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

the seventh o’ them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye.

Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae.

And they lay still and sleeped sound Until the day began to daw; And kindly to him she did say, “It is time, true love, you were awa’.”

But he lay still, and sleeped sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She looked atween her and the wa’, And dull and drowsie were his e’en.

Then in and came her father dear; Said,—“Let a’ your mourning be: I’ll carry the dead corpse to the clay, And I’ll come back and comfort thee.”

“Comfort weel your seven sons; For comforted will I never be: I ween ‘twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi’ me.”

The clinking bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window, I wot, an hour before the day.

“Are ye sleeping, Margaret?” he says, “Or are ye waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, I wot, true love, I gied to thee.”

“Your faith and troth ye sall never get, Nor our true love sall never twin, Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheik and chin.”

“My mouth it is full cold, Margaret, It has the smell, now, of the ground; And if I kiss thy comely mouth, Thy days of life will not be lang.

“O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight, I wot the wild fowls are boding day; Give me my faith and troth again, And let me fare me on my way.”

“Thy faith and troth thou sall na get, And our true love sall never twin, Until ye tell what comes of women, I wot, who die in strong traivelling?

“Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good lord’s knee, Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers; I wot, sweet company for to see.

“O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight, I wot the wild fowl are boding day; The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be missed away.”

Then she has ta’en a crystal wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi’ mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan.

“I thank ye, Marg’ret, I thank ye, Marg’ret; And aye I thank ye heartilie; Gin ever the dead come for the quick, Be sure, Mag’ret, I’ll come for thee.”

It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone, She climb’d the wall, and followed him, Until she came to the green forest, And there she lost the sight o’ him.

“Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? Is there ony room at your feet? Is there ony room at your side, Saunders, Where fain, fain I wad sleep?”

“There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret, There’s nae room at my feet; My bed it is full lowly now, Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

“Cauld mould is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet; The dew it falls nae sooner down Than my resting-place is weet.

“But plait a wand o’ bonnie birk, And lay it on my breast; And shed a tear upon my grave, And wish my saul gude rest.

“And fair Marg’ret, and rare Marg’ret, And Marg’ret, o’ veritie, Gin ere ye love another man, Ne’er love him as ye did me.”

Then up and crew the milk-white cock, And up and crew the gray; Her lover vanish’d in the air, And she gaed weeping away.

 

Ballad: Waly, Waly

 

(Mackay.)

O waly, waly, up the bank, O waly, waly, down the brae. And waly, waly, yon burn side, Where I and my love wont to gae. I leaned my back unto an aik, An’ thocht it was a trustie tree, But first it bow’d and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lichtly me.

O waly, waly, but love is bonnie A little time while it is new, But when it’s auld it waxes cauld, And fades away like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my head, O wherefore should I kame my hair, For my true love has me forsook, And says he’ll never love me mair.

Now Arthur’s Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne’er be pressed by me, St. Anton’s well shall be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree! O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie!

‘Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie, ‘Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love’s heart’s grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow toun We were a comely sicht to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kist That love had been sae ill to win, I’d locked my heart in a case of gold, And pinned it wi’ a siller pin. Oh, oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse’s knee; And I myself were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me!

 

Ballad: Love Gregor; Or, The Lass Of Lochroyan

 

(Child, Part III., p. 220.)

“O wha will shoe my fu’ fair foot? And wha will glove my hand? And wha will lace my middle jimp, Wi’ the new-made London band?

“And wha will kaim my yellow hair, Wi’ the new made silver kaim? And wha will father my young son, Till Love Gregor come hame?”

“Your father will shoe your fu’ fair foot, Your mother will glove your hand; Your sister will lace your middle jimp Wi’ the new-made London band.

“Your brother will kaim your yellow hair, Wi’ the new made silver kaim; And the king of heaven will father your bairn, Till Love Gregor come haim.”

“But I will get a bonny boat, And I will sail the sea, For I maun gang to Love Gregor, Since he canno come hame to me.”

O she has gotten a bonny boat, And sailld the sa’t sea fame; She langd to see her ain true-love, Since he could no come hame.

“O row your boat, my mariners, And bring me to the land, For yonder I see my love’s castle, Close by the sa’t sea strand.”

She has ta’en her young son in her arms, And to the door she’s gone, And lang she’s knocked and sair she ca’d, But answer got she none.

“O open the door, Love Gregor,” she says, “O open, and let me in; For the wind blaws thro’ my yellow hair, And the rain draps o’er my chin.”

“Awa, awa, ye ill woman, You’r nae come here for good; You’r but some witch, or wile warlock, Or mer-maid of the flood.”

“I am neither a witch nor a wile warlock, Nor mer-maid of the sea, I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal; O open the door to me.”

“Gin ye be Annie of Rough Royal— And I trust ye are not she— Now tell me some of the love-tokens That past between you and me.”

“O dinna you mind now, Love Gregor, When we sat at the wine, How we changed the rings frae our fingers? And I can show thee thine.

“O yours was good, and good enough, But ay the best was mine; For yours was o’ the good red goud, But mine o’ the diamonds fine.

“But open the door now, Love Gregor, O open the door I pray, For your young son that is in my arms Will be dead ere it be day.”

“Awa, awa, ye ill woman, For here ye shanno win in; Gae drown ye in the raging sea, Or hang on the gallows-pin.”

When the cock had crawn, and day did dawn, And the sun began to peep, Then up he rose him, Love Gregor, And sair, sair did he weep.

“O I dreamd a dream, my mother dear, The thoughts o’ it gars me greet, That Fair Annie of Rough Royal Lay cauld dead at my feet.”

“Gin it be for Annie of Rough Royal That ye make a’ this din, She stood a’ last night at this door, But I trow she wan no in.”

“O wae betide ye, ill woman, An ill dead may ye die! That ye woudno open the door to her, Nor yet woud waken me.”

O he has gone down to yon shore-side, As fast as he could fare; He saw Fair Annie in her boat, But the wind it tossd her sair.

And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie! O Annie, winna ye bide?” But ay the mair that he cried “Annie,” The braider grew the tide.

And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie! Dear Annie, speak to me!” But ay the louder he cried “Annie,” The louder roard the sea.

The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough, And dashd the boat on shore; Fair Annie floats on the raging sea, But her young son rose no more.

Love Gregor tare his yellow hair, And made a heavy moan; Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet, But his bonny young son was gone.

O cherry, cherry was her cheek, And gowden was her hair, But clay cold were her rosey lips, Nae spark of life was there,

And first he’s kissd her cherry cheek, And neist he’s kissed her chin; And saftly pressd her rosey lips, But there was nae breath within.

“O wae betide my cruel mother, And an ill dead may she die! For she turnd my true-love frae my door, When she came sae far to me.”

 

Ballad: The Queen’s Marie

 

(Child, vi., Border Minstrelsy.)

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane, Wi ribbons in her hair; The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton, Than ony that were there.

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane, Wi ribbons on her breast; The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton, Than he listend to the priest.

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane, Wi gloves upon her hands; The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton, Than the queen and a’ her lands.

She hadna been about the king’s court A month, but barely one, Till she was beloved by a’ the king’s court, And the king the only man.

She hadna been about the king’s court A month, but barely three, Till frae the king’s court Marie Hamilton, Marie Hamilton durst na be.

The king is to the Abbey gane, To pu the Abbey tree, To scale the babe frae Marie’s heart; But the thing it wadna be.

O she has rowd it in her apron, And set it on the sea: “Gae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe, Ye’s get na mair o me.”

Word is to the kitchen gane, And word is to the ha, And word is to the noble room, Amang the ladyes a’, That Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed, And the bonny babe’s mist and awa.

Scarcely had she lain down again, And scarcely faen asleep, When up then started our gude queen, Just at her bed-feet, Saying “Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe? For I am sure I heard it greet.”

“O no, O no, my noble queen! Think no such thing to be! ‘Twas but a stitch into my side, And sair it troubles me.”

“Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton, Get up, and follow me, For I am going to Edinburgh town, A rich wedding for to see.”

O slowly, slowly raise she up, And slowly put she on; And slowly rode she out the way, Wi mony a weary groan.

The queen was clad