The Jew's Daughter
The rain rins doun through Mirry-land toune,
Sae dois it doune the Pa:
Sae dois the lads of Mirry-land toune,
Quhan they play at the ba'.
Than out and cam the Jewis dochter,
Said, 'Will ye cum in and dine?'
'I winnae cum in, I cannae cum in,
Without my play-feres nine.'
Scho powd an apple reid and white,
To intice the zong thing in:
Scho powd an apple white and reid,
And that the sweit bairne did win.
And scho has taine out a little penknife,
And low down by her gair;
Scho has twin'd the zong thing and his life;
A word he nevir spak mair.
And out and cam the thick, thick, bluid,
And out and cam the thin;
And out and cam the bonny herts bluid:
Thair was nae life left in.
Scho laid him on a dressing borde,
And drest him like a swine,
And laughing said, 'Gae nou and pley
With zour sweit play-feres nine.'
Scho rowd him in a cake of lead,
Bade him lie stil and sleip;
Scho cast him in a deip draw-well,
Was fifty fadom deip.
Quhan bells wer rung, and mass was sung,
And every lady went hame:
Than ilka lady had her zong sonne,
Bot Lady Helen had none.
Scho rowd hir mantil hir about,
And sair, sair gan she weip,
And she ran into the Jewis castel,
Quhan they were all asleip.
'My bonny Sir Hew, my pretty Sir Hew,
I pray thee to me speik:'
'O lady, rinn to the deip draw-well,
Gin ze zour zonne wad seik.'
Lady Helen ran to the deip draw-well,
And knelt upon her kne:
'My bonny Sir Hew, an ze be here,
I pray thee speik to me.'
'The lead is wondrous heavy, mither,
The well is wondrous deip;
A keen pen-knife sticks in my hert,
A word I dounae speik.
'Gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir,
Fetch me my windling sheet,
And at the back o' Mirry-land toun
Its thair we twa sall meet.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Sir Hugh; Or The Jew's Daughter
Four-and-twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba,
And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,
And he playd o'er them a'.
He kickd the ba with his right foot
And catchd it wi his knee,
And throuch-and-thro the Jew's window
He gard the bonny ba flee.
He's doen him to the Jew's castell
And walkd it round about;
And there he saw the Jew's daughter,
At the window looking out.
'Throw down the ba, ye Jew's daughter,
Throw down the ba to me!'
'Never a bit,' says the Jew's daughter,
'Till up to me come ye.'
'How will I come up? How can I come up?
How can I come to thee?
For as ye did to my auld father,
The same ye'll do to me.'
She's gane till her father's garden,
And pu'd an apple red and green;
'Twas a' to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,
And to entice him in.
She's led him in through ae dark door,
And sae has she thro nine;
She's laid him on a dressing-table,
And stickit him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin;
And syne came out the bonny heart's blood;
There was nae mair within.
She's rowd him in a cake o lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep;
She's thrown him in Our Lady's draw-well,
Was fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a' the bairns came hame,
When every lady gat hame her son,
The Lady Maisry gat nane.
She's taen her mantle her about,
Her coffer by the hand,
And she's gane out to seek her son,
And wandered o'er the land.
She's doen her to the Jew's castell,
Where a' were fast asleep:
'Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.'
'Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,
Prepare my winding-sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln
The morn I will you meet.'
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,
Make 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 man's tongue,
And neer was such a burial
Sin Adam's days begun.
poem by Andrew Lang
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The Bludy Serk
THIS hinder yeir I hard be tald
Thair was a worthy King;
Dukis, Erlis, and Barronis bald,
He had at his bidding.
The Lord was ancean and ald,
And sexty yeiris cowth ring;
He had a dochter fair to fald,
A lusty Lady ying.
Off all fairheid scho bur the flour,
And eik hir faderis air;
Off lusty laitis and he honour,
Meik bot and debonair:
Scho wynnit in a bigly bour,
On fold wes nane so fair,
Princis luvit hir paramour
In cuntreis our allquhair.
Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the King
A foull Gyand of ane;
Stollin he has the Lady ying,
Away with hir is gane,
And kest her in his dungering
Quhair licht scho micht se nane;
Hungir and cauld and grit thristing
Scho fand into hir waine.
He wes the laithliest on to luk
That on the grund mycht gang:
His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk,
Thairwith fyve quarteris lang;
Thair wes nane that he ourtuk,
In rycht or yit in wrang,
Bot all in schondir he thame schuk,
The Gyand wes so strang.
He held the Lady day and nycht
Within his deip dungeoun,
He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht
For gold nor yit ransoun--
Bot gif the King mycht get a knycht,
To fecht with his persoun,
To fecht with him beth day and nycht,
Quhill ane wer dungin doun.
The King gart seik baith fer and neir,
Beth be se and land,
Off ony knycht gif he mycht heir
Wald fecht with that Gyand:
A worthy Prince, that had no peir,
Hes tane the deid on hand
For the luve of the Lady cleir,
And held full trew cunnand.
That Prince come prowdly to the toun
Of that Gyand to heir,
And fawcht with him, his awin persoun,
And tuke him presoneir,
And kest him in his awin dungeoun
Allane withouten feir,
With hungir, cauld, and confusioun,
As full weill worthy weir.
Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht
Unto her fadir fre.
Sa evill wondit wes the Knycht
That he behuvit to de;
Unlusum was his likame dicht,
His sark was all bludy;
In all the world was thair a wicht
So peteouss for to se?
The Lady murnyt and maid grit mane,
With all her mekill mycht--
'I luvit nevir lufe bot ane,
That dulfully now is dicht;
God sen my lyfe were fra me tane
Or I had seen yone sicht,
Or ellis in begging evir to gane
Furth with yone curtass knycht.'
He said 'Fair lady, now mone I
De, trestly ye me trow;
Take ye my serk that is bludy,
And hing it forrow yow;
First think on it, and syne on me,
Quhen men cumis yow to wow.'
The Lady said 'Be Mary fre,
Thairto I mak a vow.'
Quhen that scho lukit to the sark
Scho thocht on the persoun,
And prayit for him with all hir hart
That lowsit hir of bandoun,
Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk
Into that deip dungeoun;
And evir quhill scho wes in quert,
That was hir a lessoun.
Sa weill the Lady luvit the Knycht
That no man wald scho tak:
Sa suld we do our God of micht
That did all for us mak;
Quhilk fullily to deid was dicht,
For sinfull manis sak,
Sa suld we do beth day and nycht,
With prayaris to him mak.
This King is lyk the Trinitie,
Baith in hevin and heir;
The manis saule to the Lady,
The Gyand to Lucefeir,
The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre
And coft our synnis deir;
The pit to Hele with panis fell,
The Syn to the woweir.
The Lady was wowd, but scho said nay
With men that wald hir wed;
Sa suld we wryth all sin away
That in our breist is bred.
I pray to Jesu Chryst verray,
For ws his blud that bled,
To be our help on domisday
Quhair lawis ar straitly led.
The saule is Godis dochtir deir,
And eik his handewerk,
That was betrayit with Lucefeir,
Quha sittis in hell full merk:
Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir,
Hend men, will ye nocht herk?
And for his lufe that bocht us deir
Think on the BLUDY SERK!
poem by Robert Henryson
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Edom O' Gordon
It fell about the Martinmas,
Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld,
Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
'We maun draw to a hauld.
'And quhat a hauld sall we draw till,
My mirry men and me?
We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes,
To see that fair ladie.'
The lady stude on hir castle wa',
Beheld baith dale and down,
There she was ware of a host of men,
Cum ryding towards the toun.
'O see ze nat, my mirry men a'?
O see ze nat quhat I see?
Methinks I see a host of men:
I marveil quha they be.'
She weend it had been hir luvely lord,
As he cam ryding hame;
It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,
Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.
She had nae sooner buskit hirsel,
And putten on hir goun,
Till Edom o' Gordon and his men
Were round about the toun.
They had nae sooner supper sett,
Nae sooner said the grace,
Till Edom o' Gordon and his men
Were light about the place.
The lady ran up to hir towir head,
Sa fast as she could hie,
To see if by her fair speeches,
She could wi' him agree.
But quhan he see this lady saif,
And hir yates all locked fast,
He fell into a rage of wrath,
And his look was all aghast.
'Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,
Cum doun, cum doune to me;
This night sall ye lig within mine armes,
To-morrow my bride shall be.'
'I winnae cum doun, ze fals Gordon,
I winnae cum doun to thee;
I winnae forsake my ain dear lord,
That is sae far frae me.'
'Give owre zour house, ze lady fair,
Give owre zour house to me,
OR I sall brenn yoursel therein,
Bot and zour babies three.'
'I winnae give owre, ze fals Gordon,
To nae sik traitor as zee;
And if ze brenn my ain dear babes,
My lord sall make ze drie.
'But reach me hether my guid bend-bowe,
Mine arrows one by one;
For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
My babes we been undone.'
She stude upon her castle wa',
And let twa arrows flee;
She mist that bluidy butchers hart,
And only raz'd his knee.
'Set fire to the house,' quo' fals Gordon,
All wood wi' dule and ire;
'Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid,
As ze brenn in the fire.'
'Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man,
I paid ze weil zour fee;
Quhy pow ze out the ground-wa' stane,
Lets in the reek to me?
'And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man,
I paid e weil zour hire;
Quhy pow ze out the ground-wa' stane,
To me lets in the fire?'
'Ze paid me weil my hire, lady;
Ze paid me weil my fee;
But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man,
Maun either doe or die.'
O than bespaik hir little son,
Sate on the nourice' knee,
Sayes, 'Mither deare, gi owre this house,
For the reek it smithers me.'
'I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe,
Sae wad I a' my fee,
For ane blast o' the westlin wind,
To blaw the reek frae thee.'
O then bespaik hir dochter dear,
She was baith jim[ and sma:
'O row me in a pair o' sheits,
And tow me owre the wa.'
The rowd hir in a pair o' sheits,
And towd hir owre the wa;
But on the point of Gordons spear
She gat a deadly fa.
O bonnie, bonnie was hir mouth,
And cherry were hir cheiks,
And clear, clear was hir zellow hair,
Whereon the reid bluid dreips.
Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre;
O gin her face was wan!
He sayd, 'Ze are the first that eir
I wisht alive again.'
He turnd hir owre and owre again;
O gin hir skin was whyte!
'I might ha spared that bonnie face,
To hae been sum mans delyte.
'Busk and boun, my merry man a',
For ill dooms I doe guess;
I cannae luik in that bonny face,
As it lyes on the grass.'
'Thame luiks to freits, my master deir,
Then freits wil follow thame;
Let it neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon
Was daunted by a dame.'
But quhen the ladye see the fire
Cum flaming owre hir head,
She wept and kist her children twain,
Sayd, 'Bairns, we been but dead.'
The Gordon then his bougill blew,
And said, 'Awa', awa';
This horse o' the Rodes is a' in flame,
I hauld it time to ga'.'
O then he spyed hir ain dear lord,
As hee cam owr the lee;
He sied his castle all in blaze
Sa far as he could see.
Then sair, O sair his mind misgave,
And all his hart was wae;
'Put on, put on, my wighty men,
So fast as ze can gae.
'Put on, put on, my wighty men,
So fast as ze can drie;
For he that is hindmost of the thrang,
Sall neir get guid o' me.'
Than sum they rade, and sum they rin,
Fou fast out-owr the bent;
But eir the foremost could get up,
Baith lady and babes were brent.
He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,
And wept in teenefu' muid:
'O traitors, for this cruel deid
Ze sall weep teirs o' bluid.'
And after the Gordon he is gane,
Sa fast as he might drie;
And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid
He's wroken his dear ladie.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Testament of Cressida (excerpt)
...
Thus chydand with her drerie destenye,
Weiping, scho woik the nicht fra end to end;
Bot all in vane; hir dule, hir cairfull cry,
Micht not remeid, nor yit hir murning mend.
Ane lipper lady rais, and till hir wend,
And said, "Quhy spurnis thow aganis the wall,
To sla thyself, and mend nathing at all?
"Sen thy weiping dowbillis bot thy wo,
I counsall the mak vertew of ane neid;
To leir to clap thy clapper to and fro,
And leir efter the law of lipper leid."
Thair was na buit, bot furth with thame scho yeid,
Fra place to place, quhill cauld and hounger sair
Compellit hir to be ane rank beggair.
That samin tyme of Troy the garnisoun,
Quhilk had to chiftane worthie Troylus,
Throw jeopardie of weir had strikken down
Knichtis of Grece in number marvellous:
With greit tryumphe and laude victorious
Agane to Troy richt royallie they raid,
The way quhair Cresseid with the lipper baid.
Seing that companie, thai come all with ane stevin;
Thay gaif ane cry, and schuik coppis gude speid;
Said, "Worthie lordis, for Goddis lufe of hevin,
To us lipper part of your almous deid."
Than to thair cry nobill Troylus tuik heid,
Having pietie, neir by the place can pas
Quhair Cresseid sat, not witting quhat scho was.
Than upon him scho kest up baith her ene,
And with ane blenk it come into his thocht
That he sumtime hir face befoir had sene;
But scho was in sic plye he knew hir nocht;
Yit than hir luik into his mynd it brocht
The sweit visage and amorous blenking
Of fair Cresseid, sumtyme his awin darling.
Na wonder was, suppois in mynd that he
Tuik hir figure sa sone, and lo! now quhy!
The idole of ane thing in cace may be
Sa deip imprentit in the fantasy,
That it deludis the wittis outwardly,
And sa appeiris in forme and lyke estait
Within the mynd, as it was figurait.
Ane spark of lufe than till his hart culd spring,
And kendlit all his bodie in ane fyre,
With hait fevir ane sweit and trimbling
Him tuik, quhill he was reddie to expyre;
To beir his scheild his breist began to tyre;
Within ane quhyle he changit mony hew,
And, nevertheles, not ane ane uther knew.
For knichtlie pietie and memoriall
Of fair Cresseid, ane gyrdill can he tak,
Ane purs of gold, and mony gay jowall,
And in the skirt of Cresseid doun can swak:
Than raid away, and not ane word he spak,
Pensive in hart, quhill he come to the toun,
And for greit cair oft syis almaist fell doun.
The lipper folk to Cresseid than can draw,
To se the equall distributioun
Of the almous; but quhan the gold they saw,
Ilk ane to uther prevelie can roun,
And said, "Yone lord hes mair affectioun,
How ever it be, unto yone lazarous,
Than to us all; we knaw be his almous."
"Quhat lord is yone," (quod scho), "have ye na feill,
Hes done to us so greit humanitie?"
"Yes," (quod a lipper man), "I knaw him weill;
Schir Troylus it is, gentill and fre."
Quhen Cresseid understude that it was he,
Stiffer than steill thair stert ane bitter stound
Throwout hir hart, and fell doun to the ground.
Quhen scho, ouircome with siching sair and sad,
With many cairfull cry and cald "Ochane!
Now is my breist with stormie stoundis stad,
Wrappit in wo, ane wretch full will of wane:"
Than swounit scho oft or scho culd refrane,
And ever in hir swouning cryit scho thus:
"O, fals Cresseid, and trew knicht Troylus!
"Thy lufe, thy lawtie, and thy gentilnes
I countit small in my prosperitie;
Sa elevait I was in wantones,
And clam upon the fickill quheill sa hie;
All faith and lufe I promissit to the
Was in the self fickill and frivolous:
O, fals Cresseid, and trew knicht Troilus!
"For lufe of me thow keipt gude continence,
Honest and chaist in conversatioun;
Of all wemen protectour and defence
Thou was, and helpit thair opinioun:
My mynd in fleschelie foull affectioun
Was inclynit to lustis lecherous:
Fy, fals Cresseid! O, trew knicht Troylus!
"Lovers, be war, and tak gude heid about
Quhome that ye lufe, for quhome ye suffer paine;
I lat yow wit, thair is richt few thairout
Quhome ye may traist to have trew lufe agane:
Preif quhen ye will, your labour is in vaine;
Thairfoir, I reid ye tak thame as ye find,
For thay ar sad as widdercock in wind,
"Becaus I knaw the greit unstabilnes,
Brukkil as glas, into my self, I say,
Traisting in uther als greit unfaithfulnes,
Als unconstant, and als untrew of fay;
Thocht sum be trew, I wait richt few are thay;
Quha findis treuth, lat him his lady ruse:
Nane but my self, as now, I will accuse."
Quhen this was said, with paper scho sat doun,
And on this maneir maid hir testament:
"Heir I beteiche my corps and carioun
With wormis and with taidis to be rent;
My cop and clapper, and myne ornament,
And all my gold, the lipper folk sall have,
Quhen I am deid, to burie me in grave.
"This royall ring, set with this rubie reid,
Quhilk Troylus in drowrie to me send,
To him agane I leif it quhan I am deid,
To mak my cairfull deid unto him kend:
Thus I conclude schortlie, and mak ane end;
My spreit I leif to Diane, quhair scho dwellis,
To walk with hir in waist woddis and wellis.
"O, Diomeid! thow hes baith broche and belt
Quhilk Troylus gave me in takning
Of his trew lufe,"--and with that word scho swelt;
And sone ane lipper man tuik of the ring,
Syne buryit hir withouttin tarying:
To Troylus furthwith the ring he bair,
And of Cresseid the deith he can declair.
Quhen he had hard hir greit infirmitie,
Hir legacie and lamentatioun,
And how scho endit in sic povertie,
He swelt for wo, and fell doun in ane swoun;
For greit sorrow his hart to birst was boun:
Siching full sadlie, said, "I can no moir;
Scho was untrew, and wo is me thairfoir!"
Sum said he maid ane tomb of merbell gray,
And wrait hir name and superscriptioun,
And laid it on hir grave, quhair that scho lay,
In goldin letteris, conteining this ressoun:
"Lo, fair ladyis, Cresseid of Troyis toun,
Sumtyme countit the flour of womanheid,
Under this stane, late lipper, lyis deid!"
Now, worthie wemen, in this ballet schort,
Made for your worschip and instructioun,
Of cheritie I monische and exhort,
Ming not your lufe with fals deceptioun;
Beir in your mynd this schort conclusioun
Of fair Cresseid, as I have said befoir:
Sen scho is deid, I speik of hir no moir.
poem by Robert Henryson
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The Ew-Bughts Marion. A Scottish Song.
Will ze gae to the ew-bughts, Marion,
And wear in the sheip wi' mee?
The sun shines sweit, my Marion,
But nae half sae sweit as thee.
O Marion's a bonnie lass,
And the blyth blinks in her ee;
And fain wad I marrie Marion,
Gin Marion wad marrie mee.
Theire's gowd in zour garters, Marion;
And siller on zour white haussbane;
Fou faine wad I kisse my Marion
At eene quhan I cum hame.
Theire's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion,
Quha gape and glowr wi' their ee
At kirk, quhan they see my Marion;
Bot nane of them lues like mee.
Ive nine milk-ews, my Marion,
A cow and a brawney quay;
Ise gie tham au to my Marion,
Just on her bridal day.
And zees get a grein sey apron,
And waistcote o' London broun,
And wow bot ze will be vaporing
Quhanier ze gang to the toun.
Ime yong and stout, my Marion,
None dance lik mee on the greine;
And gin ze forsak me, Marion,
Ise een gae draw up wi' Jeane.
Sae put on zour pearlins, Marion,
And kirtle oth' cramasie,
And sune as my chin has nae haire on,
I sall cum west and see zee.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Edward, Edward. A Scottish Ballad
MODERN TRANSLATION (original below)
'Why does your sword so drip with blood,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your sword so drip with blood?
And why so sad are ye, O?'
'O, I have killed my hawk so good,
Mother, mother:
O I have killed my hawk so good:
And I had no more but he, O.'
'Your hawk's blood was never so red,
Edward, Edward:
Your hawk’s blood was never so red,
My dear son I tell thee, O.'
'O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
Mother, mother:
O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
That once was so fair and free, O.'
'Your steed was old, and we have got more,
Edward, Edward:
Your steed was old, and we have got more,
Some other evil ye fear, O.'
'O, I have killed my father dear,
Mother, mother:
O, I have killed my father dear,
Alas! and woe is me, O!'
'And what penance will ye suffer for that,
Edward, Edward?
And what penance will ye suffer for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mother, mother:
I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I’ll fare over the sea, O.'
'And what will ye do with your towers and your halls,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do with your towers and your halls,
That were sae fair to see, O?'
'I’ll let them stand till they down fall,
Mother, mother:
I’ll let them stand till they down fall,
For here never more may I be, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your children and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your children and your wife
When ye go over the sea, O?'
'The world is large, let them beg through life,
Mother, mother:
The world is large, let them beg throw life,
For them never more will I see, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your own mother dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your own mother dear?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'The curse of hell from me shall you bear,
Mother, mother:
The curse of hell from me shall you bear,
Such counsels you gave to me, O.'
OLD SCOTS VERSION
'Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid,
Edward, Edward?
Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid?
And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?'
'O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither:
O I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
And I had nae mair bot hee, O.'
'Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
Edward, Edward:
Zour haukis bluid was never sae reid,
My deir son I tell thee, O.'
'O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and free, O.'
'Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
Edward, Edward:
Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
Sum other dule ze drie, O.'
'O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas! and wae is mee, O!'
'And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,
Edward, Edward?
And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
My deir son, now tell me, O.'
'Ile set my feit in zonder boat,
Mither, mither:
Ile set my feit in zonder boat,
And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.'
'And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wull ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?'
'Ile let thame stand til they doun fa',
Mither, mither:
Ile let thame stand til they doun fa',
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.'
'And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife
Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?'
'The warldis room, late them beg throw life,
Mither, mither:
The warldis room, let them beg throw life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.'
'And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
My deir son, now tell me, O.'
'The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,
Mither, mither:
The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,
Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Edward, Edward
Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid,
Edward, Edward?
Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid?
And why sae sad gang ye, O?
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
Edward, Edward,
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
My deir son I tell thee, O.
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and frie, O.
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
Edward, Edward,
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
Sum other dule ye drie, O.
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas, and wae is mee, O.
And whatten penance wul ye drie for that,
Edward, Edward?
And whatten penance will ye drie for that?
My deir son, now tell me, O.
Ile set my feit in yonder boat,
Mither, mither,
Il set my feit in yonder boat,
And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.
And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?
Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
Mither, mither,
Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
Whan ye gang ovir the sea, O?
The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,
Mither, mither,
The warldis room, let them beg thrae life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir?
My deir son, now tell mee, O.
The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
Mither, mither,
The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
Sic counseils ye gave to me, O.
poem by Thomas Percy
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Sir Patrick Spence
The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
"O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?"
Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the se."
The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
"O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se!
"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne:"
"O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.
"Late late yestreen I saw the new moone,
Wi the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme."
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.
Sir Patrick Spence
The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
"O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?"
Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the se."
The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
"O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se!
"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne:"
"O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.
"Late late yestreen I saw the new moone,
Wi the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme."
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Robin and Makyne
ROBIN sat on gude green hill,
Kepand a flock of fe:
Mirry Makyne said him till
'Robin, thou rew on me:
I haif thee luvit, loud and still,
Thir yeiris twa or thre;
My dule in dern bot gif thou dill,
Doutless but dreid I de.'
Robin answerit 'By the Rude
Na thing of luve I knaw,
But keipis my scheip undir yon wud:
Lo, quhair they raik on raw.
Quhat has marrit thee in thy mude,
Makyne, to me thou shaw;
Or quhat is luve, or to be lude?
Fain wad I leir that law.'
'At luvis lair gif thou will leir
Tak thair ane A B C;
Be heynd, courtass, and fair of feir,
Wyse, hardy, and free:
So that no danger do thee deir
Quhat dule in dern thou dre;
Preiss thee with pain at all poweir
Be patient and previe.'
Robin answerit hir agane,
'I wat nocht quhat is lufe;
But I haif mervel in certaine
Quhat makis thee this wanrufe:
The weddir is fair, and I am fain;
My scheip gois haill aboif;
And we wald prey us in this plane,
They wald us baith reproif.'
'Robin, tak tent unto my tale,
And wirk all as I reid,
And thou sall haif my heart all haill,
Eik and my maiden-heid:
Sen God sendis bute for baill,
And for murnyng remeid,
In dern with thee bot gif I daill
Dowtles I am bot deid.'
'Makyne, to-morn this ilka tyde
And ye will meit me heir,
Peraventure my scheip may gang besyde,
Quhyle we haif liggit full neir;
But mawgre haif I, and I byde,
Fra they begin to steir;
Quhat lyis on heart I will nocht hyd;
Makyn, then mak gude cheir.'
'Robin, thou reivis me roiff and rest;
I luve bot thee allane.'
'Makyne, adieu! the sone gois west,
The day is neir-hand gane.'
'Robin, in dule I am so drest
That luve will be my bane.'
'Ga luve, Makyne, quhair-evir thow list,
For lemman I luve nane.'
'Robin, I stand in sic a styll,
I sicht and that full sair.'
'Makyne, I haif been here this quhyle;
At hame God gif I wair.'
'My huny, Robin, talk ane quhyll,
Gif thow will do na mair.'
'Makyn, sum uthir man begyle,
For hamewart I will fair.'
Robin on his wayis went
As light as leif of tre;
Makyne murnit in hir intent,
And trowd him nevir to se.
Robin brayd attour the bent:
Then Makyne cryit on hie,
'Now may thow sing, for I am schent!
Quhat alis lufe at me?'
Makyne went hame withowttin fail,
Full wery eftir cowth weip;
Then Robin in a ful fair daill
Assemblit all his scheip.
Be that sum part of Makynis aill
Out-throw his hairt cowd creip;
He fallowit hir fast thair till assaill,
And till her tuke gude keip.
'Abyd, abyd, thow fair Makyne,
A word for ony thing;
For all my luve, it sall be thyne,
Withowttin departing.
All haill thy hairt for till haif myne
Is all my cuvating;
My scheip to-morn, quhyle houris nyne,
Will neid of no keping.'
'Robin, thow hes hard soung and say,
In gestis and storeis auld,
The man that will nocht quhen he may
Sall haif nocht quhen he wald.
I pray to Jesu every day,
Mot eik thair cairis cauld
That first preissis with thee to play
Be firth, forrest, or fauld.'
'Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry,
The weddir is warme and fair,
And the grene woid rycht neir us by
To walk attour all quhair:
Thair ma na janglour us espy,
That is to lufe contrair;
Thairin, Makyne, baith ye and I,
Unsene we ma repair.'
'Robin, that warld is all away,
And quyt brocht till ane end:
And nevir agane thereto, perfay,
Sall it be as thow wend;
For of my pane thow maid it play;
And all in vane I spend:
As thow hes done, sa sall I say,
"Murne on, I think to mend."'
'Makyne, the howp of all my heill,
My hairt on thee is sett;
And evirmair to thee be leill
Quhill I may leif but lett;
Never to faill as utheris feill,
Quhat grace that evir I gett.'
'Robin, with thee I will nocht deill;
Adieu! for thus we mett.'
Makyne went hame blyth anneuche
Attour the holttis hair;
Robin murnit, and Makyne leuche;
Scho sang, he sichit sair:
And so left him baith wo and wreuch,
In dolour and in cair,
Kepand his hird under a huche
Amangis the holttis hair.
poem by Robert Henryson
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Robin and Malkin
Robene sat on gud grene hill,
Kepand a flok of fe;
Mirry Makyne said him till,
"Robene, thow rew on me;
I haif the luvit lowd and still,
Thir yeiris two or thre;
My dule in dern bot gif thow dill,
Dowtless but dreid I de."
Robene answerit, "Be the rude,
Nathing of lufe I knaw,
Bot keipis my scheip undir yone wid,
Lo quhair they raik on raw:
Quhat hes marrit the in thy mude,
Makyne, to me thow schaw;
Or quhat is lufe, or to be lude?
Fane wald I leir that law."
"At luvis lair gife thow will leir,
Tak thair ane a b c;
Be heynd, courtass, and fair of feir,
Wyse, hardy, and fre;
So that no denger do the deir,
Quhat dule in dern thow dre;
Preiss the with pane at all poweir,
Be patient and previe."
Robene anserit hir agane,
"I wait nocht quhat is luve;
But I haif mervell in certane
Quhat makis the this wanrufe:
The weddir is fair, and I am fane,
My scheip gois haill aboif;
And we wald play us in this plane,
Thay wald us bayth reproif."
"Robene, tak tent unto my taill,
And wirk all as I reid,
And thow sall haif my hairt all haill,
Eik and my maidenheid.
Sen God sendis bute for baill
And for murnyng remeid,
In dern with the bot gif I daill,
Dowtles I am bot deid."
"Makyne, to morne this ilk a tyde,
And ye will meit me heir,--
Peraventure my scheip may gang besyd,
Quhill we haif liggit full neir;
Bot mawgre haif I and I byd,
Fra thay begin to steir;
Quhat lyis on hairt I will nocht hyd;
Makyn, than mak gud cheir."
"Robene, thow reivis me roif and rest;
I luve bot the allane."
"Makyne, adew, the sone gois west,
The day is neir hand gane."
"Robene, in dule I am so drest,
That lufe wilbe my bane."
"Ga lufe, Makyne, quhair evir thow list,
For lemman I lue nane."
"Robene, I stand in sic a styll;
I sicht, and that full sair."
"Makyne, I haif bene heir this quhyle;
At hame God gif I wair."
"My huny, Robene, talk ane quhyle,
Gif thow will do na mair."
"Makyne, sum uthir man begyle,
For hamewart I will fair."
Robene on his wayis went
Als licht as leif of tre;
Mawkin murnit in hir intent,
And trowd him nevir to se.
Robene brayd attour the bent;
Than Mawkyne cryit on hie,
"Now ma thow sing, for I am schent!
Quhat alis lufe at me?"
Mawkyne went hame withowttin faill,
Full wery eftir cowth weip.
Than Robene in a ful fair daill
Assemblit all his scheip.
Be that sum pairte of Mawkynis aill
Outthrow his hairt cowd creip;
He fallowit hir fast thair till assaill,
And till hir tuke gude keip.
"Abyd, abyd, thow fair Makyne,
A word for ony thing;
For all my luve it sal be thyne,
Withowttin depairting.
All haill thy harte for till haif myne
Is all my cuvating;
My scheip to morne quhill houris nyne
Will neid of no keping."
"Robene, thow hes hard soung and say,
In gestis and storeis auld,
'The man that will nocht quhen he may
Sall haif nocht quhen he wald.'
I pray to Jesu every day
Mot eik thair cairis cauld,
That first preissis with the to play,
Be firth, forrest, or fauld."
"Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry,
The wedder is warme and fair,
And the grene woid rycht neir us by
To walk attour all quhair;
Thair ma na janglour us espy,
That is to lufe contrair;
Thairin, Makyne, bath ye and I
Unsene we ma repair."
"Robene, that warld is all away
And quyt brocht till ane end,
And nevir agane thairto perfay
Sall it be as thow wend;
For of my pane thow maid it play,
And all in vane I spend;
As thow hes done, sa sall I say,
Murne on, I think to mend."
"Mawkyne, the howp of all my heill,
My hairt on the is sett,
And evirmair to the be leill,
Quhill I may leif but lett;
Nevir to faill, as utheris feill,
Quhat grace that evir I gett."
"Robene, with the I will nocht deill;
Adew, for thus we mett."
Malkyne went hame blyth annewche,
Attour the holttis hair;
Robene murnit, and Makyne lewche;
Scho sang, he sichit sair;
And so left him, bayth wo and wrewche,
In dolour and in cair,
Kepand his hird under a huche,
Amangis the holtis hair.
poem by Robert Henryson
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Twa Sisters O' Binnorie
There were twa sisters sat in a bow'r;
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
A knight cam' there, a noble wooer,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He courted the eldest wi' glove and ring,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
But he lo'ed the youngest aboon a' thing,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The eldest she was vexed sair,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And sair envìed her sister fair,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Upon a morning fair and clear,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie !)
She cried upon her sister dear,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
`O sister, sister, tak' my hand,'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
`And let's go down to the river-strand,'
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
She's ta'en her by the lily hand,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And down they went to the river-strand
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The youngest stood upon a stane,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
The eldest cam' and pushed her in,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
'O sister, sister, reach your hand!'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'And ye sall be heir o' half my land'--
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
'O sister, reach me but your glove!'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'And sweet William sall be your love'--
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
Till she cam' to the mouth o' yon mill-dam,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie
Out then cam' the miller's son
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And saw the fair maid swimmin' in,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
'O father, father, draw your dam!'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'There's either a mermaid or a swan,'
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The miller quickly drew the dam,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And there he found a drown'd womàn,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Round about her middle sma'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
There went a gouden girdle bra'
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
All amang her yellow hair
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
A string o' pearls was twisted rare,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
On her fingers lily-white,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
The jewel-rings were shining bright,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And by there cam' a harper fine,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
Harpèd to nobles when they dine,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And when he looked that lady on,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
He sigh'd and made a heavy moan,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And wi' them strung his harp sae rare,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He went into her father's hall,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And played his harp before them all,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And sune the harp sang loud and clear,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
`Fareweel, my father and mither dear!'
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And neist when the harp began to sing,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'Twas 'Fareweel, sweetheart!' said the string,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And then as plain as plain could be,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'There sits my sister wha drownèd me!
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.'
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Vampyre
Thair is a knichte rydis through the wood,
And a doughty knichte is tree,
And sure hee is on a message sent,
He rydis see hastilie.
Hee passit the aik, and hee passit the birk,
And hee passit monie a tre,
Bot plesant to him was the saugh sae slim,
For beneath it hee did see
The boniest ladye that ever he saw,
Scho was see schyn and fair.
And there scho sat, beneath the saugh,
Kaiming hir gowden hair.
And then the knichte—"Oh ladye brichte,
What chance hes brought you here,
But say the word, and ye schall gang
Back to your kindred dear."
Then up and spok the Ladye fair—
"I have nae friends or kin,
Bot in a littel boat I live,
Amidst the waves’ loud din."
Then answered thus the douchty knichte—
"I’ll follow you through all,
For gin ye bee in a littel boat,
The world to it seemis small."
They gaed through the wood, and through the wood
To the end of the wood they came:
And when they came to the end of the wood
They saw the salt sea faem.
And then they saw the wee, wee boat,
That daunced on the top of the wave,
And first got in the ladye fair,
And then the knichte sae brave;
They got into the wee, wee boat,
And rowed wi’ a’ their micht;
When the knichte sae brave, he turnit about,
And lookit at the ladye bricht;
He lookit at her bonie cheik,
And hee lookit at hir twa bricht eyne,
Bot hir rosie cheik growe ghaistly pale,
And scho seymit as scho deid had been.
The fause fause knichte growe pale wi frichte,
And his hair rose up on end,
For gane-by days cam to his mynde,
And his former luve he kenned.
Then spake the ladye,—"Thou, fause knichte,
Hast done to mee much ill,
Thou didst forsake me long ago,
Bot I am constant still;
For though I ligg in the woods sae cald,
At rest I canna bee
Until I sucke the gude lyfe blude
Of the man that gart me dee."
Hee saw hir lipps were wet wi’ blude,
And hee saw hir lyfelesse eyne,
And loud hee cry’d, "Get frae my syde,
Thou vampyr corps uncleane!"
Bot no, hee is in hir magic boat,
And on the wyde wyde sea;
And the vampyr suckis his gude lyfe blude,
Sho suckis hym till hee dee.
So now beware, whoe’re you are,
That walkis in this lone wood;
Beware of that deceitfull spright,
The ghaist that suckle the blude.
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Gil Morrice. A Scottish Ballad
Gil Morrice was an erles son,
His name it waxed wide:
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor zet was mickle pride;
Bot it was for a lady gay,
That livd on Carron side.
'Quhair sall I get a bonny boy,
That will win hose and shoen;
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady cum?
And ze maun rin my errand, Willie,
And ze may rin wi' pride;
Quhen other boys gae on their foot,
On horse-back ze sall ride.'
'O no! O no! my master dear!
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld barons,
For to triest furth his wife.'
'My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie,' he sayd:
'How can ze strive against the stream?
For I shall be obeyd.'
'Bot, O my master dear!' he cry'd,
'In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
For fear ze should be tain.'
'Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
Bid hir cum here wi speid:
If ze refuse my heigh command,
Ill gar zour body bleid.
'Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
'Tis a gowd bot the hem;
Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
And bring nane bot hir lain:
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
'Yes, I will gae zour blacke errand,
Though it be to zour cost;
Sen ze by me well nae be warn'd,
In it ze sall find frost.
The baron he is a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt;
As ze will see before it's nicht,
How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
'And sen I maun zour errand rin
Sae sair against my will,
I'se make a vow and keip it trow,
It sall be done for ill.'
And quhen he came to broken brigue,
He bent his bow and swam;
And quhen he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran.
And quhen he came to Barnards ha',
Would neither chap nor ca';
Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
And lichtly lap the wa'.
He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
Quhair they were set at meit.
'Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
My message winna waite;
Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod,
Before that it be late.
'Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel,
Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
Ev'n by your sel alane.
'And there it is, a silken sarke,
Your ain hand sewd the sleive:
Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice;
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
And winked wi' her ee;
Bot a' that she coud say or do,
Forbidden he wad nae bee.
'Its surely to my bow'r-woman;
It neir could be to me.'
'I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
I trow that ze be she.'
Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
(The bairn upon hir knee):
'If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
It' deir welcum to mee.'
'Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
Sae loud I heird ze lee;
I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
I trow ze be nae shee.'
Then up and spack the bauld baron,
An angry man was hee;
He's tain the table wi' his foot,
Sae has he wi' his knee,
Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish
In flinders he gard flee.
'Gae bring a robe of zour cliding
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
And speik wi' zour lemman.
'O bide at hame, now, Lord Barnard,
I warde ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,
That neir wate ze wi' nane.'
Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,
He whistled and he sang:
'O what mean a' the folk coming?
His hair was like the threeds of gold,
Drawne frae Minerva's loome;
His lipps like roses drapping dew;
His breath was a' perfume.
His browe was like the mountains snae
Gilt by the morning beam;
His cheeks like living roses glow;
His een like azure stream.
The boy was clad in robes of grene,
Sweete as the infant spring;
And like the mavis on the bush,
He gart the vallies ring.
The baron came to the grene wode,
Wi' mickle dule and care,
And there he first spied Gill Morice
Kameing his zellow hair
That sweetly wavd around his face,
That face beyond compare;
He sang sae sweet, it might dispel
A' rage but fell despair.
'Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,
My lady loed thee weel;
The fairest part of my bodie
Is blacker than thy heel.
Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice,
For al' thy great beautie,
Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
That head sall gae wi' me.'
Now he was drawn his trusty brand,
And slaited on the strae;
And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
He's gar cauld iron gae.
And he has tain Gill Morice' head
And set it on a speir:
The meanest man in a' his train
Has gotten that head to bear.
And he has tain Gill Morice up,
Laid him across his steid,
And brocht him to his painted bowr,
And laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castil wa',
Beheld baith dale and doun;
And there she saw Gill Morice' head
Cum trailing to the toun.
'Far better I loe that bluidy head,
Both and that zellow hair,
Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,
As they lig here and thair.'
And she has tain her Gill Morice,
And kissd baith mouth and chin:
'I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
As the hip is o' the stean.
'I got ze in my father's house,
Wi' mickle sin and shame;
I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
Under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sitten
And fondly seen thee sleip;
But now I gae about thy grave,
The saut tears for to weip.'
And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
And syne his bluidy chin:
'O better I loe my Gill Morice
Than a' my kith and kin!'
'Away, away, ze ill woman,
And an il deith mait ze dee:
Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
He'd neir bin slain for mee.'
'Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
Obraid me not for shame!
Wi' that saim speir, O pierce my heart!
And put me out o' pain.
Since nothing bot Gill Morice' head
Thy jealous rage could quell,
Let that saim hand now tak hir life
That neir to thee did ill.
'To me nae after days nor nichts
Will eir be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.'
'Enouch of blood by me's bin spilt,
Seek not zour death frae me;
I rather lourd it had been my sel
Than eather him or thee.
'With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand of mine
Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,
Ze neir can heal the wound;
Ze see his head upon the speir,
His heart's blude on the ground.
'I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
The comely zouth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
As gin he were mine ain;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day
On which the zouth was slain.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Cradle Song
O MY deir hert, young Jesus sweit,
Prepare thy creddil in my spreit,
And I sall rock thee in my hert
And never mair from thee depart.
But I sall praise thee evermoir
With sangis sweit unto thy gloir;
The knees of my hert sall I bow,
And sing that richt Balulalow!
Cradle Song
O my deir hert, young Jesus sweit,
Prepare thy creddil in my spreit,
And I sall rock thee in my hert
And never mair from thee depart.
But I sall praise thee evermoir
With sangis sweit unto thy gloir;
The knees of my hert sall I bow,
And sing that richt
Balulalow!
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Son Davie! Son Davie!
'What bluid's that on thy coat lap?
Son Davie! Son Davie!
What bluid's that on thy coat lap?
And the truth come tell to me, O.'
'It is the bluid of my great hawk,
Mother lady, Mother lady!
It is the bluid of my great hawk,
And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.'
'Hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red,
Son Davie! Son Davie!
Hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red,
And the truth come tell to me, O.'
'It is the bluid of my grey hound,
Mother lady! Mother lady!
It is the bluid of my grey hound,
And it wudna rin for me, O.'
'Hound's bluid was ne'er sae red,
Son Davie! Son Davie!
Hound's bluid was ne'er sae red,
And the truth come tell to me, O.'
'It is the bluid o' my brother John,
Mother lady! Mother lady!
It is the bluid o' my brother John,
And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.'
'What about did the plea begin?
Son Davie! Son Davie!'
'It began about the cutting o' a willow wand,
That would never hae been a tree, O.'
'What death dost thou desire to die?
Son Davie! Son Davie!
What death dost thou desire to die?
And the truth come tell to me, O.'
'I'll set my foot in a bottomless ship,
Mother lady! mother lady!
I'll set my foot in a bottomless ship,
And ye'll never see mair o' me, O.'
'What wilt thou leave to thy poor wife?
Son Davie! Son Davie!'
'Grief and sorrow all her life,
And she'll never get mair frae me, O.'
'What wilt thou leave to thy young son?
Son Davie! son Davie!'
'The weary warld to wander up and down,
And he'll never get mair o' me, O.'
'What wilt thou leave to thy mother dear?
Son Davie! Son Davie!'
'A fire o' coals to burn her wi' hearty cheer,
And she'll never get mair o' me, O.'
poem by Andrew Lang
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Lord Thomas And Fair Annet
Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
Sate a' day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.
Lord Thomas said a word in jest,
Fair Annet took it ill:
'A, I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friend's will.'
'Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
A wife wull neir wed yee;'
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee.
'O rede, O rede, mither,' he says,
'A gude rede gie to mee;
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,
And let Faire Annet bee?'
'The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,
Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty Fair Annet haes
O it wull soon be gane.'
And he has till his brother gane:
'Now, brother, rede ye mee;
A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And let Fair Annet bee?'
'The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,
The nut-browne bride has kye;
I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,
And cast Fair Annet bye.'
'Her oxen may dye i' the house, billie,
And her kye into the byre;
And I sall hae nothing to mysell
Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.'
And he has till his sister gane:
'Now, sister, rede ye mee;
O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And set Fair Annet free?'
'I'se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas,
And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,
What is this we brought hame!'
'No, I will tak my mither's counsel,
And marrie me owt o hand;
And I will tak the nut-browne bride,
Fair Annet may leive the land.'
Up then rose Fair Annet's father,
Twa hours or it wer day,
And he is gane unto the bower
Wherein Fair Annet lay.
'Rise up, rise up, Fair Annet,' he says
'Put on your silken sheene;
Let us gae to St. Marie's Kirke,
And see that rich weddeen.'
'My maides, gae to my dressing-roome,
And dress to me my hair;
Whaireir yee laid a plait before,
See yee lay ten times mair.
'My maids, gae to my dressing-room,
And dress to me my smock;
The one half is o the holland fine,
The other o needle-work.'
The horse Fair Annet rade upon,
He amblit like the wind;
Wi siller he was shod before,
Wi burning gowd behind.
Four and twanty siller bells
Wer a' tyed till his mane,
And yae tift o the norland wind,
They tinkled ane by ane.
Four and twanty gay gude knichts
Rade by Fair Annet's side,
And four and twanty fair ladies,
As gin she had bin a bride.
And whan she cam to Marie's Kirk,
She sat on Marie's stean:
The cleading that Fair Annet had on
It skinkled in their een.
And whan she cam into the kirk,
She shimmerd like the sun;
The belt that was about her waist
Was a' wi pearles bedone.
She sat her by the nut-browne bride,
And her een they wer sae clear,
Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,
When Fair Annet drew near.
He had a rose into his hand,
He gae it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-browne bride,
Laid it on Fair Annet's knee.
Up then spak the nut-browne bride,
She spak wi meikle spite:
'And whair gat ye that rose-water,
That does mak yee sae white?'
'O I did get the rose-water
Whair ye wull neir get nane,
For I did get that very rose-water
Into my mither's wame.'
The bride she drew a long bodkin
Frae out her gay head-gear,
And strake Fair Annet unto the heart,
That word spak nevir mair.
Lord Thomas he saw Fair Annet wex pale,
And marvelit what mote bee;
But when he saw her dear heart's blude,
A' wood-wroth wexed bee.
He drew his dagger that was sae sharp,
That was sae sharp and meet,
And drave it into the nut-browne bride,
That fell deid at his feit.
'Now stay for me, dear Annet,' he sed,
'Now stay, my dear,' he cry'd;
Then strake the dagger untill his heart,
And fell deid by her side.
Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa,
Fair Annet within the quiere,
And o the ane thair grew a birk,
The other a bonny briere.
And ay they grew, and ay they threw,
As they wad faine be neare;
And by this ye may ken right weil
They were twa luvers deare.
poem by Andrew Lang
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The Twa Corbies
AS I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the tither did say,
'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'
'--In behint 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 anither mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
'Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane:
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'
The Twa Corbies
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say,
"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
"In behint 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 lady fair.
"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame;
His lady's ta'en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
Oer his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."
poem by Anonymous Americas
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