An' he has warn'd her sisters six,
An' sae has he her brethren se'en,
Outher to watch her a' the night,
Or else to seek her morn an' e'en.
She hadna been i' that bigly bower,
Na not a night, but barely ane,
Till there was Willie, her ain true love,
Chapp'd at the door, cryin', "Peace within!"
"O whae is this at my bower door,
"That chaps sae late, nor kens the gin?"[B]
"O it is Willie, your ain true love,
"I pray you rise an' let me in!"
"But in my bower there is a wake,
"An' at the wake there is a wane;[C]
"But I'll come to the green-wood the morn,
"Whar blooms the brier by mornin' dawn."
Then she's gane to her bed again,
Where she has layen till the cock crew thrice,
Then she said to her sisters a',
"Maidens, 'tis time for us to rise."
She pat on her back a silken gown,
An' on her breast a siller pin,
An' she's tane a sister in ilka hand,
An' to the green-wood she is gane.
She hadna walk'd in the green-wood,
Na not a mile but barely ane,
Till there was Willie, her ain true love,
Whae frae her sisters has her ta'en.
He took her sisters by the hand,
He kiss'd them baith, an' sent them hame,
An' he's ta'en his true love him behind,
And through the green-wood they are gane.
They hadna ridden in the bonnie green-wood,
Na not a mile but barely ane,
When there came fifteen o' the boldest knights.
That ever bare flesh, blood, or bane.
The foremost was an aged knight,
He wore the grey hair on his chin,
Says, "Yield to me thy lady bright,
"An' thou shalt walk the woods within."
"For me to yield my lady bright
"To such an aged knight as thee,
"People wad think I war gane mad,
"Or a' the courage flown frae me."
But up then spake the second knight,
I wat he spake right boustouslie,
"Yield me thy life, or thy lady bright,
"Or here the tane of us shall die."
"My lady is my warld's meed;
"My life I winna yield to nane;
"But if ye be men of your manhead,
"Ye'll only fight me ane by ane."
He lighted aff his milk-white steed,
An' gae his lady him by the head,
Say'n, "See ye dinna change your cheer;
"Until ye see my body bleed."
He set his back unto an aik,
He set his feet against a stane,
An' he has fought these fifteen men,
An' kill'd them a' but barely ane;
For he has left that aged knight,
An' a' to carry the tidings hame.
When he gaed to his lady fair,
I wat he kiss'd her tenderlie;
"Thou art mine ain love, I have thee bought;
"Now we shall walk the green-wood free."
[Footnote A: _Weird her in a great sin_--Placed her in danger of
committing a great sin.]
[Footnote B: _Gin_--The slight or trick necessary to open the door, from
engine.]
[Footnote C: _Wane_--A number of people.]
THE TWA CORBIES.
This poem was communicated to me by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Esq.
jun. of Hoddom, as written down, from tradition, by a lady. It is a
singular circumstance, that it should coincide so very nearly with the
ancient dirge, called _The Three Ravens_, published by Mr Ritson, in his
_Ancient Songs;_ and that, at the same time, there should exist such a
difference, as to make the one appear rather a counterpart than copy of
the other. In order to enable the curious reader to contrast these two
singular poems, and to form a judgment which may be the original, I take
the liberty of copying the English ballad from Mr Ritson's Collection,
omitting only the burden and repetition of the first line. The learned
editor states it to be given _"From Ravencroft's Metismata. Musical
phansies, fitting the cittie and country, humours to 3, 4, and 5
voyces,_ London, 1611, 4to. It will be obvious (continues Mr Ritson)
that this ballad is much older, not only than the date of the book, but
most of the other pieces contained in it." The music is given with the
words, and is adapted to four voices:
There were three rauens sat on a tre,
They were as blacke as they might be:
The one of them said to his mate,
"Where shall we our breakfast take?"
"Downe in yonder greene field,
"There lies a knight slain under his shield;
"His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
"So well they their master keepe;
"His haukes they flie so eagerly,
"There's no fowle dare come him nie.
"Down there comes a fallow doe,
"As great with yong as she might goe,
"She lift up his bloudy hed,
"And kist his wounds that were so red.
"She got him up upon her backe,
"And carried him to earthen lake.
"She buried him before the prime,
"She was dead her selfe ere euen song time.
"God send euery gentleman,
"Such haukes, such houndes, and such a leman.
_Ancient Songs,_ 1792, p. 155.
I have seen a copy of this dirge much modernized.
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[A] dyke,
"I wot there lies a new slain knight;
"And nae body 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[B] our nest when it grows bare.
"Mony a one for him makes mane,
"But nane sall ken whare he is gane:
"O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
"The wind sall blaw for evermair."
[Footnote A: _Fail_--Turf.]
[Footnote B: _Theek_--Thatch.]
THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.
The ballad of _The Douglas Tragedy_ is one of the few, to which popular
tradition has ascribed complete locality. The farm of Blackhouse, in
Selkirkshire, is said to have been the scene of this melancholy
event. There are the remains of a very ancient tower, adjacent to
the farmhouse, in a wild and solitary glen, upon a torrent, named
Douglas-burn, which joins the Yarrow, after passing a craggy rock,
called the Douglas-craig. This wild scene, now a part of the Traquair
estate, formed one of the most ancient possessions of the renowned
family of Douglas; for Sir John Douglas, eldest son of William,
the first Lord Douglas, is said to have sat, as baronial lord of
Douglas-burn, during his father's lifetime, in a parliament of Malcolm
Canmore, held at Forfar.--GODSCROFT, Vol. I. p. 20. The tower appears to
have been square, with a circular turret at one angle, for carrying up
the staircase, and for flanking the entrance. It is said to have derived
its name of Blackhouse from the complexion of the lords of Douglas,
whose swarthy hue was a family attribute. But, when the high mountains,
by which it is inclosed, were covered with heather, which was the case
till of late years, Blackhouse must have also merited its appellation
from the appearance of the scenery.
From this ancient tower Lady Margaret is said to have been carried by
her lover. Seven large stones, erected upon the neighbouring heights of
Blackhouse, are shown, as marking the spot where the seven brethren were
slain; and the Douglas-burn is averred to have been the stream, at which
the lovers stopped to drink: so minute is tradition in ascertaining the
scene of a tragical tale, which, considering the rude state of former
times, had probably foundation in some real event.
Many copies of this ballad are current among the vulgar, but chiefly in
a state of great corruption; especially such as have been committed to
the press in the shape of penny pamphlets. One of these is now before
me, which, among many others, has the ridiculous error of "_blue gilded_
horn," for "_bugelet_ horn." The copy, principally used in this edition
of the ballad, was supplied by Mr Sharpe. The three last verses are
given from the printed copy, and from tradition. The hackneyed verse, of
the rose and the briar springing from the grave of the lovers, is common
to most tragic ballads; but it is introduced into this with singular
propriety, as the chapel of St Mary, whose vestiges may be still traced
upon the lake, to which it has given name, is said to have been the
burial place of Lord William and Fair Margaret. The wrath of the Black
Douglas, which vented itself upon the brier, far surpasses the usual
stanza:
At length came the clerk of the parish,
As you the truth shall hear,
And by mischance he cut them down,
Or else they had still been there.
THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.
"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says,
"And put on your armour so bright;
"Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine
"Was married to a lord under night.
"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 bugelet 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 spy'd her seven brethren bold
Come riding over the lee.
"Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said,
"And hold my steed in your hand,
"Until that against your seven brethren bold,
"And your father, I mak 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 lov'd her so dear.
"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said,
"For your strokes they are wond'rous 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 ay she dighted her father's bloody wounds,
That ware redder than the wine.
"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said,
"O whether will ye gang or bide?"
"I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said,
"For ye have left me no other guide."
He's lifted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on a dapple grey,
With a bugelet 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 cam' 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 Marg'ret close at my back,
"And the sounder I will sleep."
Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
Lady Marg'ret 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 Mary'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 warld might ken right weel,
They were twa lovers dear.
But bye and rade the Black Douglas,
And wow but he was rough!
For he pull'd up the bonny brier,
And flang'd in St Mary's loch.
YOUNG BENJIE. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.
In this ballad the reader will find traces of a singular superstition,
not yet altogether discredited in the wilder parts of Scotland. The
lykewake, or watching a dead body, in itself a melancholy office, is
rendered, in the idea of the assistants, more dismally awful, by the
mysterious horrors of superstition. In the interval betwixt death and
interment, the disembodied spirit is supposed to hover around its mortal
habitation, and, if invoked by certain rites, retains the power of
communicating, through its organs, the cause of its dissolution. Such
enquiries, however are always dangerous, and never to be resorted to
unless the deceased is suspected to have suffered _foul play_, as it
is called. It is the more unsafe to tamper with this charm, in an
unauthorized manner; because the inhabitants of the infernal regions
are, at such periods, peculiarly active. One of the most potent
ceremonies in the charm, for causing the dead body to speak, is, setting
the door ajar, or half open. On this account, the peasants of Scotland
sedulously avoid leaving the door ajar, while a corpse lies in the
house. The door must either be left wide open, or quite shut; but the
first is always preferred, on account of the exercise of hospitality
usual on such occasions. The attendants must be likewise careful never
to leave the corpse for a moment alone, or, if it is left alone, to
avoid, with a degree of superstitious horror, the first sight of it.
The following story, which is frequently related by the peasants of
Scotland, will illustrate the imaginary danger of leaving the door ajar.
In former times, a man and his wife lived in a solitary cottage, on one
of the extensive border fells. One day, the husband died suddenly; and
his wife, who was equally afraid of staying alone by the corpse, or
leaving the dead body by itself, repeatedly went to the door, and
looked anxiously over the lonely moor, for the sight of some person
approaching. In her confusion and alarm, she accidentally left the door
ajar, when the corpse suddenly started up, and sat in the bed, frowning
and grinning at her frightfully. She sat alone, crying bitterly, unable
to avoid the fascination of the dead man's eye, and too much terrified
to break the sullen silence, till a catholic priest, passing over the
wild, entered the cottage. He first set the door quite open, then put
his little finger in his mouth, and said the paternoster backwards; when
the horrid look of the corpse relaxed, it fell back on the bed, and
behaved itself as a dead man ought to do.
The ballad is given from tradition.
YOUNG BENJIE.
Of a' the maids o' fair Scotland,
The fairest was Marjorie;
And young Benjie was her ae true love,
And a dear true love was he.
And wow! but they were lovers dear,
And loved fu' constantlie;
But ay the mair when they fell out,
The sairer was their plea.[A]
And they hae quarrelled on a day,
Till Marjorie's heart grew wae;
And she said she'd chuse another luve,
And let young Benjie gae.
And he was stout,[B] and proud-hearted,
And thought o't bitterlie;
And he's ga'en by the wan moon-light,
To meet his Marjorie.
"O open, open, my true love,
"O open, and let me in!"
"I dare na open, young Benjie,
"My three brothers are within."
"Ye lied, ye lied, ye bonny burd,
"Sae loud's I hear ye lie;
"As I came by the Lowden banks,
"They bade gude e'en to me.
"But fare ye weel, my ae fause love,
"That I hae loved sae lang!
"It sets[C] ye chuse another love,
"And let young Benjie gang."
Then Marjorie turned her round about,
The tear blinding her ee,--
"I darena, darena, let thee in,
"But I'll come down to thee."
Then saft she smiled, and said to him,
"O what ill hae I done?"
He took her in his armis twa,
And threw her o'er the linn.
The stream was strang, the maid was stout,
And laith laith to be dang,[D]
But, ere she wan the Lowden banks,
Her fair colour was wan.
Then up bespak her eldest brother,
"O see na ye what I see?"
And out then spak her second brother,
"Its our sister Marjorie!"
Out then spak her eldest brother,
"O how shall we her ken?"
And out then spak her youngest brother,
"There's a honey mark on her chin."
Then they've ta'en up the comely corpse,
And laid it on the ground--
"O wha has killed our ae sister,
"And how can he be found?
"The night it is her low lykewake,
"The morn her burial day,
"And we maun watch at mirk midnight,
"And hear what she will say."
Wi' doors ajar, and candle light,
And torches burning clear;
The streikit corpse, till still midnight,
They waked, but naething hear.
About the middle o' the night.
The cocks began to craw;
And at the dead hour o' the night,
The corpse began to thraw.
"O wha has done the wrang, sister,
"Or dared the deadly sin?
"Wha was sae stout, and feared nae dout,
"As thraw ye o'er the linn?"
"Young Benjie was the first ae man
"I laid my love upon;
"He was sae stout and proud-hearted,
"He threw me o'er the linn."
"Sall we young Benjie head, sister,
"Sall we young Benjie hang,
"Or sall we pike out his twa gray een,
"And punish him ere he gang?"
"Ye mauna Benjie head, brothers,
"Ye mauna Benjie hang,
"But ye maun pike out his twa gray een,
"And punish him ere he gang.
"Tie a green gravat round his neck,
"And lead him out and in,
"And the best ae servant about your house
"To wait young Benjie on.
"And ay, at every seven year's end,
"Ye'll tak him to the linn;
"For that's the penance he maun drie,
"To scug[E] his deadly sin."
[Footnote A: _Plea_--Used obliquely for _dispute_.]
[Footnote B: _Stout_--Through this whole ballad, signifies _haughty_.]
[Footnote C: _Sets ye_--Becomes you--ironical.]
[Footnote D: _Dang_--defeated.]
[Footnote E: _Scug_--shelter or expiate.]
LADY ANNE.
This ballad was communicated to me by Mr Kirkpatrick Sharpe of Hoddom,
who mentions having copied it from an old magazine. Although it has
probably received some modern corrections, the general turn seems to
be ancient, and corresponds with that of a fragment, containing the
following verses, which I have often heard sung in my childhood:--
She set her back against a thorn,
And there she has her young son borne;
"O smile nae sae, my bonny babe!
"An ye smile sae sweet, ye'll smile me dead."
* * * * *
An' when that lady went to the church,
She spied a naked boy in the porch,
"O bonnie boy, an' ye were mine,
"I'd clead ye in the silks sae fine."
"O mither dear, when I was thine,
"To me ye were na half sae kind."
* * * * *
Stories of this nature are very common in the annals of popular
superstition. It is, for example, currently believed in Ettrick Forest,
that a libertine, who had destroyed fifty-six inhabited houses, in order
to throw the possessions of the cottagers into his estate, and who added
to this injury, that of seducing their daughters, was wont to commit, to
a carrier in the neighbourhood, the care of his illegitimate children,
shortly after they were born. His emissary regularly carried them away,
but they were never again heard of. The unjust and cruel gains of the
profligate laird were dissipated by his extravagance, and the ruins of
his house seem to bear witness to the truth of the rhythmical prophecies
denounced against it, and still current among the peasantry. He himself
died an untimely death; but the agent of his amours and crimes survived
to extreme old age. When on his death-bed, he seemed much oppressed in
mind, and sent for a clergyman to speak peace to his departing spirit:
but, before the messenger returned, the man was in his last agony;
and the terrified assistants had fled from his cottage, unanimously
averring, that the wailing of murdered infants had ascended from behind
his couch, and mingled with the groans of the departing sinner.
LADY ANNE
Fair lady Anne sate in her bower,
Down by the greenwood side,
And the flowers did spring, and the birds did sing,
'Twas the pleasant May-day tide.
But fair lady Anne on sir William call'd,
With the tear grit in her e'e,
"O though thou be fause, may heaven thee guard,
"In the wars ayont the sea!"
Out of the wood came three bonnie boys,
Upon the simmer's morn,
And they did sing, and play at the ba',
As naked as they were born.
"O seven lang year was I sit here,
"Amang the frost and snaw,
"A' to hae but ane o' these bonnie boys,
"A playing at the ba'."
Then up and spake the eldest boy,
"Now listen, thou fair ladie!
"And ponder well the read that I tell,
"Then make ye a choice of the three.
"'Tis I am Peter, and this is Paul,
"And that are, sae fair to see,
"But a twelve-month sinsyne to paradise came,
"To join with our companie."
"O I will hae the snaw-white boy,
"The bonniest of the three."
"And if I were thine, and in thy propine,[A]
"O what wad ye do to me?"
"'Tis I wad clead thee in silk and gowd,
"And nourice thee on my knee."
"O mither! mither! when I was thine,
"Sic kindness I could na see.
"Before the turf, where I now stand,
"The fause nurse buried me;
"Thy cruel penknife sticks still in my heart,
"And I come not back to thee."
[Footnote A: _Propine_--Usually gift, but here the power of giving or
bestowing.]
* * * * *
LORD WILLIAM
This ballad was communicated to me by Mr James Hogg; and, although it
bears a strong resemblance to that of _Earl Richard_, so strong, indeed,
as to warrant a supposition, that the one has been derived from the
other, yet its intrinsic merit seems to warrant its insertion. Mr Hogg
has added the following note, which, in the course of my enquiries, I
have found most fully corroborated.
"I am fully convinced of the antiquity of this song; for, although much
of the language seems somewhat modernized, this must be attributed
to its currency, being much liked, and very much sung, in this
neighbourhood. I can trace it back several generations, but cannot
hear of its ever having been in print. I have never heard it with any
considerable variation, save that one reciter called the dwelling of the
feigned sweetheart, _Castleswa_."
LORD WILLIAM
Lord William was the bravest knight
That dwait in fair Scotland,
And, though renowned in France and Spain,
Fell by a ladie's hand.
As she was walking maid alone,
Down by yon shady wood.
She heard a smit[A] o' bridle reins,
She wish'd might be for good.
"Come to my arms, my dear Willie,
"You're welcome hame to me;
"To best o' chear and charcoal red,[B]
"And candle burnin' free."
"I winna light, I darena light,
"Nor come to your arms at a';
"A fairer maid than ten o' you,
"I'll meet at Castle-law."
"A fairer maid than me, Willie!
"A fairer maid than me!
"A fairer maid than ten o' me,
"Your eyes did never see."
He louted owr his saddle lap,
To kiss her ere they part,
And wi' a little keen bodkin,
She pierced him to the heart.
"Ride on, ride on, lord William, now,
"As fast as ye can dree!
"Your bonny lass at Castle-law
"Will weary you to see."
Out up then spake a bonny bird,
Sat high upon a tree,--
How could you kill that noble lord?
"He came to marry thee."
"Come down, come down, my bonny bird,
"And eat bread aff my hand!
"Your cage shall be of wiry goud,
"Whar now its but the wand."
"Keep ye your cage o' goud, lady,
"And I will keep my tree;
"As ye hae done to lord William.,
"Sae wad ye do to me."
She set her foot on her door step,
A bonny marble stane;
And carried him to her chamber,
O'er him to make her mane.
And she has kept that good lord's corpse
Three quarters of a year,
Until that word began to spread,
Then she began to fear.
Then she cried on her waiting maid,
Ay ready at her ca';
"There is a knight unto my bower,
"'Tis time he were awa."
The ane has ta'en him by the head,
The ither by the feet,
And thrown him in the wan water,
That ran baith wide and deep.
"Look back, look back, now, lady fair,
"On him that lo'ed ye weel!
"A better man than that blue corpse
"Ne'er drew a sword of steel."
[Footnote A: _Smit_--Clashing noise, from smite--hence also _(perhaps)_
Smith and Smithy.]
[Footnote B: _Charcoal red_--This circumstance marks the antiquity of
the poem. While wood was plenty in Scotland, charcoal was the usual fuel
in the chambers of the wealthy.]
THE BROOMFIELD HILL.
The concluding verses of this ballad were inserted in the copy of
_Tamlane_, given to the public in the first edition of this work. They
are now restored to their proper place. Considering how very apt the
most accurate reciters are to patch up one ballad with verses from
another, the utmost caution cannot always avoid such errors.
A more sanguine antiquary than the editor might perhaps endeavour to
identify this poem, which is of undoubted antiquity, with the _"Broom
Broom on Hill,"_ mentioned by Lane, in his _Progress of Queen Elizabeth
into Warwickshire_, as forming part of Captain's Cox's collection,
so much envied by the black-letter antiquaries of the present
day.--_Dugdale's Warwickshire,_ p. 166. The same ballad is quoted by one
of the personages, in a "very mery and pythie comedie," called _"The
longer thou livest, the more fool thou art."_ See Ritson's Dissertation,
prefixed to _Ancient Songs,_ p. lx. "Brume brume on hill," is also
mentioned in the _Complayat of Scotland_. See Leyden's edition, p. 100.
THE BROOMFIELD HILL.
There was a knight and a lady bright,
Had a true tryste at the broom;
The ane ga'ed early in the morning,
The other in the afternoon.
And ay she sat in her mother's bower door,
And ay she made her mane,
"Oh whether should I gang to the Broomfield hill,
"Or should I stay at hame?
"For if I gang to the Broomfield hill,
"My maidenhead is gone;
"And if I chance to stay at hame,
"My love will ca' me mansworn."
Up then spake a witch woman,
Ay from the room aboon;
"O, ye may gang to the Broomfield hill,
"And yet come maiden hame.
"For, when ye gang to the Broomfield hill,
"Ye'll find your love asleep,
"With a silver-belt about his head,
"And a broom-cow at his feet.
"Take ye the blossom of the broom,
"The blossom it smells sweet,
"And strew it at your true love's head,
"And likewise at his feet.
"Take ye the rings off your fingers,
"Put them on his right hand,
"To let him know, when he doth awake,
"His love was at his command."
She pu'd the broom flower on Hive-hill,
And strew'd on's white hals bane,
And that was to be wittering true,
That maiden she had gane.
"O where were ye, my milk-white steed,
"That I hae coft sae dear,
"That wadna watch and waken me,
"When there was maiden here?"
"I stamped wi' my foot, master,
"And gar'd my bridle ring;
"But na kin' thing wald waken ye,
"Till she was past and gane."
"And wae betide ye, my gay goss hawk,
"That I did love sae dear,
"That wadna watch and waken me,
"When there was maiden here."
"I clapped wi' my wings, master,
"And aye my bells I rang,
"And aye cry'd, waken, waken, master,
"Before the ladye gang."
"But haste and haste, my good white steed,
"To come the maiden till,
"Or a' the birds, of gude green wood,
"Of your flesh shall have their fill."
"Ye need na burst your good white steed,
"Wi' racing o'er the howm;
"Nae bird flies faster through the wood,
"Than she fled through the broom."
PROUD LADY MARGARET.
_This Ballad was communicated to the Editor by Mr_ HAMILTON,
_Music-seller, Edinburgh, with whose Mother it had been a, favourite.
Two verses and one line were wanting, which are here supplied from a
different Ballad, having a plot somewhat similar. These verses are the
6th and 9th._
'Twas on a night, an evening bright,
When the dew began to fa',
Lady Margaret was walking up and down,
Looking o'er her castle wa'.
She looked east, and she looked west,
To see what she could spy,
When a gallant knight came in her sight,
And to the gate drew nigh.
"You seem to be no gentleman,
"You wear your boots so wide;
"But you seem to be some cunning hunter,
"You wear the horn so syde."[A]
"I am no cunning hunter," he said,
"Nor ne'er intend to be;
"But I am come to this castle
"To seek the love of thee;
"And if you do not grant me love,
"This night for thee I'll die."
"If you should die for me, sir knight,
"There's few for you will mane,
"For mony a better has died for me,
"Whose graves are growing green.
"But ye maun read my riddle," she said,
"And answer my questions three;
"And but ye read them right," she said,
"Gae stretch ye out and die.--
"Now, what is the flower, the ae first flower,
"Springs either on moor or dale?
"And what is the bird, the bonnie bonnie bird,
"Sings on the evening gale?"
"The primrose is the ae first flower,
"Springs either on moor or dale;
"And the thistlecock is the bonniest bird;
"Sings on the evening gale."
"But what's the little coin," she said,
"Wald buy my castle bound?
"And what's the little boat," she said,
"Can sail the world all round?"
"O hey, how mony small pennies
"Make thrice three thousand pound?
"Or hey, how mony small fishes
"Swim a' the salt sea round."
"I think you maun be my match," she said,
"My match, and something mair;
"You are the first e'er got the grant
Of love frae my father's heir.
"My father was lord of nine castles,
"My mother lady of three;
"My father was lord of nine castles,
"And there's nane to heir but me.
"And round about a' thae castles,
"You may baith plow and saw,
"And on the fifteenth day of May,
"The meadows they will maw."
"O hald your tongue, lady Margaret," he said,
"For loud I hear you lie!
"Your father was lord of nine castles,
"Your mother was lady of three;
"Your father was lord of nine castles,
"But ye fa' heir to but three.
"And round about a' thae castles,
"You may baith plow and saw,
"But on the fifteenth day of May
"The meadows will not maw.
"I am your brother Willie," he said,
"I trow ye ken na me;
"I came to humble your haughty heart,
"Has gar'd sae mony die."
"If ye be my brother Willie," she said,
"As I trow weel ye be,
"This night I'll neither eat nor drink,
"But gae alang wi' thee."
"O hold your tongue, lady Margaret," he said.
"Again I hear you lie;
"For ye've unwashen hands, and ye've unwashen feet,[B]
"To gae to clay wi' me.
"For the wee worms are my bedfellows,
"And cauld clay is my sheets;
"And when the stormy winds do blow,
"My body lies and sleeps."
[Footnote A: _Syde_--Long or low.]
[Footnote B: _Unwashen hands and unwashen feet_--Alluding to the custom
of washing and dressing dead bodies.]
THE ORIGINAL BALLAD OF THE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWS.
_The beautiful air of Cowdenknows is well known and popular. In Ettrick
Forest the following words are uniformly adapted to the tune, and seem
to be the original ballad. An edition of this pastoral tale, differing
considerably from the present copy, was published by Mr_ HERD, _in 1772.
Cowdenknows is situated upon the river Leader, about four miles from
Melrose, and is now the property of Dr_ HUME.
O the broom, and the bonny bonny broom,
And the broom of the Cowdenknows!
And aye sae sweet as the lassie sang,
I' the bought, milking the ewes.
The hills were high on ilka side,
An' the bought i' the lirk o' the hill,
And aye, as she sang, her voice it rang
Out o'er the head o' yon hill.
There was a troop o' gentlemen
Came riding merrilie by,
And one of them has rode out o' the way,
To the bought to the bonny may.
"Weel may ye save an' see, bonny lass,
"An' weel may ye save an' see."
"An' sae wi' you, ye weel-bred knight,"
"And what's your will wi' me?"
"The night is misty and mirk, fair may,
"And I have ridden astray,
"And will ye be so kind, fair may,
"As come out and point my way?"
"Ride out, ride out, ye ramp rider!
"Your steed's baith stout and strang;
"For out of the bought I dare na come,
"For fear 'at ye do me wrang."
"O winna ye pity me, bonny lass,
"O winna ye pity me?
"An' winna ye pity my poor steed,
"Stands trembling at yon tree?"
"I wadna pity your poor steed,
"Tho' it were tied to a thorn;
"For if ye wad gain my love the night,
"Ye wad slight me ere the morn.
"For I ken you by your weel-busked hat,
"And your merrie twinkling e'e,
"That ye're the laird o' the Oakland hills,
"An' ye may weel seem for to be."
"But I am not the laird o' the Oakland hills,
"Ye're far mista'en o' me;
"But I'm are o' the men about his house,
"An' right aft in his companie."
He's ta'en her by the middle jimp,
And by the grass-green sleeve;
He's lifted her over the fauld dyke,
And speer'd at her sma' leave.
O he's ta'en out a purse o' gowd,
And streek'd her yellow hair,
"Now, take ye that, my bonnie may,
"Of me till you hear mair."
O he's leapt on his berry-brown steed,
An' soon he's o'erta'en his men;
And ane and a' cried out to him,
"O master, ye've tarry'd lang!"
"O I hae been east, and I hae been west,
"An' I hae been far o'er the know,
"But the bonniest lass that ever I saw
"Is i'the bought milking the ewes."
She set the cog[A] upon her head,
An' she's gane singing hame--
"O where hae ye been, my ae daughter?
"Ye hae na been your lane."
"O nae body was wi' me, father,
"O nae body has been wi' me;
"The night is misty and mirk, father,
"Ye may gang to the door and see.
"But wae be to your ewe-herd, father,
"And an ill deed may he die;
"He bug the bought at the back o' the know,
"And a tod[B] has frighted me.
"There came a tod to the bought-door,
"The like I never saw;
"And ere he had tane the lamb he did,
"I had lourd he had ta'en them a'."
O whan fifteen weeks was come and gane,
Fifteen weeks and three.
That lassie began to look thin and pale,
An' to long for his merry twinkling e'e.
It fell on a day, on a het simmer day,
She was ca'ing out her father's kye,
By came a troop o' gentlemen,
A' merrilie riding bye.
"Weel may ye save an' see, bonny may,
"Weel may ye save and see!
"Weel I wat, ye be a very bonny may,
"But whae's aught that babe ye are wi'?"
Never a word could that lassie say,
For never a ane could she blame,
An' never a word could the lassie say,
But "I have a good man at hame."
"Ye lied, ye lied, my very bonny may,
"Sae loud as I hear you lie;
"For dinna ye mind that misty night
"I was i' the bought wi' thee?
"I ken you by your middle sae jimp,
"An' your merry twinkling e'e,
"That ye're the bonny lass i'the Cowdenknow,
"An' ye may weel seem for to be."
Than he's leap'd off his berry-brown steed,
An' he's set that fair may on--
"Caw out your kye, gude father, yoursell,
"For she's never caw them out again.
"I am the laird of the Oakland hills,
"I hae thirty plows and three;
"Ah' I hae gotten the bonniest lass
"That's in a' the south country.
[Footnote A: _Cog_--Milking-pail.]
[Footnote B: _Tod_--Fox.]
LORD RANDAL.
There is a beautiful air to this old ballad. The hero is more generally
termed _Lord Ronald;_ but I willingly follow the authority of an Ettrick
Forest copy for calling him _Randal;_ because, though the circumstances
are so very different, I think it not impossible, that the ballad may
have originally regarded the death of Thomas Randolph, or Randal, earl
of Murray, nephew to Robert Bruce, and governor of Scotland. This great
warrior died at Musselburgh, 1332, at the moment when his services were
most necessary to his country, already threatened by an English army.
For this sole reason, perhaps, our historians obstinately impute his
death to poison. See _The Bruce_, book xx. Fordun repeats, and Boece
echoes, this story, both of whom charge the murder on Edward III. But it
is combated successfully by Lord Hailes, in his _Remarks on the History
of Scotland_.
The substitution of some venomous reptile for food, or putting it into
liquor, was anciently supposed to be a common mode of administering
poison; as appears from the following curious account of the death of
King John, extracted from a MS. Chronicle of England, _penes_ John
Clerk, esq. advocate. "And, in the same tyme, the pope sente into
Englond a legate, that men cald Swals, and he was prest cardinal of
Rome, for to mayntene King Johnes cause agens the barons of Englond; but
the barons had so much pte (_poustie_, i.e. power) through Lewys, the
kinges sone of Fraunce, that King Johne wist not wher for to wend ne
gone: and so hitt fell, that he wold have gone to Suchold; and as he
went thedurward, he come by the abbey of Swinshed, and ther he abode II
dayes. And, as he sate at meat, he askyd a monke of the house, how moche
a lofe was worth, that was before hym sete at the table? and the monke
sayd that loffe was worthe bot ane halfpenny. 'O!' quod the kyng, 'this
is a grette cheppe of brede; now,' said the king, 'and yff I may, such a
loffe shalle be worth xxd. or half a yer be gone:' and when he said the
word, muche he thought, and ofte tymes sighed, and nome and ete of the
bred, and said, 'By Gode, the word that I have spokyn shall be sothe.'
The monke, that stode befor the kyng, was ful sory in his hert; and
thought rather he wold himself suffer peteous deth; and thought yff
he myght ordeyn therfore sum remedy. And anon the monke went unto his
abbott, and was schryvyd of him, and told the abbott all that the kyng
said, and prayed his abbott to assoyl him, for he wold gyffe the kyng
such a wassayle, that all Englond shuld be glad and joyful therof. Tho
went the monke into a gardene, and fond a tode therin; and toke her upp,
and put hyr in a cuppe, and filled it with good ale, and pryked hyr in
every place, in the cuppe, till the venome come out in every place; an
brought hitt befor the kyng, and knelyd, and said, 'Sir, wassayle; for
never in your lyfe drancke ye of such a cuppe,' 'Begyne, monke,' quod
the king; and the monke dranke a gret draute, and toke the kyng the
cuppe, and the kyng also drank a grett draute, and set downe the
cuppe.--The monke anon went to the Farmarye, and ther dyed anon, on
whose soule God have mercy, Amen. And v monkes syng for his soule
especially, and shall while the abbey stondith. The kyng was anon ful
evil at ese, and comaunded to remove the table, and askyd after the
monke; and men told him that he was ded, for his wombe was broke in
sondur. When the king herd this tidyng, he comaunded for to trusse; but
all hit was for nought, for his bely began to swelle for the drink that
he dranke, that he dyed within II dayes, the moro aftur Seynt Luke's
day."
A different account of the poisoning of King John is given in a MS.
Chronicle of England, written in the minority of Edward III., and
contained in the Auchinleck MS. of Edinburgh. Though not exactly to our
present purpose, the passage is curious, and I shall quote it without
apology. The author has mentioned the interdict laid on John's kingdom
by the pope, and continues thus:
He was ful wroth and grim,
For no prest wald sing for him
He made tho his parlement,
And swore his _croy de verament_,
That he shuld make such assaut,
To fede all Inglonde with a spand.
And eke with a white lof,
Therefore I hope[A] he was God-loth.
A monk it herd of Swines-heued,
And of this wordes he was adred,
He went hym to his fere,
And seyd to hem in this manner;
"The king has made a sori oth,
That he schal with a white lof
Fede al Inglonde, and with a spand,
Y wis it were a sori saut;
And better is that we die to,
Than al Inglond be so wo.
Ye schul for me belles ring,
And after wordes rede and sing;
So helpe you God, heven king,
Granteth me alle now mill asking,
And Ichim wil with puseoun slo,
Ne schal he never Inglond do wo."
His brethren him graunt alle his bone.
He let him shrive swithe sone,
To make his soule fair and cleue,
To for our leuedi heven queen,
That sche schuld for him be,
To for her son in trinitГ©.
Dansimond zede and gadred frut,
For sothe were plommes white,
The steles[B] he puld out everichon,
Puisoun he dede therin anon,
And sett the steles al ogen,
That the gile schuld nought be sen.
He dede hem in a coupe of gold,
And went to the kinges bord;
On knes he him sett,
The king full fair he grett;
"Sir," he said, "by Seynt Austin,
This is front of our garden,
And gif that your wil be,
Assayet herof after me."
Dansimoud ete frut, on and on,
And al tho other ete King Jon;
The monke aros, and went his way,
God gif his soule wel gode day;
He gaf King Jon ther his puisoun,
Himself had that ilk doun,
He dede, it is nouther for mirthe ne ond,
Bot for to save al Iuglond.
The King Jon sate at mete,
His wombe to wex grete;
He swore his oth, _per la croyde_,
His wombe wald brest a thre;
He wald have risen fram the bord,
Ac he spake never more word;
Thus ended his time,
Y wis he had an evel fine.
[Footnote A: _Hope, for think._]
[Footnote B: _Steles_--Stalks.]
Shakespeare, from such old chronicles, has drawn his authority for the
last fine scene in _King John_. But he probably had it from Caxton, who
uses nearly the words of the prose chronicle. Hemingford tells the same
tale with the metrical historian. It is certain, that John increased the
flux, of which he died, by the intemperate use of peaches and of ale,
which may have given rise to the story of the poison.--See MATTHEW
PARIS.
To return to the ballad: there is a very similar song, in which,
apparently to excite greater interest in the nursery, the handsome young
hunter is exchanged for a little child, poisoned by a false step-mother.
LORD RANDAL.
"O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son?
"O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"
"I hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon,
"For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?
"Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I din'd wi' my true-love; mother, make my bed soon,
"For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?.
"What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I gat eels boil'd in broo'; mother, make my bed soon,
"For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son?
"What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"
"O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,
"For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son!
"O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!"
"O yes! I am poison'd; mother, make my bed soon,
"For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down."
SIR HUGH LE BLOND.
This ballad is a northern composition, and seems to have been the
original of the legend called _Sir Aldingar_, which is printed in the
_Reliques of Antient Poetry_. The incidents are nearly the same in both
ballads, excepting that, in _Aldingar_, an angel combats for the queen,
instead of a mortal champion. The names of _Aldingar_ and _Rodingham_
approach near to each other in sound, though not in orthography, and the
one might, by reciters, be easily substituted for the other.
The tradition, upon which the ballad is founded, is universally current
in the Mearns; and the editor is informed, that, till very lately, the
sword, with which Sir Hugh le Blond was believed to have defended
the life and honour of the queen, was carefully preserved by his
descendants, the viscounts of Arbuthnot. That Sir Hugh of Arbuthnot
lived in the thirteenth century, is proved by his having, in 1282,
bestowed the patronage of the church of Garvoch upon the monks of
Aberbrothwick, for the safety of his soul.--_Register of Aberbrothwick,
quoted by Crawford in Peerage._ But I find no instance in history, in
which the honour of a queen of Scotland was committed to the chance of
a duel. It is true, that Mary, wife of Alexander II., was, about 1242,
somewhat implicated in a dark story, concerning the murder of Patrick,
earl of Athole, burned in his lodging at Haddington, where he had gone
to attend a great tournament. The relations of the deceased baron
accused of the murder Sir William Bisat, a powerful nobleman, who
appears to have been in such high favour with the young queen, that
she offered her oath, as a compurgator, to prove his innocence. Bisat
himself stood upon his defence, and proffered the combat to his
accusers; but he was obliged to give way to the tide, and was banished
from Scotland. This affair interested all the northern barons; and it
is not impossible, that some share, taken in it by this Sir Hugh de
Arbuthnot, may have given a slight foundation for the tradition of the
country.--WINTON, B. vii. ch. 9. Or, if we suppose Sir Hugh le Blond
to be a predecessor of the Sir Hugh who flourished in the thirteenth
century, he may have been the victor in a duel, shortly noticed as
having occurred in 1154, when one Arthur, accused of treason, was
unsuccessful in his appeal to the judgment of God. _Arthurus regem
Malcolm proditurus duello periit._ Chron. Sanctae Crucis ap. Anglia
Sacra, Vol. I. p. 161.
But, true or false, the incident, narrated in the ballad, is in the
genuine style of chivalry. Romances abound with similar instances, nor
are they wanting in real history. The most solemn part of a knight's
oath was to defend "all widows, orphelines, and maidens of gude
fame."[A]--LINDSAY'S _Heraldry, MS._ The love of arms was a real
passion of itself, which blazed yet more fiercely when united with the
enthusiastic admiration of the fair sex. The knight of Chaucer exclaims,
with chivalrous energy,
To fight for a lady! a benedicite!
It were a lusty sight for to see.
It was an argument, seriously urged by Sir John of Heinault, for making
war upon Edward II., in behalf of his banished wife, Isabella, that
knights were bound to aid, to their uttermost power, all distressed
damsels, living without council or comfort.
[Footnote A: Such an oath is still taken by the Knights of the Bath;
but, I believe, few of that honourable brotherhood will now consider it
quite so obligatory as the conscientious Lord Herbert of Cherbury, who
gravely alleges it as a sufficient reason for having challenged divers
cavaliers, that they had either snatched from a lady her bouquet, or
ribband, or, by some discourtesy of similar importance, placed her, as
his lordship conceived, in the predicament of a distressed damozell.]
An apt illustration of the ballad would have been the combat, undertaken
by three Spanish champions against three Moors of Granada, in defence of
the honour of the queen of Granada, wife to Mohammed Chiquito, the last
monarch of that kingdom. But I have not at hand _Las Guerras Civiles
de Granada_, in which that atchievement is recorded. Raymond Berenger,
count of Barcelona, is also said to have defended, in single combat, the
life and honour of the Empress Matilda, wife of the Emperor Henry V.,
and mother to Henry II. of England.--See ANTONIO ULLOA, _del vero Honore
Militare_, Venice, 1569.
A less apocryphal example is the duel, fought in 1387, betwixt Jaques le
Grys and John de Carogne, before the king of France. These warriors were
retainers of the earl of Alencon, and originally sworn brothers. John de
Carogne went over the sea, for the advancement of his fame, leaving in
his castle a beautiful wife, where she lived soberly and sagely. But
the devil entered into the heart of Jaques le Grys, and he rode, one
morning, from the earl's house to the castle of his friend, where he was
hospitably received by the unsuspicious lady. He requested her to
show him the donjon, or keep of the castle, and in that remote and
inaccessible tower forcibly violated her chastity. He then mounted his
horse, and returned to the earl of Alencon within so short a space, that
his absence had not been perceived. The lady abode within the donjon,
weeping bitterly, and exclaiming, "Ah Jaques! it was not well done thus
to shame me! but on you shall the shame rest, if God send my husband
safe home!" The lady kept secret this sorrowful deed until her husband's
return from his voyage. The day passed, and night came, and the knight
went to bed; but the lady would not; for ever she blessed herself,
and walked up and down the chamber, studying and musing, until her
attendants had retired; and then, throwing herself on her knees before
the knight, she shewed him all the adventure. Hardly would Carogne
believe the treachery of his companion; but, when convinced, he replied,
"Since it is so, lady, I pardon you; but the knight shall die for this
villainous deed." Accordingly, Jaques le Grys was accused of the crime,
in the court of the earl of Alencon. But, as he was greatly loved of
his lord, and as the evidence was very slender, the earl gave judgment
against the accusers. Hereupon John Carogne appealed to the parliament
of Paris; which court, after full consideration, appointed the case to
be tried by mortal combat betwixt the parties, John Carogne appearing as
the champion of his lady. If he failed in his combat, then was he to
be hanged, and his lady burned, as false and unjust calumniators. This
combat, under circumstances so very peculiar, attracted universal
attention; in so much, that the king of France and his peers, who were
then in Flanders, collecting troops for an invasion of England, returned
to Paris, that so notable a duel might be fought in the royal presence.
"Thus the kynge, and his uncles, and the constable, came to Parys. Then
the lystes were made in a place called Saynt Katheryne, behinde the
Temple. There was soo moche people, that it was mervayle to beholde; and
on the one side of the lystes there was made gret scaffoldes, that the
lordes might the better se the batayle of the ii champion; and so they
bothe came to the felde, armed at all peaces, and there eche of them was
set in theyr chayre; the erle of Saynt Poule gouverned John of Carongne,
and the erle of Alanson's company with Jacques le Grys; and when the
knyght entred in to the felde, he came to his wyfe, who was there
syttynge in a chayre, covered in blacke, and he sayd to her thus:--Dame,
by your enformacyon, and in your quarrell, I do put my lyfe in
adventure, as to fyght with Jacques le Grys; ye knowe, if the cause be
just and true.'--'Syr,' sayd the lady, 'it is as I have sayd; wherefore
ye maye fyght surely; the cause is good and true.' With those wordes,
the knyghte kissed the lady, and toke her by the hande, and then blessyd
hym, and soo entred into the felde. The lady sate styll in the blacke
chayre, in her prayers to God, and to the vyrgyne Mary, humbly prayenge
them, by theyr specyall grace, to send her husbande the victory,
accordynge to the ryght. She was in gret hevynes, for she was not sure
of her lyfe; for, if her husbande sholde have ben dyscomfyted, she was
judged, without remedy, to be brente, and her husbande hanged. I cannot
say whether she repented her or not, as the matter was so forwarde, that
both she and her husbande were in grete peryll: howbeit, fynally, she
must as then abyde the adventure. Then these two champyons were set
one agaynst another, and so mounted on theyr horses, and behauved them
nobly; for they knewe what perteyned to deades of armes. There were
many lordes and knyghtes of Fraunce, that were come thyder to se that
batayle. The two champyons justed at theyr fyrst metyng, but none of
them dyd hurte other; and, after the justes, they lyghted on foote to
periournie theyr batayle, and soo fought valyauntly.--And fyrst, John of
Carongne was hurt in the thyghe, whereby al his frendes were in grete
fere; but, after that, he fought so valyauntly, that he bette down his
adversary to the erthe, and threst his swerde in his body, and soo slewe
hyrn in the felde; and then he demaunded, if he had done his devoyse or
not? and they answered, that he had valyauntly atchieved his batayle.
Then Jacques le Grys was delyuered to the hangman of Parys, and he drewe
hym to the gybbet of Mountfawcon, and there hanged him up. Then John of
Carongne came before the kynge, and kneled downe, and the kynge made
him to stand up before hym; and, the same daye, the kynge caused to
be delyvred to him a thousande franks, and reteyned him to be of his
chambre, with a pencyon of ii hundred pounde by yere, durynge the terme
of his lyfe. Then he thanked the kynge and the lordes, and went to his
wyfe, and kissed her; and then they wente togyder to the chyrche of our
ladye, in Parys, and made theyr offerynge, and then retourned to their
lodgynges. Then this Sir John of Carongne taryed not longe in Fraunce,
but went, with Syr John Boucequant, Syr John of Bordes, and Syr Loys
Grat. All these went to se Lamorabaquyn,[A] of whome, in those dayes,
there was moche spekynge."
