A Collection of Ballads, Andrew Lang [english love story books txt] 📗

the Sunday after that, On the muirs aneath Harlaw.

Gin anybody speer at ye For them ye took awa, Ye may tell their wives and bairnies, They’re sleepin at Harlaw.

 

Ballad: Dickie Macphalion

 

(Sharpe’s Ballad Book, No. XIV.)

I went to the mill, but the miller was gone, I sat me down, and cried ochone! To think on the days that are past and gone, Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain. Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo, To think on the days that are past and gone, Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.

I sold my rock, I sold my reel, And sae hae I my spinning wheel, And a’ to buy a cap of steel For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain! Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo, And a’ to buy a cap of steel For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.

 

Ballad: A LykeWake Dirge

 

(Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii., p. 357.)

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle, Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.

When thou from hence away art paste, Every nighte and alle, To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, Every nighte and alle, Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thye saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gavest nane, Every nighte and alle, The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, Every nighte and alle, To Brigg o’ Dread thou comest at laste, And Christe receive thye saule.

From Brigg o’ Dread when thou mayst passe, Every nighte and alle, To Purgatory fire thou comest at last, And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink, Every nighte and alle, The fire sall never make thee shrinke; And Christe receive thye saule.

If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane, Every nighte and alle, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle, Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.

 

Ballad: The Laird Of Waristoun

 

(Child, vol. iii. Early Edition.)

Down by yon garden green, Sae merrily as she gaes; She has twa weel-made feet, And she trips upon her taes.

She has twa weel-made feet; Far better is her hand; She’s as jimp in the middle As ony willow wand.

“Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, It’s I will make you lady Of a’ the lands you see.”

 

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He spak a word in jest; Her answer was na good; He threw a plate at her face, Made it a’ gush out o’ blood.

She wasna frae her chamber A step but barely three, When up and at her richt hand There stood Man’s Enemy.

“Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, I’ll learn you a wile, Avenged for to be.”

The foul thief knotted the tether; She lifted his head on hie; The nourice drew the knot That gar’d lord Waristoun die.

Then word is gane to Leith, Also to Edinburgh town That the lady had kill’d the laird, The laird o’ Waristoun.

 

*

 

Tak aff, tak aff my hood But lat my petticoat be; Pat my mantle o’er my head; For the fire I downa see.

Now, a’ ye gentle maids, Tak warning now by me, And never marry ane But wha pleases your e’e.

“For he married me for love, But I married him for fee; And sae brak out the feud That gar’d my dearie die.”

 

Ballad: May Colven

 

(Child, Part I., p. 56.)

False Sir John a wooing came To a maid of beauty fair; May Colven was this lady’s name, Her father’s only heir.

He wood her butt, he wood her ben, He wood her in the ha, Until he got this lady’s consent To mount and ride awa.

He went down to her father’s bower, Where all the steeds did stand, And he’s taken one of the best steeds That was in her father’s land.

He’s got on and she’s got on, As fast as they could flee, Until they came to a lonesome part, A rock by the side of the sea.

“Loup off the steed,” says false Sir John, “Your bridal bed you see; For I have drowned seven young ladies, The eighth one you shall be.

“Cast off, cast off, my May Colven, All and your silken gown, For it’s oer good and oer costly To rot in the salt sea foam.

“Cast off, cast off, my May Colven. All and your embroiderd shoen, For oer good and oer costly To rot in the salt sea foam.”

“O turn you about, O false Sir John, And look to the leaf of the tree, For it never became a gentleman A naked woman to see.”

He turned himself straight round about, To look to the leaf of the tree, So swift as May Colven was To throw him in the sea.

“O help, O help, my May Colven, O help, or else I’ll drown; I’ll take you home to your father’s bower, And set you down safe and sound.”

“No help, no help, O false Sir John, No help, nor pity thee; Tho’ seven kings’ daughters you have drownd, But the eighth shall not be me.”

So she went on her father’s steed, As swift as she could flee, And she came home to her father’s bower Before it was break of day.

Up then and spoke the pretty parrot: “May Colven, where have you been? What has become of false Sir John, That woo’d you so late the streen?

“He woo’d you butt, he woo’d you ben, He woo’d you in the ha, Until he got your own consent For to mount and gang awa.”

“O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot, Lay not the blame upon me; Your cup shall be of the flowered gold, Your cage of the root of the tree.”

Up then spake the king himself, In the bed-chamber where he lay: “What ails the pretty parrot, That prattles so long or day?”

“There came a cat to my cage door, It almost a worried me, And I was calling on May Colven To take the cat from me.”

 

Ballad: Johnie Faa

 

(Child, vol. iv. Early Edition.)

The gypsies came to our good lord’s gate And wow but they sang sweetly! They sang sae sweet and sae very complete That down came the fair lady.

And she came tripping doun the stair, And a’ her maids before her; As soon as they saw her weel-far’d face, They coost the glamer o’er her.

“O come with me,” says Johnie Faw, “O come with me, my dearie; For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword, That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.”

Then she gied them the beer and the wine, And they gied her the ginger; But she gied them a far better thing, The goud ring aff her finger.

“Gae take frae me this yay mantle, And bring to me a plaidie; For if kith and kin, and a’ had sworn, I’ll follow the gypsy laddie.

“Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed, Wi’ my good lord beside me; But this night I’ll lye in a tenant’s barn, Whatever shall betide me!”

“Come to your bed,” says Johnie Faw, “Oh, come to your bed, my dearie: For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword, Your lord shall nae mair come near ye.”

“I’ll go to bed to my Johnie Faw, I’ll go to bed to my dearie; For I vow and I swear by the fan in my hand, My lord shall nae mair come near me.

“I’ll mak a hap to my Johnie Faw, I’ll mak a hap to my dearie; And he’s get a’ the coat gaes round, And my lord shall nae mair come near me.”

And when our lord came hame at e’en, And spier’d for his fair lady, The tane she cry’d, and the other reply’d, “She’s awa’ wi’ the gypsy laddie!”

“Gae saddle to me the black black steed, Gae saddle and make him ready; Before that I either eat or sleep, I’ll gae seek my fair lady.”

And we were fifteen weel-made men, Altho’ we were na bonny; And we were a’ put down but ane, For a fair young wanton lady.

 

Ballad: Hobbie Noble

 

(Child, vi. Early Edition.)

Foul fa’ the breast first treason bred in! That Liddesdale may safely say: For in it there was baith meat and drink, And corn unto our geldings gay.

We were stout-hearted men and true, As England it did often say; But now we may turn our backs and fly, Since brave Noble is seld away.

Now Hobie he was an English man, And born into Bewcastle dale; But his misdeeds they were sae great, They banish’d him to Liddisdale.

At Kershope foot the tryst was set, Kershope of the lilye lee; And there was traitour Sim o’ the Mains, With him a private companie.

Then Hobie has graith’d his body weel, I wat it was wi’ baith good iron and steel; And he has pull’d out his fringed grey, And there, brave Noble, he rade him weel.

Then Hobie is down the water gane, E’en as fast as he may drie; Tho’ they shoud a’ brusten and broken their hearts, Frae that tryst Noble he would na be.

“Weel may ye be, my feiries five! And aye, what is your wills wi’ me?” Then they cry’d a’ wi’ ae consent, “Thou’rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me.

“Wilt thou with us in England ride, And thy safe warrand we will be? If we get a horse worth a hundred punds, Upon his back that thou shalt be.”

“I dare not with you into England ride; The Land-sergeant has me at feid: I know not what evil may betide, For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead.

“And Anton Shiel he loves not me, For I gat twa drifts o his sheep; The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not, For nae gear frae me he e’er could keep.

“But will ye stay till the day gae down, Until the night come o’er the grund, And I’ll be a guide worth ony twa, That may in Liddesdale be fund?

“Tho’ dark the night as pitch and tar, I’ll guide ye o’er yon hills fu’ hie; And bring ye a’ in safety back, If ye’ll be true and follow me.”

He’s guided them o’er moss and muir, O’er hill and houp, and mony a down; Til they came to the Foulbogshiel, And there, brave Noble, he lighted down.

But word is gane to the Land-sergeant, In Askirton where that he lay— “The deer that ye hae hunted lang, Is seen into the Waste this day.”

“Then Hobbie Noble is that deer! I wat he carries the style fu’ hie; Aft has he beat your slough-hounds back, And set yourselves at little lee.

“Gar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn; See they shaft their arrows on the wa’! Warn Willeva and Spear Edom, And see the morn they meet me a’.

“Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh, And see it be by break o’ day; And we will on to Conscowthart-Green, For there, I think, we’ll get our prey.”

Then Hobbie Noble has dream’d a dream, In the Foulbogshiel, where that he lay; He thought his horse was neath him shot, And he himself got hard away.

The cocks could crow, the day could dawn, And I wot so even down fell the rain; If Hobbie had no waken’d at that time, In the Foulbogshiel he had been tane or slain.

“Get up, get up, my