever I drede +That ye could not sustain +The thorny ways, the deep valleys, +The snow, the frost, the rain, +The cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, +We must lodge on the plain; +And, us above, none other roof +But a brake bush, or twain; +Which soon should grieve you, I believe, +And ye would gladly then +That I had to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Sith I have here been partynere +With you of joy and bliss, +I must als part of your woe +Endure, as reason is: +Yet am I sure of one pleasure; +And, shortly, it is this: +That, where ye be, me seemeth, parde, +I could not fare amiss. +Without more speech, I you beseech +That we were soon agone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +If ye go thyder, ye must consider, +When ye have lust to dine, +There shall no meat be for you gete, +Nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine. +No shetes clean, to lie between, +Made of thread and twine; +None other house, but leaves and boughs, +To cover your head and mine; +O mine heart sweet, this evil diete +Should make you pale and wan; +Wherefore I will to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Among the wild dere, such an archere, +As men say that ye be, +Ne may not fail of good vitayle, +Where is so great plenty: +And water clear of the ryvere +Shall be full sweet to me; +With which in hele I shall right wele +Endure, as ye shall see; +And, or we go, a bed or two +I can provide anone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Lo! yet, before, ye must do more, +If ye will go with me: +As cut your hair up by your ear, +Your kirtle by the knee; +With bow in hand, for to withstand +Your enemies, if need be: +And this same night before day-light, +To wood-ward will I flee. +If that ye will all this fulfil, +Do it shortly as ye can +Else will I to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +I shall as now do more for you +Than 'longeth to womanhede; +To shorte my hair, a bow to bear, +To shoot in time of need. +O my sweet mother, before all other +For you I have most drede: +But now, adieu! I must ensue, +Where fortune doth me lead. +All this make ye: Now let us flee; +The day cometh fast upon; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, +And I shall tell ye why,-- +Your appetite is to be light +Of love, I wele espy: +For, like as ye have said to me, +In like wise hardely +Ye would answere whosoever it were +In way of company. +It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold +And so is a woman. +Wherefore I to the wood will go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +If ye take heed, it is no need +Such words to say by me; +For oft ye prayed, and long assayed, +Or I you loved, parde: +And though that I of ancestry +A baron's daughter be, +Yet have you proved how I you loved +A squire of low degree; +And ever shall, whatso befall; +To die therefore anone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +A baron's child to be beguiled! +It were a cursed dede; +To be felawe with an outlawe! +Almighty God forbede! +Yet better were, the poor squyere +Alone to forest yede, +Than ye should say another day, +That, by my cursed dede, +Ye were betrayed: Wherefore, good maid, +The best rede that I can, +Is, that I to the green wood go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Whatever befall, I never shall +Of this thing you upbraid: +But if ye go, and leave me so, +Then have ye me betrayed. +Remember you wele, how that ye dele; +For, if ye, as ye said, +Be so unkind, to leave behind, +Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, +Trust me truly, that I shall die +Soon after ye be gone; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +If that ye went, ye should repent; +For in the forest now +I have purvayed me of a maid, +Whom I love more than you; +Another fayrere, than ever ye were, +I dare it wele avow; +And of you both each should be wroth +With other, as I trow: +It were mine ease, to live in peace; +So will I, if I can; +Wherefore I to the wood will go, +Alone, a banished man. + + +SHE + +Though in the wood I understood +Ye had a paramour, +All this may nought remove my thought, +But that I will be your: +And she shall find me soft and kind, +And courteys every hour; +Glad to fulfil all that she will +Command me to my power: +For had ye, lo! an hundred mo, +Of them I would be one; +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Mine own dear love, I see the proof +That ye be kind and true; +Of maid, and wife, in all my life, +The best that ever I knew. +Be merry and glad, be no more sad, +The case is changed new; +For it were ruth, that, for your truth, +Ye should have cause to rue. +Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said +To you, when I began; +I will not to the green wood go, +I am no banished man. + + +SHE + +These tidings be more glad to me, +Than to be made a queen, +If I were sure they should endure: +But it is often seen, +When men will break promise, they speak +The wordes on the splene. +Ye shape some wile me to beguile, +And steal from me, I ween: +Then, were the case worse than it was, +And I more wo-begone: +For, in my mind, of all mankind +I love but you alone. + + +HE + +Ye shall not nede further to drede; +I will not disparage +You, (God defend!) sith ye descend +Of so great a lineage. +Now understand; to Westmoreland, +Which is mine heritage, +I will you bring; and with a ring, +By way of marriage +I will you take, and lady make, +As shortly as I can: +Thus have you won an erly's son, +And not a banished man. + + +AUTHOR + +Here may ye see, that women be +In love, meek, kind, and stable; +Let never man reprove them then, +Or call them variable; +But, rather, pray God that we may +To them be comfortable; +Which sometime proveth such, as he loveth, +If they be charitable. +For sith men would that women should +Be meek to them each one; +Much more ought they to God obey, +And serve but Him alone. + + + + + +The Fause Lover + + + +A fair maid sat in her bower door, +Wringing her lily hands; +And by it came a sprightly youth, +Fast tripping o'er the strands. + +"Where gang ye, young John," she says, +"Sae early in the day? +It gars me think, by your fast trip, +Your journey's far away." + +He turn'd about wi' surly look, +And said, "What's that to thee? +I'm ga'en to see a lovely maid, +Mair fairer far than ye." + +"Now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, +In simmer, 'mid the flowers? +I shall repay ye back again, +In winter, 'mid the showers." + +"But again, dear love, and again, dear love, +Will ye not turn again? +For as ye look to ither women, +I shall do to other men." + +"Make your choice o' whom you please, +For I my choice will have; +I've chosen a maid more fair than thee, +I never will deceive." + +But she's kilt up her claithing fine, +And after him gaed she; +But aye he said, "Ye'll turn again, +Nae farder gae wi' me." + +"But again, dear love, and again, dear love, +Will ye never love me again? +Alas! for loving you sae well, +And you na me again." + +The firstan' town that they came till, +He bought her brooch and ring; +But aye he bade her turn again, +And gang nae farder wi' him. + +"But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + +The nextan' town that they came till, +He bought her muff and gloves; +But aye he bade her turn again, +And choose some other loves. + +"But again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. + +The nextan' town that they came till, +His heart it grew mair fain; +And he was deep in love wi' her. +As she was ower again. + +The nextan' town that they came till, +He bought her wedding gown; +And made her lady o' ha's and bowers, +In sweet Berwick town. + + + + + +The Mermaid + + + +To yon fause stream that, near the sea, +Hides mony an elf and plum, +And rives wi' fearful din the stanes, +A witless knicht did come. + +The day shines clear--far in he's gane +Whar shells are silver bright, +Fishes war loupin' a' aroun', +And sparklin' to the light. + +Whan, as he laved, sounds cam sae sweet +Frae ilka rock an' tree; +The brief was out, 'twas him it doomed +The mermaid's face to see. + +Frae 'neath a rock, sune, sune she rose, +And stately on she swam, +Stopped i' the midst, and becked and sang +To him to stretch his han'. + +Gowden glist the yellow links +That round her neck she'd twine; +Her een war o' the skyie blue, +Her lips did mock the wine; + +The smile upon her bonnie cheek +Was sweeter than the bee; +Her voice excelled the birdie's sang +Upon the birchen tree. + +Sae couthie, couthie did she look, +And meikle had she fleeched; +Out shot his hand--alas! alas! +Fast in the swirl he screeched. + +The mermaid leuch, her brief was gane, +And kelpie's blast was blawin', +Fu' low she duked, ne'er raise again, +For deep, deep was the fawin'. + +Aboon the stream his wraith was seen, +Warlochs tirled lang at gloamin'; +That e'en was coarse, the blast blew hoarse, +Ere lang the waves war foamin'. + + + + + +The Battle of Otterburn + + + +THE FIRST FYTTE + + +It fell about the Lammas tide, +When husbands winn their hay, +The doughty Douglas bound him to ride +Into England to take a prey. + +The Earl of Fife, withouten strife, +He bound him over Solway; +The great would ever together ride +That race they may rue for aye. + +Over Ottercap hill they came in, +And so down by Rotheley crag, +Upon Green Leighton they lighted down, +Styrande many a stag; + +And boldly brente Northumberland, +And harried many a town; +They did our Englishmen great wrong +To battle that were not bown. + +Then spake a berne upon the bent, +Of comfort that was not cold, +And said, "We have brente Northumberland, +We have all wealth in holde. + +"Now we have harried all Bamborough shire +All the wealth in the world have we; +I rede we ride to Newcastle, +So still and stalworthlye." + +Upon the morrow, when it was day, +The standards shone full bright; +To the Newcastle they took the way, +And thither they came full right. + +Sir Henry Percy lay at the Newcastle, +I tell you, withouten dread; +He has been a March-man all his days, +And kept Berwick upon Tweed. + +To the Newcastle when they came, +The Scots they cried on hyght: +"Sir Harry Percy, an thou bist within, +Come to the field and fight: + +"For we have brente Northumberland, +Thy heritage good and right; +And syne my lodging I have take, +With my brand dubbed many a knight." + +Sir Harry Percy came to the walls, +The Scottish host for to see: +"And thou hast brente Northumberland, +Full sore it rueth me. + +"If thou hast harried all Bamborough shire, +Thou hast done me great envy; +For the trespass thou hast me done, +The one of us shall die." + +"Where shall I bide thee?" said the Douglas; +"Or where wilt thou come to me?" +"At Otterburn in the high way, +There mayst thou well lodged be. + +"The roe full reckless there she runs, +To make thee game and glee; +The falcon and the pheasant both, +Among the holtes on hee. + +"There mayst thou have thy wealth at will, +Well lodged there mayst thou be; +It shall not be long ere I come thee till," +Said Sir Harry Percye. + +"There shall I bide thee," said the Douglas, +"By the faith of my body." +"Thither shall I come," said Sir Harry Percy, +"My troth I plight to thee." + +A pipe of wine he gave them over the walls, +For sooth, as I you say; +There he made the Douglas drink, +And all his host that day. + +The Douglas turned him homeward again, +For sooth withouten nay; +He took his lodging at Otterburn +Upon a Wednesday; + +And there he pyght his standard down. +His getting more and less; +And syne he warned his men to go +And get their geldings gress. + +A Scottish knight hoved upon the bent, +A watch I dare well say; +So was he ware on the noble Percy +In the dawning of the day. + +He pricked to his pavilion door, +As fast as he might ronne; +"Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, +"For His love that sits in throne. + +"Awaken, Douglas!" cried the knight, +"For thou mayst waken with wynne; +Yonder have I spied the proud Percy, +And seven standards with him." + +"Nay, by my troth," the Douglas said, +"It is but a feigned tale; +He durst not look on my broad banner, +For all England so hayle. + +"Was I not yesterday at the Newcastle, +That stands so fair on Tyne? +For all the men the Percy had, +He could not garre me once to dyne." + +He stepped out at his pavilion door, +To look, and it were less; +"Array you, lordyngs, one and all, +For here begins no peace. + +"The Earl of Menteith, thou art my eme, +The forward I give to thee; +The Earl of Huntley cawte and keen, +He shall with thee be. + +"The Lord of Buchan, in armour bright, +On the other hand he shall be; +Lord Johnstone, and Lord Maxwell, +They two shall be with me. + +"Swynton fair field upon your pride +To battle make you bowen; +Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, +Sir John of Agerstone." + + + +THE SECOND FYTTE + + +The Percy came before his host, +Which ever was a gentle knight, +Upon the Douglas loud did he cry, + "I will hold that I have hight; + +"For thou hast brente Northumberland, +And done me great envy; +For this trespass thou hast me done +The one of us shall die." + +The Douglas answered him again, +With great words up on hee, +And said, "I have twenty against thy one, +Behold, and thou mayst see." + +With that the Percy was grieved sore, +For sooth as I you say; +He lighted down upon his foot, +And shot his horse clean away. + +Every man saw that he did so, +That ryall was ever in rout; +Every man shot his horse him fro, +And light him round about. + +Thus Sir Harry Percy took the field, +For sooth as I you say, +Jesu Christ in heaven on high, +Did help him well that day. + +But nine thousand, there was no more, +If chronicle will not layne; +Forty thousand Scots and four +That day fought them again, + +But when the battle began to join, +In haste there came a knight, +Then letters fair forth hath he ta'en, +And thus he said full right: + +"My lord, your father he greets you well, +With many a noble knight; +He desires you to bide, +That he may see this fight. + +"The baron of Grastock is come out of the west, +With him a noble company; +All they lodge at your father's this night, +And the battle fain would they see." + +"For Jesu's love," said Sir Harry Percy, +"That died for you and me, +Wend to my lord, my father, again, +And say thou saw me not with ee; + +"My troth is plight to yon Scottish knight, +It needs me not to layne, +That I should bide him upon this bent, +And I have his troth again; + +"And if that I wend off this ground, +For sooth unfoughten away, +He would me call but a coward knight, +In his land another day. + +"Yet had I lever to be rynde and rent, +By Mary that mykel may, +Than ever my manhood should be reproved +With a Scot another day. + +"Wherefore shoot, archers, for my sake, +And let sharp arrows flee; +Minstrels, play up for your warison, +And well quit it shall be. + +"Every man think on his true love, +And mark him to the Trinity; +For to God I make mine a-vow +This day will I not flee." + +The bloody heart in the Douglas' arms, +His standard stood on high, +That every man might full well know; +Beside stood starres three. + +The white Li n on the English part, +For sooth as I you sayne, +The luces and the crescents both +The Scots fought them again. + +Upon Saint Andrew loud did they cry, +And thrice they shout on hyght, +And syne marked them on our Englishmen, +As I have told you right. + +Saint George the bright, our Lady's knight, +To name they were full fain, +Our Englishmen they cried on hyght, +And thrice they shout again. + +With that sharp arrows began to flee, +I tell you in certain; +Men of arms began to join; +Many a doughty man was there slain. + +The Percy and the Douglas met, +That either of them was fain; +They schapped together, while that they sweat, +With swords of fine Collayne; + +Till the blood from their basenets ran +As the roke doth in the rain. +"Yield thee to me," said the Douglas, +"Or else thou shalt be slain; + +"For I see by thy bright basenet, +Thou art some man of might; +And so I do by thy burnished brand, +Thou art an earl, or else a knight." + +"By my good faith," said the noble Percy, +"Now hast thou rede full right; +Yet will I never yield me to thee, +While I may stand and fight." + +They swapped together, while that they sweat, +With swordes sharp and long; +Each on other so fast they beat, +Till their helms came in pieces down. + +The Percy was a man of strength, +I tell you in this stound +He smote the Douglas at the sword's length, +That he felled him to the ground. + +The sword was sharp, and sore did byte, +I tell you in certain; +To the heart he did him smite, +Thus was the Douglas slain. + +The standards stood still on each side; +With many a grievous groan, +There they fought the day, and all the night, +And many a doughty man was slone. + +There was no freyke that there would fly, +But stiffly in stour did stand, +Echone hewing on other while they might dry, +With many a baleful brand. + +There was slain upon the Scottes side, +For sooth and certainly, +Sir James of Douglas there was slain, +That day that he did die. + +The Earl of Menteith he was slain. +Grysely groaned upon the ground; +Sir Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward, +Sir John of Agerstone. + +Sir Charles Murray in that place, +That never a foot would fly; +Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was, +With the Douglas did he die. + +There was slain upon the Scottes side, +For sooth as I you say, +Of four and forty thousand Scots, +Went but eighteen away. + +There was slain upon the English side, +For sooth and certainly, +A gentle knight, Sir John Fitzhugh, +It was the more pity. + +Sir James Harebotell there was slain, +For him their hearts were sore +The gentle Lovel there was slain, +That the Percy's standard bore. + +There was slain upon the English side, +For sooth as I you say, +Of nine thousand Englishmen, +Five hundred came away; + +The others were slayne in the field, +Christ keep their souls from woe, +Seeing there were so few friends +Against so many a foe! + +Then on the morn they made them biers +Of birch and hazel gray; +Many a widow with weeping tears +Their makes they fetch away. + +This fray began at Otterburn, +Between the night and the day; +There the Douglas lost his life, +And the Percy was led away. + +Then was there a Scottish prisoner ta'en, +Sir Hugh Montgomery was his name, +For sooth as I you say, +He borrowed the Percy home again. + +Now let us all for the Percy pray, +To Jesu most of might, +To bring his soul to the bliss of heaven, +For he was a gentle knight. + + + + + +The Lament of the Border Widow + + + +My love he built me a bonny bower, +And clad it a' wi' a lilye flower, +A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, +Than my true love he built for me. + +There came a man, by middle day, +He spied his sport and went away, +And brought the king that very night, +Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. + +He slew my knight, to me so dear; +He slew my knight, and poined his gear; +My servants all for life did flee, +And left me in extremitie. + +I sewed his sheet, making my mane; +I watched the corpse, myself alane; +I watched his body, night and day; +No living creature came that way. + +I took his body on my back, +And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat, +I digged a grave, and laid him in, +And happed him with the sod so green. + +But think na ye my heart was sair, +When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair; +Think na ye my heart was wae, +When I turned about, away to gae? + +Nae living man I'll love again, +Since that my lovely knight is slain; +W? ae lock of his yellow hair +I'll chain my heart for evermair. + + + + + +The Banks o' Yarrow + + + +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. + +"What though ye be my sister's lord, +We'll cross our swords to-morrow." +"What though my wife your sister be, +I'll meet ye then on Yarrow." + +"O stay at hame, my ain gude lord! +O stay, my ain dear marrow! +My cruel brither will you betray +On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + +"O fare ye weel, my lady dear! +And put aside your sorrow; +For if I gae, I'll sune return +Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + +She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, +As oft she'd done before, O; +She belted him wi' his gude brand, +And he's awa' to Yarrow. + +When he gaed up the Tennies bank, +As he gaed mony a morrow, +Nine armed men lay in a den, +On the dowie braes o' Yarrow. + +"O come ye here to hunt or hawk +The bonny Forest thorough? +Or come ye here to wield your brand +Upon the banks o' Yarrow?" + +"I come not here to hunt or hawk, +As oft I've dune before, O, +But I come here to wield my brand +Upon the banks o' Yarrow. + +"If ye attack me nine to ane, +Then may God send ye sorrow!-- +Yet will I fight while stand I may, +On the bonny banks o' Yarrow." + +Two has he hurt, and three has slain, +On the bloody braes o' Yarrow; +But the stubborn knight crept in behind, +And pierced his body thorough. + +"Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John, +And tell your sister sorrow,-- +To come and lift her leafu' lord +On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." + +Her brither John gaed ower yon hill, +As oft he'd dune before, O; +There he met his sister dear, +Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow. + +"I dreamt a dream last night," she says, +"I wish it binna sorrow; +I dreamt I pu'd the heather green +Wi' my true love on Yarrow." + +"I'll read your dream, sister," he says, +"I'll read it into sorrow; +Ye're bidden go take up your love, +He's sleeping sound on Yarrow." + +She's torn the ribbons frae her head +That were baith braid and narrow; +She's kilted up her lang claithing, +And she's awa' to Yarrow. + +She's ta'en him in her arms twa, +And gi'en him kisses thorough; +She sought to bind his mony wounds, +But he lay dead on Yarrow. + +"O haud your tongue," her father says, +"And let be a' your sorrow; +I'll wed you to a better lord +Than him ye lost on Yarrow." + +"O haud your tongue, father," she says, +"Far warse ye mak' my sorrow; +A better lord could never be +Than him that lies on Yarrow." + +She kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair, +As aft she had dune before, O; +And there wi' grief her heart did break, +Upon the banks o' Yarrow. + + + + + +Hugh of Lincoln + + + +SHOWING THE CRUELTY OF A JEW'S DAUGHTER + + +Four and twenty bonny boys +Were playing at the ba', +And up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh, +The flower among them a'. + +He kicked the ba' there wi' his foot, +And keppit it wi' his knee, +Till even in at the Jew's window +He gart the bonny ba' flee. + +"Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, +Cast out the ba' to me." +"Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter, +Till ye come up to me." + +"Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, +Come up and get the ba'." +"I winna come, I mayna come, +Without my bonny boys a'." + +She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden, +Where the grass grew lang and green, +She's pu'd an apple red and white, +To wyle the bonny boy in. + +She's wyled him in through ae chamber, +She's wyled him in through twa, +She's wyled him into the third chamber, +And that was the warst o' a'. + +She's tied the little boy, hands and feet, +She's pierced him wi' a knife, +She's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup, +And twinn'd him o' his life. + +She row'd him in a cake o' lead, +Bade him lie still and sleep, +She cast him in a deep draw-well +Was fifty fathom deep. + +When bells were rung, and mass was sung, +And every bairn went hame, +Then ilka lady had her young son, +But Lady Helen had nane. + +She row'd her mantle her about, +And sair, sair 'gan she weep; +And she ran unto the Jew's house, +When they were all asleep. + +"My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh, +I pray thee to me speak!" +"Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-well +'Gin ye your son wad seek." + +Lady Helen ran to the deep draw-well, +And knelt upon her knee: +"My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here, +I pray thee speak to me!" + +"The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, +The well is wondrous deep; +A keen penknife sticks in my heart, +It is hard for me to speak. + +"Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, +Fetch me my winding-sheet; +And at the back o' merry Lincoln, +It's there we twa sall meet." + +Now Lady Helen she's gane hame, +Made him a winding-sheet; +And at the back o' merry Lincoln, +The dead corpse did her meet. + +And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln +Without men's hands were rung; +And a' the books o' merry Lincoln +Were read without men's tongue: +Never was such a burial +Sin' Adam's days begun. + + + + + +Sir Patrick Spens + + + +The king sits in Dunfermline town, +Drinking the blude-red wine; +"O whare will I get a skeely skipper, +To sail this new ship of mine?" + +O up and spak' an eldern knight, +Sat at the king's right knee, +"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, +That ever sailed the sea." + +Our king has written a braid letter, +And seated 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 of Noroway +'Tis thou maun bring her hame." + +The first word that Sir Patrick read, +Sae loud loud laughed he; +The neist word that Sir Patrick read, +The tear blinded his ee. + +"O wha is this has done this deed, +And tauld the king o' me, +To send us out at this time of the 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 of Noroway, +'Tis we must fetch her hame." + +They hoysed their sails an Moneday morn, +Wi' a' the speed they may; +They hae landed in Noroway, +Upon a Wednesday. + +They hadna been a week, a week, +In Noroway, but twae, +When that the lords o' Noroway +Began aloud to say: + +"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, +And a' our queen's fee." +"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! +Fu' loud I hear ye lie; + +"For I brought as much white monie, +As gane my men and me, +And I brought a half-fou of gude red goud, +Out o'er the sea wi' me. + +"Make ready, make ready, my merry men a', +Our gude ship sails the morn." +"Now, ever alake, my master dear, +I fear a deadly storm! + +"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, +Wi' the old moon in her arm; +And, if we gang to sea, master, +I fear we'll come to harm." + +They hadna sailed a league, a league, +A league but barely three, +When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud +And gurly grew the sea. + +The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, +It was sic a deadly storm; +And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, +Till a' her sides were torn. + +"O where will I get a gude sail r, +To take my helm in hand, +Till I get up to the tall top-mast, +To see if I can spy land?" + +"O here am I, a sailor gude, +To take the helm in hand, +Till you go up to the tall top-mast; +But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." + +He hadna gane a step, a step, +A step but barely ane, +When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, +And the salt sea it cam in. + +"Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith, +Another o' the twine, +And wap them into our ship's side, +And let nae the sea come in." + +They fetched a web o' the silken claith, +Another o' the twine, +And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, +But still the sea cam in. + +O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords +To weet their cork-heeled shoon! +But lang or a' the play was played, +They wat their hats aboon. + +And mony was the feather bed, +That flattered on the faem; +And mony was the gude lord's son, +That never mair cam hame. + +The ladies wrang their fingers white, +The maidens tore their hair, +A' for the sake of their true loves +For them they'll see nae mair. + +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, +With their goud kaims in their hair +A' waiting for their ain dear loves, +For them they'll see nae mair! + +O forty miles off Aberdeen, +'Tis fifty fathoms deep, +And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens +Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Old English Ballads +by George Wharton Edwards + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF OLD ENGLISH BALLADS *** + +This file should be named 9boeb10.txt or 9boeb10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 9boeb11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 9boeb10a.txt + +Produced by John B. 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