0663882 48819 Edwards Wharton George a Book of Old English Ballads

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A Book of Old English Balladswith an

Accompaniment of Decorative Drawings

by

George Wharton Edwards

And an Introduction by

Hamilton W. Mabie

New York,

The Macmillan Company

[1896]

le:///I|/mythology/england/boeb/1.html (1 of 82) [01/25/2004 6:40:37 AM]



CONTENTSPAGE

troduction 7

hevy Chace 29

ing Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid 43

ing Leir and his Three Daughters 49

air Rosamond 59

hillida and Corydon 69

air Margaret and Sweet William 71

nnan Water 76

he Bailiff's Daughter of Islington 79

arbara Allen's Cruelty 82

he Douglas Tragedy 84

oung Waters 89

odden Field 93

elen of Kirkconnell 97

6

obin Hood and Allen-a-Dale 100

obin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 106

obin Hood's Death and Burial 119

he Twa Corbies 124

Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny 126

he Nut-brown Maid 129




he Fause Lover 148

he Mermaid 151

he Battle of Otterburn 154

he Lament of the Border Widow 169

he Banks o' Yarrow 171

ugh of Lincoln 176

r Patrick Spent 180

Introduction

ethe, who saw so many things with such clearness of vision, brought out the charm of the popular ballad for readers of a later day

mark that the value of these songs of the people is to be found in the fact that their motives are drawn directly from nature; and he

t in the art of saying things compactly, uneducated men have greater skill than those who are educated. It is certainly true that no

verse is so completely out of the atmosphere of modern writing as the popular ballad. No other form of verse has, therefore, in so

egree, the charm of fresh, ness. In material, treatment, and spirit, these bat lads are set in sharp contrast with the poetry of

hour. They deal with historical events or incidents, with local traditions, with personal adventure or achievement. They are, almo

hout exception, entirely objective. Contemporary poetry is, on the other hand, very largely subjective; and even when it deals wit

nts or incidents it invests them to such a degree with personal emotion and imagination, it so modifies and colours them with

mperamental effects, that the resulting poem is much more a study of subjective conditions than a picture or drama of objective re

s projection of the inward upon the outward world, in such a degree that the dividing line between the two is lost, is strikingly

strated in Maeterlinck's plays. Nothing could be in sharper contrast, for instance, than the famous ballad of "The Hunting of the

eviot" and Maeterlinck's "Princess Maleine." There is no atmosphere, in a strict use of the word, in the spirited and compact acco

famous contention between the Percies and the Douglases, of which Sir Philip Sidney said "that I found not my heart moved mo

h a Trumpet." It is a breathless, rushing narrative of




wift succession of events, told with the most straight-forward simplicity. In the "Princess Maleine," on the other hand, the narrativ

rged with subjective feeling, the world in which the action takes place is so deeply tinged with lights that never rested on any act

dscape, that all sense of reality is lost. The play depends for its effect mainly upon atmosphere. Certain very definite impressions

duced with singular power, but there is no clear, clean stamping of occurrences on the mind. The imagination is skilfully awaken

de to do the work of observation.

e note of the popular ballad is its objectivity; it not only takes us out of doors, but it also takes us out of the individual consciousn

e manner is entirely subordinated to the matter; the poet, if there was a poet in the case, obliterates himself. What we get is a defin

ort of events which have taken place, not a study of a man's mind nor an account of a man's feelings. The true balladist is never

ospective; he is concerned not with himself but with his story. There is no self-disclosure in his song. To the mood of Senancour

miel he was a stranger. Neither he nor the men to whom he recited or sang would have understood that mood. They were primarily

eflectively absorbed in the world outside of themselves. They saw far more than they meditated; they recorded far more than they

ralized. The popular ballads are, as a rule, entirely free from didacticism in any form; that is one of the main sources of their unfa

rm. They show not only a childlike curiosity about the doings of the day and the things that befall men, but a childlike indifferen

ral inference and justification. The bloodier the fray the better for ballad purposes; no one feels the necessity of apology either fo

hless aggression or for useless blood-letting; the scene is reported as it was presented to the eye of the spectator, not to his morali

ulty. He is expected to see and to sing, not to scrutinize and meditate. In those rare cases in which a moral inference is drawn, it i

ays so obvious and elementary that it gives the impression of having been fastened on at the end of the song, in deference to

lesiastical rather than popular feeling.

e social and intellectual conditions which fostered self-unconsciousness,--interest in things, incidents, and adventures rather than ods and inward experiences,--and the unmoral or non moralizing attitude towards events, fostered also that delightful naïveté wh

tributes greatly to the charm of many of the best ballads; a naïveté which often heightens the pathos, and, at times, softens it with

ches of apparently unconscious humour; the naïveté of the child which has in it something of the freshness of a wildflower, and y

o a wonderful instinct for making the heart of the matter plain. This quality has almost entirely disappeared from contemporary v

ong cultivated races; one must go to the peasants of remote parts of the Continent to discover even a trace of its presence. It has a

short-lived charm, like the freshness which shines on meadow and garden in the brief dawn which hastens on to day.

s frank, direct play of thought and feeling on an incident, or series of incidents, compensates for the absence of a more perfect ar

lads; using the word "art" in its true sense as including

mplete, adequate, and beautiful handling of subject-matter, and masterly working out of its possibilities. These popular songs, so d

hearts of the generations on whose lips they were fashioned, and to all who care for the fresh note, the direct word, the unrestrainotion, rarely touch the highest points of poetic achievement. Their charm lies, not in their perfection of form, but in their spontan

cerity, and graphic power. They are not rivers of song, wide, deep, and swift; they are rather cool, clear springs among the hills. I

ctions against sophisticated poetry which set in from lime to time, the popular ballad--the true folk-song--has often been exalted a

ense of other forms of verse. It is idle to attempt to arrange the various forms of poetry in an order of absolute values; it is enoug

h has its own quality, and, therefore, its own value. The drama, the epic, the ballad, the lyric, each strikes its note in the complete

ression of human emotion and experience. Each belongs to a particular stage of development, and each has the authority and the

uring charm which attach to every

hentic utterance of the spirit of man under the conditions of life.

his wide range of human expression the ballad follows the epic as a kind of aftermath; a second and scattered harvest, springing

hout regularity or nurture out of a rich and unexhausted soil. The epic fastens upon some event of such commanding importance

rks a main current of history; some story, historic, or mythologic; some incident susceptible of extended narrative treatment. It is

ays, in its popular form, a matter of growth it is direct, simple, free from didacticism; representing, as Aristotle says, "a single ac

ire and complete." It subordinates character to action; it delights in episode and dialogue; it is content to tell the story as a story, a

ve the moralization to hearers or readers. The popular ballad is so closely related to the popular epic that it may be said to reprodu

lities and characteristics within a narrower compass, and on a smaller scale. It also is a piece of the memory of the people, or a cr

he imagination of the people; but the tradition or fact which it preserves is of local, rather

n national importance. It is indifferent to nice distinctions and delicate gradations or shadings; its power springs from its directne

our, and simplicity. It is often entirely occupied with the narration or description of a single episode; it has no room for dialogue,

en secures the effect of the dialogue by its unconventional freedom of phrase, and sometimes by the introduction of brief and com




rge and denial, question and reply. Sometimes the incidents upon which the ballad makers fastened, have a unity or connection w

h other which hints at a complete story. The ballads which deal with Robin Hood are so numerous and so closely related that they

stantly suggest, not only the possibility, but the probability of epic treatment. It is surprising that the richness of the material, and

able illustrative quality, did not inspire some earlier Chaucer to combine the incidents in a sustained narrative. But the epic poet d

ear, and the most representative of English popular heroes remains the central figure in a series of detached episodes and adventu

served in a long line of disconnected ballads.

s apparent arrest, in the ballad stage, of a story which seemed destined to become an epic, naturally suggests the vexed question o

hor ship of the popular ballads. They are in a very real sense the songs of the people; they make no claim to individual authorship

contrary, the inference of what may be called community authorship is, in many instances, irresistible. They are the product of adition which, so to speak, holds song of this kind in solution; of an age in which improvisation, singing, and dancing are the mos

ural and familiar forms of expression. They deal almost without exception with matters which belong to the community memory

agination; they constantly reappear with variations so noticeable as to indicate free and common handling of themes of wide local

erest. All this is true of the popular ballad; but all this does not decisively settle the question of authorship. What share did the

mmunity have in the making of these songs, and what share fell to individual singers?

rder, whose conception of the origin and function

iterature was so vitalizing in the general aridity of thinking about the middle of the last century, and who did even more for balla

se in Germany than Bishop Percy did in England, laid emphasis almost exclusively on community authorship. His profound insti

lity in all forms of art, his deep feeling for life, and the immense importance he attached to spontaneity and unconsciousness in th

est productivity made community authorship not only attractive but inevitable to him. In his pronounced reaction against the supeas of literature so widely held in the Germany of his time, he espoused the conception of community authorship as the only possi

lanation of the epics, ballads, and other folk-songs. In nature and popular life, or universal experience, he found the rich sources

try whose charm he felt so deeply, and whose power and beauty he did so much to reveal to his contemporaries. Genius and natu

gical words with him, because they suggested such depths of being under all forms of expression; such unity of the whole being o

e in its thought, its emotion, and its action; such

ire unconsciousness of self or of formulated aim, and such spontaneity of spirit and speech. The language of those times, when w

not yet been divided into nobles, middle-class, and plebeians, was, he said, the richest for poetical purposes. "Our tongue, comp

h the idiom of the savage, seems adapted rather for reflection than for the senses or imagination. The rhythm of popular verse is s

icate, so rapid, so precise, that it is no easy matter to defect it with our eyes; but do not imagine it to have been equally difficult fo

se living populations who listened to, instead of reading it; who were accustomed to the sound of it from their infancy; who them

g it, and whose ear had been formed by its cadence." This conception of poetry as arising in the hearts of the people and taking foir lips is still more definitely and strikingly expressed in two sentences, which let us into, the heart of Herder's philosophy of poet

etry in those happy days lived in the ears of the people, on the lips and in the harps of living bards; it sang of history, of the even

day, of mysteries, miracles, and signs. It was the

wer of a nation's character, language, and country; of its occupations, its prejudices, its passions, its aspirations, and its soul." In t

rds, at once comprehensive and vague, after the manner of Herder, we find ourselves face to face with that conception not only o

pular song in all its forms, but with literature as a whole, which has revolutionized literary study in this century, and revitalized it

l. For Herder was a man of prophetic instinct; he sometimes felt more clearly than he saw; he divined where he could not reach r

analysis. He was often vague, fragmentary, and inconclusive, like all men of his type; but he had a genius for getting at the heart

ngs. His statements often need qualification, but he is almost always on the tight track. When he says that the great traditions, in w

h the memory and the imagination of a race were engaged, and which were still living in the mouths of the people, "of themselvepoetic form," he is using language which is too general to convey a definite impression of method, but he is probably suggesting

pest truth with regard to these popular

ries. They actually were of community origin; they actually were common property; they were given a great variety of forms by a

mber of persons; the forms which have come down to us are very likely the survivors of a kind of in formal competition, which w

years at the fireside and at the festivals of a whole country side.

ger, whose "Lenore" is one of the most widely known of modern ballads, held the same view of the origin of popular song, and w

n more definite in his confession of faith than Herder. He declared in the most uncompromising terms that all real poetry must ha

pular origin; "can be and must be of the people, for that is the seal of its perfection." And he comments on the delight with which

ened, in village street and home, to unwritten songs; the poetry which finds its way in quiet rivulets to the remotest peasant home




e manner, Hélène Vacaresco overheard the songs of the Roumanian people; hiding in the maize to catch the reaping songs; listeni

nning parties, at festivals, at death-beds, at taverns; taking

songs down from the lips of peasant women, fortune-tellers, gypsies, and all manner of humble folk who were the custodians of

rant community verse. We have passed so entirely out of the song-making period, and literature has become to us so exclusively

rk of a professional class, that we find it difficult to imagine the intellectual and social conditions which fostered improvisation o

at scale, and trained the ear of great populations to the music of spoken poetry. It is almost impossible for us to disassociate litera

m writing. There is still, however, a considerable volume of unwritten literature in the world in the form of stories, songs, proverb

hy phrases; a literature handed down in large part from earlier times, but still receiving additions from contemporary men and wo

s unwritten literature is to be found, it is hardly necessary to say, almost exclusively among country people remote from towns, aose mental attitude and community feeling reproduce, in a way, the conditions under which the English and Scotch ballads were

ginally composed. The Roumanian

sants sing their songs upon every occasion of domestic or local interest; and sowing and harvesting, birth, christening, marriage,

ial, these notable events in the life of the country side are all celebrated by unknown poets; or, rather, by improvisers who give de

m to sentiments, phrases, and words which are on many lips. The Russian peasant tells his stories as they were told to him; those

cs whose life is believed, in some cases, to date back at least a thousand years. These great popular stories form a kind of sacred

eritance bequeathed by one generation to another as a possession of the memory, and are almost entirely unrelated to the written

rature of the country. Miss Hapgood tells a very interesting story of a government official, stationed on the western shore of Lake

éga, who became so absorbed in the search for this literature of the people that he followed singers and reciters from place to plac

er to learn from their lips the most widely known of these folk tales. On such an expedition of discovery he found himself, one stht, on an island in the lake. The hut of refuge was already

of stormbound peasants when he entered. Having made himself some tea, and spread his blanket in a vacant place, he fell asleep

s presently awakened by a murmur of recurring sounds. Sit ting up, he found the group of peasants hanging on the words of an ol

kindly face, expressive eyes, and melodious voice, from whose lips flowed a marvellous song; grave and gay by turns, monotono

sionate in succession; but wonderfully fresh, picturesque, and fascinating. The listener soon became aware that he was hearing, f

t time, the famous story of "Sadkó, the Merchant of Nóvgorod." It was like being present at the birth of a piece of literature!

e fact that unwritten songs and stories still exist in great numbers among remote country-folk of our own time, and that additions

l made to them, help us to understand the probable origin of our own popular ballads, and what community authorship may really

an. To put ourselves, even in thought, in touch with the ballad-making period in English and Scotch history, we must dismiss fro

nds all modern ideas of authorship;

notions of individual origination and ownership of any form of words. Professor ten Brink tells us that in the ballad-making age t

s no production; there was only reproduction. There was a stock of traditions, memories, experiences, held in common by large

pulations, in constant use on the lips of numberless persons; told and retold in many forms, with countless changes, variations, an

difications; without conscious artistic purpose, with no sense of personal control or possession, with no constructive aim either in

reatment; no composition in the modern sense of the term. Such a mass of poetic material in the possession of a large community

sense, fluid, and ran into a thousand forms almost without direction or premeditation. Constant use of such rich material gave a

n of thought and speech to countless persons who, under other conditions, would have given no sign of the possession of the facu

agination.

ere was not only the stimulus to the faculty which sees events and occurrences with the eyes of the imagination, but there was als

stant and

miliar use of the language of poetry. To speak metrically or rhythmically is no difficult matter if one is in the atmosphere or habit

se-making; and there is nothing surprising either in the feats of memory or of improvisation performed by the minstrels and balla

he old time. The faculty of improvising was easily developed and was very generally used by people of all classes. This facility i

sessed by rural populations, among whom songs are still composed as they are sting, each member of the company contributing

se or a variation, suggested by local conditions, of a well-known stanza. When to the possession of a mass of traditions and storie

acility of improvisation is added the habit of singing and dancing, it is not difficult to reconstruct in our own thought the conditio

der which popular poetry came into being, nor to understand in what sense a community can make its own songs. In the brave day

en ballads were made, the rustic peoples were not mute, as they are to-day; nor sad, as they have become in so many parts of Eng

ey sang and they danced by instinct and as an expression




ocial feeling. Originally the ballads were not only sung, but they gave measure to the dance; they grew from mouth to mouth in t

y act of dancing; individual dancers adding verse to verse, and the frequent refrain coming in as a kind of chorus. Gesture and, to

tain extent, acting would naturally accompany so free and general an expression of community feeling. There was no poet, becau

re poets. To quote Professor ten Brink once more:--

ng and playing were cultivated by peasants, and even by freedmen and serfs. At beer-feasts the harp went from hand to hand. He

the essential difference between that age and our own. The result of poetical activity was not the property and was not the produ

a single person, but of the community. The work of the individual endured only as long as its delivery lasted. He gained personal

inction only as a virtuoso. The permanent elements of what he presented, the material, the ideas, even the style and metre, alread

sted. 'The work of the singer was only a ripple in the stream of national poetry.

o can say how much the individual contributed to it, or where in his poetical recitation memory ceased and creative impulse bega

case the work of the individual lived on only as the ideal possession of the aggregate body of the people, and it soon lost the stam

ginality. In view of such a development of poetry, we must assume a time when the collective conscious ness of a people or race

amount in its unity; when the intellectual life of each is nourished from the same treasury of views and associations, of myths and

as; when similar interests stir each breast; and the ethical judgment of all applies itself to the same standard. In such an age the fo

tical expression will also be common to all, necessarily solemn, earnest, and simple."

en the conditions which produced the popular ballads become clear to the imagination, their depth of rootage, not only in the

mmunity life but in the community love, becomes also clear. We under stand the charm which these old songs have for us of a lat

the spell which they cast upon

n and women who knew the secret of their birth; we understand why the minstrels of the lime, when popular poetry was in its bes

ate, were held in such honour, why Taillefer sang the song of Roland at the head of the advancing Normans on the day of Hasting

y good Bishop Aldhelm, when he wanted to get the ears of his people, stood on the bridge and sang a ballad! These old songs we

wering of the imagination of the people; they drew their life as directly from the general experience, the common memory, the un

lings, as did the Greek dramas in those primitive times, when they were part of rustic festivity and worship. The popular ballads h

sed away with the conditions which produced them. Modern poets have, in several instances, written ballads of striking

turesqueness and power, but as unlike the ballad of popular origin as the world of to-day is unlike the world in which "Chevy Ch

s first sung. These modern ballads are not necessarily better or worse than their predecessors; but they are necessarily different. It

xalt the wild flower at the expense of the garden flower; each has

fragrance, its beauty, its sentiment; and the world is wide!

he selection of the ballads which appear in this volume, no attempt has been made to follow a chronological order or to enforce a

nciple of selection of any kind. The aim has been to bring within moderate compass a collection of these songs of the people whic

uld fairly represent the range, the descriptive felicity, the dramatic power, and the genuine poetic feeling of a body of verse whic

l, it is to be feared, unfamiliar to a large number of those to whom it would bring refreshment and delight.

HAMILTON WRIGHT M




Chevy Chace

D prosper long our noble king,

ur liffes and safetyes all;

woefull hunting once there did

Chevy-Chace befall.

drive the deere with hound and horne,

le Percy took his way;e child may rue that is unborne

he hunting of that day.

e stout Erle of Northumberland

vow to God did make,

pleasure in the Scottish woods

hree summers days to take;

e cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace

o kill and beare away:

ese tydings to Erle Douglas came,

Scotland where he lay.

o sent Erie Percy present word,

e wold prevent his sport;

e English Erle not fearing that,

id to the woods resort,

th fifteen hundred bow-men bold,

ll chosen men of might,

o knew full well in time of neede

o ayme their shafts arright.

e gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,

o chase the fallow deere;

Munday they began to hunt,e day-light did appeare;

d long before high noone they had

n hundred fat buckes slaine;

en having din'd, the drovyers went

o rouze the deare againe.

e bow-men mustered on the hills,

ell able to endure;

eire backsides all, with speciall care,




hat day were guarded sure.

e hounds ran swiftly through the woods,

he nimble deere to take,

at with their cryes the hills and dales

n eccho shrill did make.

rd Percy to the quarry went,

o view the tender deere;

oth he, "Erle Douglas promised

his day to meet me heere;

ut if I thought he wold not come,

oe longer wold I stay."

th that, a brave younge gentleman

hus to the Erle did say:

oe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,

is men in armour bright;

l twenty hundred Scottish speres,

ll marching in our sight.

l men of pleasant Tivydale,

ast by the river Tweede:"cease your sport," Erle Percy said,

And take your bowes with speede.

nd now with me, my countrymen,

our courage forth advance;

never was there champion yett

Scotland or in France,

hat ever did on horsebacke come,

ut, if my hap it were,

urst encounter man for man,

ith him to breake a spere."

e Douglas on his milke-white steede,ost like a baron bold,

de formost of his company,

hose armour shone like gold.

ow me," sayd hee, "whose men you bee,

hat hunt soe boldly heere,

at, without my consent, doe chase

nd kill my fallow-deere."




e man that first did answer make

as noble Percy hee;

o sayd, "Wee list not to declare,

or shew whose men wee bee.

et will wee spend our deerest blood,

hy cheefest harts to slay;"

en Douglas swore a solempne oathe,

nd thus in rage did say;

e thus I will out-braved bee,

ne of us two shall dye:now thee well, an erle thou art;

ord Percy, soe am I.

ut trust me, Percy, pittye it were,

nd great offence, to kill

y of these our guiltlesse men,

or they have done no ill.

t thou and I the battell trye,

nd set our men aside."

ccurst bee he," Erle Percy sayd,

y whome this is denyed."

en stept a gallant squier forth,

itherington was his name,

o said, "I wold not have it told

o Henry our king for shame,

hat ere my captaine fought on foote,

nd I stood looking on:

u bee two erles," sayd Witherington,

And I a squier alone.

doe the best that doe I may,

hile I have power to stand;

ile I have power to weeld my sword,

e fight with hart and hand."

r English archers bent their bowes,

heir harts were good and trew;

the first flight of arrowes sent,

ull four-score Scots they slew.

et bides Earl Douglas on the bent,

s Chieftain stout and good,

valiant Captain, all unmov'd

he shock he firmly stood.

host he parted had in three,

s Leader ware and try'd,

d soon his spearmen on their foes

are down on every side.

roughout the English archery

hey dealt full many a wound;

still our valiant Englishmen

ll firmly kept their ground.

d throwing strait their bows away,

hey grasp'd their swords so bright:




d now sharp blows, a heavy shower,

n shields and helmets light.]

ey clos'd full fast on everye side,

oe slacknes there was found;

d many a gallant gentleman

ay gasping on the ground.

Christ! it was a griefe to see,

nd likewise for to heare,

e cries of men lying in their gore,

nd scattered here and there.

last these two stout erles did meet,

ke captaines of great might;

e lyons wood they layd on lode,

nd made a cruell fight.

ey fought, untill they both did sweat,

ith swords of tempered steele;

til the blood, like drops of rain,

hey trickling downe did feele.

eeld thee, Lord Percy," Douglas saydn faith I will thee bringe,

ere thou shalt high advancèd bee

y James our Scottish king.

hy ransom I will freely give,

nd thus report of thee,

ou art the most couragious knight

hat ever I did see."

oe, Douglas," quoth Erle Percy then,

Thy proffer I doe scorne

ill not yeelde to any Scott,

hat ever yett was borne."

th that, there came an arrow keene

ut of an English bow,

ich struck Erle Douglas to the heart,

deepe and deadlye blow:

o never spake more words than these,

ight on, my merry men all;

why, my life is at an end:

ord Percy sees my fall."




en leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke

he dead man by the hand;

d said, "Erle Douglas, for thy life

old I had lost my land!

Christ! my verry hart doth bleed

ith sorrow for thy sake;

sure, a more renownèd knight

ischance cold never take."

night amongst the Scotts there was,

hich saw Erle Douglas dye,o streight in wrath did vow revenge

pon the Lord Percye;

Hugh Mountgomerye was he call'd,

ho, with a spere most bright,

ll-mounted on a gallant steed,

an fiercely through the fight;

d past the English archers all,

ithout all dread or feare,

d through Earl Percyes body then

e thrust his hatefull spere

th such a vehement force and might

e did his body gore,

e speare ran through the other side

large cloth-yard, and more.

thus did both these nobles dye,

hose courage none could staine;

English archer then perceiv'd

he noble erle was slaine.

had a bow bent in his hand,

ade of a trusty tree;arrow of a cloth-yard long

p to the head drew hee.

ainst Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,

o right the shaft he sett,

e grey goose-wing that was thereon

his harts bloode was wett.

s fight did last from breake of day

ll setting of the sun;




when they rung the evening bell,

he battel scarce was done.

th stout Erle Percy, there was slaine,

r John of Egerton,

Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,

r James, that bold Baròn.

d with Sir George and stout Sir James,

oth knights of good account,

od Sir Ralph Rabby there was slaine,

hose prowesse did surmount.

Witherington needs must I wayle,

s one in doleful dumpes;

when his legs were smitten off,

e fought upon his stumpes.

d with Erle Douglas, there was slaine

r Hugh Mountgomerye,

Charles Murray, that from the feeld

ne foote wold never flee.

Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too,is sisters sonne was hee;

David Lamb, so well esteem'd,

et savèd cold not bee.

d the Lord Maxwell in like case

id with Erle Douglas dye;

twenty hundred Scottish speres,

carce fifty-five did flye.

fifteen hundred Englishmen,

ent home but fifty-three;

e rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,

nder the greene wood tree.

xt day did many widowes come,

heir husbands to bewayle;

ey washt their wounds in brinish teares,

ut all wold not prevayle.

eyr bodyes, bathed in purple blood,

hey bore with them away:

ey kist them dead a thousand times,

e they were cladd in clay.

s newes was brought to Eddenborrow,

here Scotlands king did raigne,at brave Erle Douglas suddenlye

as with an arrow slaine.

heavy newes," King James did say;

cottland can witnesse bee,

ave not any captaine more

f such account as hee."

e tydings to King Henry came,

ithin as short a space,

at Percy of Northumberland

as slaine in Chevy-Chace.




ow God be with him," said our king,

ith it will noe better bee;

ust I have, within my realme,

ve hundred as good as hee.

ett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,

ut I will vengeance take,

be revengèd on them all,

or brave Erle Percyes sake."

s vow full well the king perform'd

fter, at Humbledowne;

one day, fifty knights were slayne,

ith lordes of great renowne.

d of the rest, of small account,

id many thousands dye:

us endeth the hunting in Chevy-Chace,

ade by the Erle Percy.

d save our king, and bless this land

plentye, joy, and peace;

d grant henceforth, that foule debate

wixt noblemen may cease!




King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid

EAD that once in Affrica

princely wight did raine,

o had to name Cophetua,

s poets they did faine.

m natures lawes he did decline,

sure he was not of my minde,

cared not for women-kind

ut did them all disdaine.marke what hapned on a day;

he out of his window lay,

saw a beggar all in gray.

he which did cause his paine.

e blinded boy that shootes so trim

om heaven downe did hie,

drew a dart and shot at him,

place where he did lye:

ich soone did pierse him to the quicke,

d when he felt the arrow pricke,

ich in his tender heart did sticke,e looketh as he would dye.

at sudden chance is this," quoth he,

hat I to love must subject be,

ich never thereto would agree,

ut still did it defie?"

en from the window he did come,

nd laid him on his bed;

housand heapes of care did runne

ithin his troubled head.

now he meanes to crave her love,

d now he seekes which way to proove

w he his fancie might remoove,

nd not this beggar wed.

Cupid had him so in snare,

at this poor begger must prepare p. 45

alve to cure him of his care,

r els he would be dead.

d as he musing thus did lye,

e thought for to devise

w he might have her companye,

hat so did 'maze his eyes.

thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life;

surely thou shalt be my wife,else this hand with bloody knife,

he Gods shall sure suffice."

en from his bed he soon arose,

d to his pallace gate he goes;

l little then this begger knowes

hen she the king espies.

he gods preserve your majesty,"

he beggers all gan cry;

ouchsafe to give your charity,

ur childrens food to buy."

e king to them his purse did cast,




d they to part it made great haste;

s silly woman was the last

hat after them did hye.

e king he cal'd her back againe,

d unto her he gave his chaine;

d said, "With us you shal remaine

ll such time as we dye.

r thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife,

nd honoured for my queene;th thee I meane to lead my life,

s shortly shall be seene:

r wedding shall appointed be,

d every thing in its degree;

ome on," quoth he, "and follow me,

hou shalt go shift thee cleane.

at is thy name, faire maid?" quoth he.

nelophon, O King," quoth she;

th that she made a lowe courtsèy;

trim one as I weene.

us hand in hand along they walke

nto the king's pallàce:

e king with courteous, comly talke

his begger doth embrace.

e begger blusheth scarlet red,

d straight againe as pale as lead,

not a word at all she said,

he was in such amaze.

last she spake with trembling voyce,

d said, "O King, I doe rejoyce

at you wil take me for your choyce,

nd my degree so base."

d when the wedding day was come,

he king commanded strait

e noblemen, both all and some,

pon the queene to wait.

d she behaved herself that day

if she had never walkt the way;

e had forgot her gowne of gray,

hich she did weare of late.

e proverbe old is come to passe,

e priest, when he begins his masse,

gets that ever clerke he was

e knowth not his estate.

re you may read Cophetua,

hrough long time fancie-fed, p. 48

mpelled by the blinded boy

he begger for to wed:

that did lovers lookes disdaine,

do the same was glad and faine,

else he would himselfe have slaine,

storie, as we read.

daine no whit, O lady deere,

pitty now thy servant heere,

ast that it hap to thee this yeare,




s to that king it did.

d thus they led a quiet life

uring their princely raine,

d in a tombe were buried both,

s writers sheweth plaine.

e lords they tooke it grievously,

e ladies tooke it heavily,

e commons cryed pitiously,

heir death to them was paine.

eir fame did sound so passingly,

at it did pierce the starry sky,

d throughout all the world did flye

o every princes realme.

King Leir and his Three Daughters

NG LEIR once rulèd in this land

ith princely power and peace,

d had all things with hearts content,

hat might his joys increase.

mongst those things that nature gave,hree daughters fair had he,

princely seeming beautiful,

s fairer could not be.

on a time it pleas'd the king

question thus to move,

ich of his daughters to his grace

ould shew the dearest love: p. 50

r to my age you bring content,"

uoth he, "then let me hear,

ich of you three in plighted troth




he kindest will appear."

whom the eldest thus began:

Dear father, mind," quoth she,

efore your face, to do you good,

y blood shall render'd be.

d for your sake my bleeding heart

hall here be cut in twain,

that I see your reverend age

he smallest grief sustain."

nd so will I," the second said;Dear father, for your sake,

e worst of all extremities

l gently undertake:

d serve your highness night and day

ith diligence and love;

at sweet content and quietness

iscomforts may remove."

doing so, you glad my soul,"

he aged king reply'd;

what sayst thou, my youngest girl,

ow is thy love ally'd?"

y love" (quoth young Cordelia then),

Which to your grace I owe,

all be the duty of a child,

nd that is all I'll show."

nd wilt thou shew no more," quoth he,

Than doth thy duty bind?

ell perceive thy love is small,

hen as no more I find.

nceforth I banish thee my court;

hou art no child of mine;

r any part of this my realm

y favour shall be thine.

hy elder sisters' loves are more

han well I can demand;

whom I equally bestow

y kingdome and my land, p. 52

pompal state and all my goods,

hat lovingly I may

th those thy sisters be maintain'd

ntil my dying day."

us flattering speeches won renown,

y these two sisters here;

e third had causeless banishment,et was her love more dear.

poor Cordelia patiently

ent wandring up and down,

help'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,

hrough many an English town:

till at last in famous France

he gentler fortunes found;

ough poor and bare, yet she was deem'd

he fairest on the ground:

ere when the king her virtues heard,




nd this fair lady seen,

th full consent of all his court

e made his wife and queen.

r father, old King Leir, this while

ith his two daughters staid;

getful of their promis'd loves,

ull soon the same decay'd;

d living in Queen Ragan's court,

he eldest of the twain,e took from him his chiefest means,

nd most of all his train.

whereas twenty men were wont

o wait with bended knee,

e gave allowance but to ten,

nd after scarce to three,

y, one she thought too much for him;

o took she all away,

hope that in her court, good king,

e would no longer stay.

m I rewarded thus," quoth he,

n giving all I have

to my children, and to beg

or what I lately gave? p. 54

go unto my Gonorell:

y second child, I know,

ll be more kind and pitiful,

nd will relieve my woe."

l fast he hies then to her court;

here when she heard his moan,

urn'd him answer, that she griev'd

hat all his means were gone,

no way could relieve his wants;

et if that he would stay

thin her kitchen, he should have

hat scullions gave away.

en he had heard, with bitter tears,

e made his answer then;

what I did, let me be made

xample to all men.

ill return again," quoth he,

Unto my Ragan's court;

e will not use me thus, I hope,

ut in a kinder sort."

ere when he came, she gave command

o drive him thence away:

en he was well within her court,

he said) he would not stay.

en back again to Gonorel

he woeful king did hie,

at in her kitchen he might have

hat scullion boys set by.

there of that he was deny'd

hich she had promis'd late




once refusing, he should not,

ome after to her gate.

us twixt his daughters for relief

e wandred up and down,

ng glad to feed on beggars' food

hat lately wore a crown.

d calling to remembrance then

is youngest daughters words,

at said, the duty of a child

as all that love affords--p. 56

doubting to repair to her,hom he had ban'sh'd so,

ew frantic mad; for in his mind

e bore the wounds of woe.

ich made him rend his milk-white locks

nd tresses from his head,

d all with blood bestain his cheeks,

ith age and honour spread.

hills and woods and watry founts,

e made his hourly moan,

hills and woods and senseless things

id seem to sigh and groan.

en thus possest with discontents,

e passed o'er to France,

hopes from fair Cordelia there

o find some gentler chance.

st virtuous dame! which, when she heard

f this her father's grief,

duty bound, she quickly sent

im comfort and relief.

d by a train of noble peers,brave and gallant sort,

e gave in charge he should be brought

o Aganippus' court;

ose royal king, with noble mind,

o freely gave consent

muster up his knights at arms,

o fame and courage bent.

d so to England came with speed,

o repossesse King Leir,

d drive his daughters from their thrones

y his Cordelia dear.




ere she, true-hearted, noble queen,

as in the battel stain;

he, good king, in his old days,

ossest his crown again.

when he heard Cordelia's death,

ho died indeed for love

her dear father, in whose cause

he did this battle move, p. 58

swooning fell upon her breast,

om whence he never parted;

on her bosom left his lifehat was so truly hearted.

e lords and nobles, when they saw

he end of these events,

e other sisters unto death

hey doomèd by consents;

d being dead, their crowns they left

nto the next of kin:

us have you seen the fall of pride,

nd disobedient sin.




Fair Rosamond

HEN as King Henry rulde this land,

he second of that name,

sides the queene, he dearly lovde

faire and comely dame.

st peerlesse was her beautye founde,

er favour, and her face;weeter creature in this worlde

ould never prince embrace.

r crisped lockes like threads of golde,

ppeard to each man's sight;

r sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,

id cast a heavenlye light.

e blood within her crystal cheekes

id such a colour drive,

though the lillye and the rose

or mastership did strive.a Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde,

er name was called so,

whom our queene, Dame Ellinor,

as known a deadlye foe.

e king therefore, for her defence

gainst the furious queene,

Woodstocke builded such a bower,

he like was never seene.

st curiously that bower was built,

f stone and timber strong;

hundered and fifty doorsid to this bower belong:

d they so cunninglye contriv'd,

ith turnings round about,

at none but with a clue of thread

ould enter in or out.

d for his love and ladyes sake,

hat was so faire and brighte,

e keeping of this bower he gave

nto a valiant knighte.




fortune, that doth often frowne

here she before did smile,

e kinges delighte and ladyes joy

ull soon shee did beguile:

why, the kinges ungracious sonne,

hom he did high advance,

ainst his father raised warres

ithin the realme of France.

yet before our comelye kinghe English land forsooke,

Rosamond, his lady faire,

is farewelle thus he tooke:

Rosamonde, my only Rose,

hat pleasest best mine eye,

e fairest flower in all the worlde

o feed my fantasye,--

he flower of mine affected heart,

hose sweetness doth excelle,

royal Rose, a thousand timesbid thee nowe farwelle!

I must leave my fairest flower,

y sweetest Rose, a space,

d cross the seas to famous France.,

oud rebelles to abase.

yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt

y coming shortlye see,

d in my heart, when hence I am,

e beare my Rose with mee."

en Rosamond, that ladye brighte,

id heare the king saye soe,e sorrowe of her grieved heart

er outward lookes did showe.

d from her cleare and crystall eyes

he teares gusht out apace,

ich, like the silver-pearled dewe,

anne downe her comely face.

r lippes, erst like the corall redde,

id waxe both wan and pale,

d for the sorrow she conceivde

er vitall spirits faile.

d falling downe all in a swoone

efore King Henryes face,

l oft he in his princelye armes

er bodye did embrace.

d twentye times, with watery eyes,

e kist her tender cheeke,

till he had revivde againe

er senses milde and meeke.

hy grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?"




he king did often say:

ecause," quoth shee, "to bloodye warres

y lord must part awaye.

ut since your Grace on forrayne coastes,

monge your foes unkinde,

st goe to hazard life and limbe,

hy should I staye behinde?

ay, rather let me, like a page,

our sworde and target beare;at on my breast the blowes may lighte,

hich would offend you there.

r lett mee, in your royal tent,

epare your bed at nighte,

d with sweete baths refresh your grace,

t your returne from fighte.

I your presence may enjoye

o toil I will refuse;

wanting you, my life is death:

ay, death Ild rather chuse."

ontent thy self, my dearest love,

hy rest at home shall bee,

Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;

or travell fits not thee.

ire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;

oft peace their sexe delightes;

t rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;

ay feastes, not cruell fightes.

y Rose shall safely here abide,

ith musicke passe the daye,ilst I amonge the piercing pikes

y foes seeke far awaye.

y Rose shall shine in pearle and golde,

hilst Ime in armour dighte;

y galliards here my love shall dance,

hilst I my foes goe fighte.

nd you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste

o bee my loves defence,

carefull of my gallant Rose

hen I am parted hence."

d therewithall he fetcht a sigh,s though his heart would breake;

d Rosamonde, for very griefe,

ot one plaine word could speake.

d at their parting well they mighte

heart be grieved sore:

er that daye, faire Rosamonde

he king did see no more.

when his Grace had past the seas,

nd into France was gone,




th envious heart, Queene Ellinor

o Woodstocke came anone.

d forth she calls this trustye knighte

an unhappy houre,

o, with his clue of twined-thread,

ame from this famous bower.

d when that they had wounded him,

he queene this thread did gette,

d wente where Ladye Rosamonde

as like an angell sette.

when the queene with stedfast eye

eheld her beauteous face,

e was amazed in her minde

t her exceeding grace.

st off from thee those robes," she said,

That riche and costlye bee;

d drinke thou up this deadlye draught

hich I have brought to thee."

en presentlye upon her knees

weet Rosamonde did falle;

d pardon of the queene she crav'd

or her offences all.

ake pitty on my youthfull yeares,"

aire Rosamonde did crye;

nd lett mee not with poison stronge

nforcèd bee to dye.

will renounce my sinfull life,

nd in some cloyster bide;

else be banisht, if you please,o range the world soe wide.

nd for the fault which I have done,

hough I was forc'd theretoe,

serve my life, and punish mee

s you thinke meet to doe."

d with these words, her lillie handes

he wrunge full often there;

d downe along her lovely face

id trickle many a teare.




nothing could this furious queene

herewith appeased bee;

e cup of deadlye poyson stronge,

s she knelt on her knee,

e gave this comelye dame to drinke;

ho tooke it in her hand,

d from her bended knee arose,

nd on her feet did stand,

d casting up her eyes to heaven,

hee did for mercye calle;d drinking up the poison stronge,

er life she lost withalle.

d when that death through everye limbe

ad showde its greatest spite,

r chiefest foes did plain confesse

hee was a glorious wight.

r body then they did entomb,

hen life was fled away,

Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,

s may be seene this day.

Phillida and Corydon

the merrie moneth of Maye,

a morne by break of daye,

th a troope of damselles playing

the 'I yode' forsooth a maying;

en anon by a wood side,

ere that Maye was in his pride,

pied all alone




llida and Corydon.

ch adoe there was, God wot:

wold love, and she wold not.

e sayde, "Never man was trewe;"

sayes, "None was false to you."

sayde, hee had lovde her longe;

e sayes, love should have no wronge.

rydon wold kisse her then;

e sayes, "Maydes must kisse no men,

yll they doe for good and all."

en she made the shepperde call

the heavens to wytnes truthe,

ver loved a truer youthe.

en with manie a prettie othe,

a and nay, and faithe and trothe,

che as seelie shepperdes use

en they will not love abuse,

ve, that had bene long deluded,

s with kisses sweete concluded;d Phillida with garlands gaye

s made the lady of the Maye.




Fair Margaret and Sweet William

it fell out on a long summer's day,

wo lovers they sat on a hill;

ey sat together that long summer's day,

nd could not talk their fill.

ee no harm by you, Margarèt,

nd you see none by mee;fore to-morrow at eight o' the clock

rich wedding you shall see."

r Margaret sat in her bower-windòw,

ombing her yellow hair;

ere she spyed sweet William and his bride,

s they were a riding near.

en down she layd her ivory combe,

nd braided her hair in twain:

e went alive out of her bower,

ut ne'er came alive in't again.

en day was gone, and night was come,

nd all men fast asleep,

en came the spirit of Fair Marg'ret,

nd stood at William's feet.

re you awake, sweet William?" shee said,

Or, sweet William, are you asleep?

d give you joy of your gay bride-bed,

nd me of my winding sheet."

en day was come, and night was gone,

nd all men wak'd from sleep,eet William to his lady sayd,

My dear, I have cause to weep.

dreamt a dream, my dear ladyè,

uch dreames are never good:

eamt my bower was full of red 'wine,'

nd my bride-bed full of blood."

ch dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir,

hey never do prove good;

dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,'




nd thy bride-bed full of blood."

called up his merry men all,

y one, by two, and by three;

ying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower,

y the leave of my ladiè."

d when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower,

e knocked at the ring;

d who so ready as her seven brethrèn

o let sweet William in.

en he turned up the covering-sheet;

ray let me see the dead;

thinks she looks all pale and wan.

he hath lost her cherry red.

do more for thee, Margarèt,

han any of thy kin:

I will kiss thy pale wan lips,

hough a smile I cannot win."

th that bespake the seven brethrèn,

aking most piteous mone,ou may go kiss your jolly brown bride,

nd let our sister alone."

I do kiss my jolly brown bride,

do but what is right;

e'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse,

y day, nor yet by night.

eal on, deal on, my merry men all,

eal on your cake and your wine:

whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,

hall be dealt to-morrow at mine."

r Margaret dyed to-day, to-day,weet William dyed the morrow:

r Margaret dyed for pure true love,

weet William dyed for sorrow.

rgaret was buryed in the lower chancèl,

nd William in the higher:

t of her brest there sprang a rose,

nd out of his a briar.

ey grew till they grew unto the church top,

nd then they could grow no higher;

d there they tyed in a true lover's knot,hich made all the people admire.

en came the clerk of the parish,

s you the truth shall hear,

d by misfortune cut them down,

r they had now been there.






boatman, boatman, put off your boat,

ut off your boat for gouden money!"

for a' the goud in fair Scotland,

e dared na tak' him through to Annie.

I was sworn sae late yestreen,

ot by a single aith, but mony.

cross the drumly stream to-night,

r never could I face my honey."

e side was stey, and the bottom deep,

ae bank to brae the water pouring;e bonny grey mare she swat for fear,

or she heard the water-kelpy roaring.

spurred her forth into the flood,

wot she swam both strong and steady;

the stream was broad, her strength did fail,

nd he never saw his bonny lady.

wae betide the frush saugh wand!

nd wae betide the bush of brier!

at bent and brake into his hand,

hen strength of man and horse did tire.

d wae betide ye, Annan Water!

his night ye are a drumly river;

over thee we'll build a brig,

hat ye nae mair true love may sever.




The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington

ERE was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,

nd he was a squire's son;

loved the bayliffe's daughter deare,

hat lived in Islington.

she was coye, and would not believe

hat he did love her soe,

e nor at any time would she

ny countenance to him showe.

when his friendes did understand

is fond and foolish minde,

ey sent him up to faire London,

n apprentice for to binde.

d when he had been seven long yeares,

nd never his love could see,--

any a teare have I shed for her sake,

hen she little thought of mee."

en all the maids of Islington

ent forth to sport and playe,but the bayliffe's daughter deare;

he secretly stole awaye.

e pulled off her gowne of greene,

nd put on ragged attire,

d to faire London she would go

er true love to enquire.

d as she went along the high road,

he weather being hot and drye,

e sat her downe upon a green bank,

nd her true love came riding bye.

e started up, with a colour soe redd,atching hold of his bridle-reine;

ne penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd,

Will ease me of much paine."

efore I give you one penny, sweet-heart,

aye tell me where you were borne."

Islington, kind sir," sayd shee,

Where I have had many a scorne."

rythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,

tell me, whether you knowe

e bayliffes daughter of Islington."he is dead, sir, long agoe."

she be dead, then take my horse,

y saddle and bridle also;

I will into some farr countrye,

here noe man shall me knowe."

staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,

he standeth by thy side;

e is here alive, she is not dead,

nd readye to be thy bride."




farewell griefe, and welcome joye,

en thousand times therefore;

nowe I have founde mine owne true love,

hom I thought I should never see more."

Barbara Allen's Cruelty

L in the merry month of May,

hen green buds they were swelling,

ung Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay

or love o' Barbara Allen.

sent his man unto her then,

o the town where she was dwelling:

haste and come to my master dear,

your name be Barbara Allen."

wly, slowly rase she up,

nd she cam' where he was lying;

d when she drew the curtain by,

ays, "Young man, I think you're dying."

it's I am sick, and very, very sick,

nd it's a' for Barbara Allen."

the better for me ye'se never be,

ho' your heart's blude were a-spilling!

dinna ye min', young man," she says,

When the red wine ye were filling,

at ye made the healths gae round and round

nd ye slighted Barbara Allen?"

turn'd his face unto the wa',

nd death was wi' him dealing:

dieu, adieu, my dear friends a';

e kind to Barbara Allen."

she was walking o'er the fields,

he heard the dead-bell knelling;

d every jow the dead-bell gave,

cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!"

mother, mother, mak' my bed,

o lay me down in sorrow.




love has died for me to-day,

l die for him to-morrow."

The Douglas Tragedy

SE up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says,

And put on your armour so bright;

eet William will hae Lady Margaret awi'

efore that it be light.

se up, rise up, my seven bold sons,

nd put on your armour so bright,

d take better care of your youngest sistèr,

or your eldest's awa' the last night."

s mounted her on a milk-white steed,

nd himself on a dapple grey,

th a buglet horn hung down by his side

nd lightly they rode away.

rd William lookit o'er his left shouldèr,o see what he could see,

d there he spied her seven brethren bold

ome riding o'er the lea.

ght down, light down, Lady Margaret," he said,

And hold my steed in your hand,

til that against your seven brethren bold,

nd your father I make a stand."

e held his steed in her milk-white hand,

nd never shed one tear,

til that she saw her seven brethren fa'

nd her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.hold your hand, Lord William!" she said,

or your strokes they are wondrous sair;

e lovers I can get many a ane,

ut a father I can never get mair."

she's ta'en out her handkerchief,

was o' the holland sae fine,

d aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds,

hat were redder than the wine.




chuse, O chuse, Lady Margaret," he said,

O whether will ye gang or bide?"

gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said,

or you have left me nae other guide."

s lifted her on a milk-white steed,

nd himself on a dapple grey,

th a buglet horn hung down by his side,

nd slowly they baith rade away.

hey rade on, and on they rade,

nd a' by the light of the moon,til they came to yon wan water,

nd there they lighted down.

ey lighted down to tak a drink

f the spring that ran sae clear;

d down the stream ran his gude heart's blood,

nd sair she 'gan to fear.

old up, hold up, Lord William," she says,

or I fear that you are slain!"

s naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak,

hat shines in the water sae plain."

hey rade on, and on they rade,

nd a' by the light of the moon,

til they came to his mother's ha' door,

nd there they lighted down.

et up, get up, lady mother," he says,

Get up, and let me in!

up, get up, lady mother," he says,

or this night my fair lady I've win.

mak my bed, lady mother," he says,

O mak it braid and deep!

d lay Lady Margaret close at my back,

nd the sounder I will sleep."

rd William was dead lang ere midnight,

ady Margaret lang ere day:

d all true lovers that go thegither,

ay they have mair luck than they!

rd William was buried in St. Marie's kirk,

ady Margaret in Marie's quire;

t o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose,

nd out o' the knight's a brier.

d they twa met, and they twa plat

nd fain they wad be near;

d a' the world might ken right weel,

hey were twa lovers dear.

bye and rade the black Douglas

nd wow but he was rough!

he pulled up the bonny brièr,

nd flanged in St. Marie's Loch.




Young WatersOUT Yule, when the wind blew cool;

nd the round tables began,

here is come to our king's court

ony a well-favoured man.

e queen looked o'er the castle wa',

eheld baith dale and down,

d then she saw young Waters

ome riding to the town.

footmen they did rin before,is horsemen rade behind;

e mantle of the burning gowd

id keep him frae the wind.

wden graith'd 1 his horse before,

nd siller shod behind;

e horse young Waters rade upon

as fleeter than the wind.

t then spake a wily lord,

nto the queen said he:




tell me wha's the fairest face

des in the company?"

e seen lord, and I've seen laird,

nd knights of high degree,

a fairer face than young Waters

ine eyen did never see."

t then spake the jealous king

nd an angry man was he:

if he had been twice as fair,

ou might have excepted me."

ou're neither laird nor lord," she says,

But the king that wears the crown;

ere is not a knight in fair Scotland,

ut to thee maun bow down."

a' that she could do or say,

ppeased he wad nae be;

for the words which she had said,

oung Waters he maun dee.

ey hae ta'en young Waters,nd put fetters to his feet;

ey hae ta'en young Waters,

nd thrown him in dungeon deep.

ft I have ridden thro' Stirling town,

the wind but and the weet;

I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town

i' fetters at my feet.

ft have I ridden thro' Stirling town,

the wind but and the rain;

I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town

e'er to return again."

ey hae ta'en to the heading-hill

is young son in his cradle;

d they hae ta'en to the heading-hill

is horse but and his saddle.

ey hae ta'en to the heading-hill

lady fair to see;

d for the words the queen had spoke

ung Waters he did dee.




Footnotes

Flodden Field

NG JAMIE hath made a vow,

eepe it well if he may:

at he will be at lovely London

pon Saint James his day.

on Saint James his day at noone,

t faire London will I be,

d all the lords in merrie Scotland,

hey shall dine there with me.

arch out, march out, my merry men,

f hie or low degree;

weare the crowne in London towne,




nd that you soon shall be."

en bespake good Queene Margaret,

he teares fell from her eye:

ave off these warres, most noble King,

eepe your fidelitie.

he water runnes swift, and wondrous deepe,

om bottome unto the brimme;

brother Henry hath men good enough;

ngland is hard to winne."

way" quoth he "with this silly foole!

prison fast let her lie:

she is come of the English bloud,

nd for these words she shall dye."

th that bespake Lord Thomas Howard,

he Queenes chamberlaine that day:

hat you put Queene Margaret to death,

cotland shall rue it alway."

en in a rage King Jamie did say,

Away with this foolish mome;shall be hanged, and the other be burned,

o soone as I come home."

Flodden Field the Scots came in,

hich made our English men faine;

Bramstone Greene this battaile was seene,

here was King Jamie slaine.

bodie never could be found,

hen he was over throwne,

d he that wore faire Scotland's crownehat day could not be knowne.

en presently the Scot did flie,

heir cannons they left behind;

eir ensignes gay were won all away,

ur souldiers did beate them blinde.

tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine,

hat to the fight did stand,

d many prisoners tooke that day,

he best in all Scotland.




at day made many [a] fatherlesse child,

nd many a widow poore,

d many a Scottish gay lady

ate weeping in her bower.

k with a feather was lapt all in leather,

is boastings were all in vaine;

had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance

e never went home againe.

_______________

This was written to adapt the ballad to the seventeenth century.

w heaven we laude that never more

uch biding shall come to hand;

r King, by othe, is King of both

ngland and faire Scotland.

Helen of KirkconnellWAD I were where Helen lies;

ght and day on me she cries;

hat I were where Helen lies,

n fair Kirkconnell lea!

rst be the heart that thought the thought,

d curst the hand that fired the shot,

en in my arms burd Helen dropt,

nd died to succour me!




hink na but my heart was sair

en my Love dropt and spak nae mair!

id her down wi' meikle care,

n fair Kirkconnell lea.

I went down the water side,

ne but my foe to be my guide,

ne but my foe to be my guide,


ghted down my sword to draw,ackéd him in pieces sma',

ackéd him in pieces sma',

or her sake that died for me.

Helen fair, beyond compare!

make a garland of thy hair,

all bind my heart for evermair,

ntil the day I dee!

hat I were where Helen lies

ght and day on me she cries;

t of my bed she bids me rise,

ays, "Haste, and come to me!"

Helen fair! O Helen chaste!

were with thee, I were blest,

ere thou lies low and takes thy rest,


ad my grave were growing green,

winding-sheet drawn ower my een,

d I in Helen's arms lying,


ad I were where Helen lies!ght and day on me she cries,

d I am weary of the skies,

nce my Love died for me.




0

Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale

ME listen to me, you gallants so free,

ll you that love mirth for to hear,

d I will tell you of a bold outlàw,

hat lived in Nottinghamshire.

Robin Hood in the forest stood

ll under the greenwood tree,

ere he was aware of a brave young man,

s fine as fine might be.

e youngster was clad in scarlet red,

scarlet fine and gay

d he did frisk it over the plain,

nd chaunted a roundelay.

1

Robin Hood next morning stood

mongst the leaves so gay,

ere did he espy the same young man

ome drooping along the way.

e scarlet he wore the day before

was clean cast away;

d at every step he fetched a sigh,

Alas! and a well-a-day!"

en steppèd forth brave Little John,

nd Midge, the miller's son;

ich made the young man bend his bow,

hen as he see them come.

and off! stand off!" the young man said,




What is your will with me?"

ou must come before our master straight,

nder yon greenwood tree."

d when he came bold Robin before,

obin asked him courteously,

hast thou any money to spare,

or my merry men and me?

2

ave no money," the young man said,

But five shillings and a ring;d that I have kept this seven long years,

o have at my wedding.

esterday I should have married a maid,

ut she was from me ta'en,

d chosen to be an old knight's delight,

hereby my poor heart is slain."

hat is thy name?" then said Robin Hood,

Come tell me, without any fail."

y the faith of my body," then said the young man,

My name it is Allen-a-Dale."

hat wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood,

n ready gold or fee,

help thee to thy true love again,

nd deliver her unto thee?"

ave no money," then quoth the young man,

No ready gold nor fee,

I will swear upon a book

hy true servant for to be."

3

ow many miles is it to thy true love?

ome tell me without guile."y the faith of my body," then said the young man,

t is but five little mile."

en Robin he hasted over the plain,

e did neither stint nor lin,

til he came unto the church

here Allen should keep his weddin'.

hat hast thou here?" the bishop then said,

prithee now tell unto me."

m a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood,

And the best in the north countró."

welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said,That music best pleaseth me."

ou shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood,

Till the bride and bridegroom I see."

th that came in a wealthy knight,

hich was both grave and old;

d after him a finikin lass,

id shine like the glistering gold.

4

his is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood,

That you do seem to make here;




since we are come into the church,

he bride shall chuse her own dear."

en Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,

nd blew blasts two and three;

en four-and-twenty bowmen bold

ame leaping over the lea.

d when they came into the church-yard,

arching all in a row,

e first man was Allen-a-Dale,

o give bold Robin his bow.

his is thy true love," Robin he said,

oung Allen, as I hear say;

d you shall be married this same time,

efore we depart away."

hat shall not be," the bishop he cried,

or thy word shall not stand;

ey shall be three times asked in the church,

s the law is of our land."

5

bin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat,

nd put it upon Little John;

y the faith of my body," then Robin said,

This cloth doth make thee a man."

en Little John went into the quire,

he people began to laugh;

asked them seven times into church,

est three times should not be enough.

ho gives me this maid?" said Little John,

uoth Robin Hood, "That do I;

d he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale,ull dearly he shall her buy."

d then having ended this merry wedding,

he bride looked like a queen;

d so they returned to the merry greenwood,

mongst the leaves so green.




6

Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne

HEN shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,

nd leaves both large and longe,

s merrye walkyng in the fayre forrèst

o heare the small birdes songe.

e woodweele sang, and wold not cease,

tting upon the spraye,

e lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,

the greenwood where he lay.

ow, by my faye," sayd jollye Robin,

A sweaven I had this night;

eamt me of tow wighty yemen,hat fast with me can fight.

7

ethought they did mee beate and binde,

nd tooke my bow mee froe;

I be Robin alive in this lande,

e be wroken on them towe."

weavens are swift, master," quoth John,

As the wind that blowes ore the hill;

if itt be never so loude this night,

o-morrow it may be still."

uske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,

nd John shall goe with mee,

Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,

greenwood where the bee."

en they cast on their gownes of grene,

nd tooke theyr bowes each one;

d they away to the greene forrèst

shooting forth are gone;

till they came to the merry greenwood,

here they had gladdest to bee;




ere were they ware of a wight yeomàn,

is body leaned to a tree.

8

word and a dagger he wore by his side,

f manye a man the bane;

d he was clad in his capull hyde,

opp and tayll and mayne.

and you still, master," quoth Little John,

Under this tree so grene,

d I will go to yond wight yeomàno know what he doth meane."

h! John, by me thou settest noe store,

nd that I farley finde:

w offt send I my men beffore,

nd tarry my selfe behinde!

is no cunning a knave to ken,

nd a man but heare him speake;

d itt were not for bursting of my bowe,

hn, I thy head wold breake."

often wordes they breeden bale,o they parted Robin and John;

d John is gone to Barnesdale;

he gates he knoweth eche one.

9

when he came to Barnesdale,

reat heavinesse there hee hadd,

he found tow of his owne fellòwes

ere slaine both in a slade.

d Scarlette he was flying a-foote

aste over stocke and stone,

the sheriffe with seven score menast after him is gone.

ne shoote now I will shoote," quoth John,

With Christ his might and mayne;

make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,

o stopp he shall be fayne."

en John bent up his long bende-bowe,

nd fetteled him to shoote:

e bow was made of tender boughe,

nd fell down to his foote.

oe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,

hat ere thou grew on a tree;now this day thou art my bale,

y boote when thou shold bee."

0

shoote it was but loosely shott,

et flewe not the arrowe in vaine,

itt mett one of the sherriffes men,

ood William a Trent was slaine.

ad bene better of William a Trent

o have bene abed with sorrowe,

an to be that day in the green-wood slade




o meet with Little Johns arrowe.

as it is said, when men be mett

yve can doe more than three,

e sheriffe hath taken Little John,

nd bound him fast to a tree.

hou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,

nd hanged hye on a hill;"

thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth John,

itt be Christ his will."

t us leave talking of Little John,

nd thinke of Robin Hood,

w he is gone to the wight yeomàn,

here under the leaves he stood.

1

ood morrowe, good fellowe," sayd Robin so fayre,

Good morrowe, good fellow," quoth he.

ethinks by this bowe thou beares in thy hande,

good archere thou sholdst bee."

m wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeoman,And of my morning tyde:"

lead thee through the wood," sayd Robin,

Good fellow, Ile be thy guide."

eeke an outlàwe," the straunger sayd,

Men call him Robin Hood;

her Ild meet with that proud outlàwe

han fortye pound soe good."

ow come with me, thou wight yemàn,

nd Robin thou soone shalt see;

first let us some pastime find

nder the greenwood tree.

rst let us some masterye make

mong the woods so even;

may chance to meet with Robin Hood

ere att some unsett steven."

2

ey cutt them down two summer shroggs,

hat grew both under a breere,

d set them threescore rood in twaine,

o shoote the prickes y-fere.




ade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood,

Leade on, I doe bidd thee."

ay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd,

My leader thou shalt bee."

e first time Robin shot at the pricke,

e mist but an inch it fro;

e yeoman he was an archer good,

ut he cold never shoote soe.

e second shoote had the wightye yeomàn,

e shote within the garlànde;Robin he shott far better than hee,

or he clave the good pricke-wande.

lessing upon thy heart," he sayd,

Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode

an thy hart be as good as thy hand,

hou wert better then Robin Hoode.

3

w tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he,

Under the leaves of lyne."

y, by my faith," quoth bolde Robin,

Till thou have told me thine."

dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee,

And Robin to take Ime sworne;

d when I am called by my right name,

am Guy of good Gisbòrne."

y dwelling is in this wood," sayes Robin,

By thee I set right nought:

m Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,

hom thou so long hast sought."

that had neither beene kithe nor kin,

ight have seen a full fayre sight,

see how together these yeomen went

ith blades both browne and bright:

see how these yeomen together they fought

wo howres of a summers day,

t neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy

hem fettled to flye away.

4

bin was reachles on a roote,

nd stumbled at that tyde;

d Guy was quicke and nimble with-all,

nd hitt him ore the left side.

h, deere Lady," sayd Robin Hood tho,

Thou art but mother and may';

ink it was never mans destinye

o dye before his day."

bin thought on Our Ladye deere,

nd soone leapt up againe,

d strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,

nd he Sir Guy hath slayne.

took Sir Guy's head by the hayre,

nd stuck itt upon his bowes end:




hou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,

hich thing must have an end."

bin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,

nd nicked Sir Guy in the face,

at he was never on woman born

old tell whose head it was.

5

yes, "Lye there, lye there now, Sir Guy,

nd with me be not wrothe;

thou have had the worst strokes at my hand,

hou shalt have the better clothe."

bin did off his gowne of greene,

nd on Sir Guy did throwe,

d hee put on that capull hyde,

hat cladd him topp to toe.

he bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne,

ow with me I will beare;

I will away to Barnèsdale,

o see how my men doe fare."

bin Hood sett Guy's horne to his mouth,

nd a loud blast in it did blow:

at beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,

s he leaned under a lowe.

arken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe,

heare nowe tydings good,

yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe,

nd he hath slaine Robin Hoode.

6

onder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe,

blowes soe well in tyde,d yonder comes that wightye yeomàn,

add in his capull hyde.

ome hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,

ske what thou wilt of mee."

I will none of thy gold," sayd Robin,

Nor I will none of thy fee.

ut now I have slaine the master," he sayes,

Let me goe strike the knave;

this is all the rewarde I aske.

or noe other will I have."




hou art a madman," said the sheriffe,

Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee;

seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,

ell granted it shale be."

en Little John heard his master speake,

ell knewe he it was his steven;

w shall I be looset," quoth Little John,

ith Christ his might in heaven."

7

t Robin hee hyed him to Little John,

e thought to loose him belive:

e sheriffe and all his companye

ast after him can drive.

and abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin;

Why draw you mee so neere?

was never the use in our countryè,

nes shrift another shold heere."

Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife,

nd losed John hand and foote,

d gave him Sir Guy's bow into his hand,

nd bade it be his boote.

en John he took Guy's bow in his hand,

is boltes and arrowes eche one:

en the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,

e fettled him to be gone.

wards his house in Nottingham towne

e fled full fast away,

d soe did all the companye,

ot one behind wold stay.

8

he cold neither runne soe fast,or away soe fast cold ryde,

Little John with an arrowe soe broad

e shott him into the 'backe'-syde.




9

Robin Hood's Death and Burial

HEN Robin Hood and Little John

Down a down, a down, a down,

ent o'er yon bank of broom,

d Robin Hood to Little John,

We have shot for many a pound:ey down, a down, a down.

ut I am not able to shoot one shot more,y arrows will not flee;

I have a cousin lives down below,

ease God, she will bleed me."

w Robin is to fair Kirkley gone,

s fast as he can win; p. 120

before he came there, as we do hear,

e was taken very ill.

d when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall,

e knocked all at the ring,

none was so ready as his cousin herself




or to let bold Robin in.

ill you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said,

And drink some beer with me?

o, I will neither eat nor drink,

ll I am blooded by thee."

ell, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said,

Which you did never see;

d if you please to walk therein,

ou blooded by me shall be."

e took him by the lily-white hand,

nd led him to a private room;

d there she blooded bold Robin Hood,

hilst one drop of blood would run.

0

e blooded him in the vein of the arm,

nd locked him up in the room;

ere did he bleed all the live-long day,

ntil the next day at noon.

then bethought him of a casement door,

hinking for to begone;was so weak he could not leap,

or he could not get down.

then bethought him of his bugle-horn,

hich hung low down to his knee,

set his horn unto his mouth,

nd blew out weak blasts three.

en Little John, when hearing him,

s he sat under the tree,

ar my master is near dead,

e blows so wearily."

en Little John to Fair Kirkley is gone,s fast as he can dree;

when he came to Kirkley-hall,

e broke locks two or three;

2

til he came bold Robin to,

hen he fell on his knee;

boon, a boon," cries Little John,

Master, I beg of thee."

hat is that boon," quoth Robin Hood,

Little John, thou begst of me?"

is to burn fair Kirkley-hall,nd all their nunnery."

ow nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood,

That boon I'll not grant thee;

ever hurt woman in all my life,

or man in woman's company.

ever hurt fair maid in all my time,

or at my end shall it be;

give me my bent bow in my hand,

nd a broad arrow I'll let flee;

d where this arrow is taken up,




here shall my grave diggèd be.

ay me a green sod under my head,

nd another under my feet; p. 122

d lay my bent bow by my side,

hich was my music sweet;

d make my grave of gravel and green,

hich is most right and meet.

t me have length and breadth enough,

ith a green sod under my head;at they may say when I am dead,

ere lies bold Robin Hood."

ese words they readily promised him,

hich did bold Robin please;

d there they buried bold Robin Hood,

ear to the fair Kirklèys.

4




The Twa Corbies

I was walking all alane,

eard twa corbies making a maen:

e tane unto the t'ither did say,

haur shall we gang and dine the day?"

doun beside yon auld fail dyke,

ot there lies a new-slain knight;

d naebody kens that he lies there

his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

s hound is to the hunting gane,

hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,

lady's ta'en another mate,

we may mak' our dinner sweet.

we'll sit on his white hause bane,

d I'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en;

ae lock o' his gowden hair

'll theek our nest when it blaws bare.

ony a ane for him makes maen,nane shall ken whaur he is gane.

er his banes when they are bare,

e wind shall blaw for evermair."




Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny

A SCOTTISH SONG

WALY, waly up the bank,

nd waly, waly down the brae,

d waly, waly yon burn side,

here I and my love were wont to gae.

ant my back unto an aik,

hought it was a trusty tree;first it bow'd, and syne it brak,

ae my true love did lichtly me.

waly, waly, but gin love be bonny,

little time while it is new;

when its auld, it waxeth cauld,

nd fades awa' like morning dew. p. 127

wherfore shuld I busk my head?

r wherfore shuld I kame my hair?

my true love has me forsook,

nd says he'll never loe me mair.

w Arthur-Seat sall be my bed,

he sheets shall neir be prest by me:

nt Anton's well sall be my drink,

nce my true love has forsaken me.

rti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

nd shake the green leaves aff the tree?

entle death, when wilt thou cum?

or of my life I am wearìe.

not the frost that freezes fell,

or blawing snaws inclemencìe;

not sic cauld that makes me cry,

ut my love's heart grown cauld to me.

an we came in by Glasgow town,e were a comely sight to see;

love was clad in black velvet,

nd I myself in cramasìe.

had I wist, before I kist,

hat love had been sae ill to win, p. 128

ad lockt my heart in a case of gowd,

nd pinnd it with a siller pin.

d, oh! that my young babe were born,

nd set upon the nurse's knee,

d I myself were dead and gane!

nd the green grass growing over me.




9

The Nut-brown Maid

it right, or wrong, these men among

n women do complain;

irming this, how that it is

labour spent in vain

love them wele; for never a dele

hey love a man again:

let a man do what he can,

heir favour to attain,

, if a new do them pursue,heir first true lover then

boureth for nought; for from her thought

e is a banished man.

0

y not nay, but that all day

is both writ and said

at woman's faith is, as who saith,

ll utterly decayed;

, nevertheless, right good witnèss

this case might be laid,




at they love true, and continùe,

ecord the Nut-brown Maid:

ich, when her love came, her to prove,

o her to make his moan,

uld not depart; for in her heart

he loved but him alone.

en between us let us discuss

hat was all the manere

ween them two: we will also

ell all the pain, and fere,

at she was in. Now I begin,o that ye me answère;

erefore, all ye, that present be

pray you, give an ear.

m the knight; I come by night,

s secret as I can; p. 130

ying,' Alas! thus standeth the case,

am a banished man.'

SHE

d I your will for to fulfil

this will not refuse;

sting to shew, in wordès few,hat men have an ill use

their own shame) women to blame,

nd causeless them accuse:

erefore to you I answer now,

ll women to excuse,--

ne own heart dear, with you what chere?

pray you, tell anone;

, in my mind, of all mankind

ove but you alone.

HE

tandeth so; a dede is dohereof great harm shall grow

destiny is for to die

shameful death, I trowe; p. 132

else to flee: the one must be.

one other way I know,

to withdraw as an outlaw,

nd take me to my bow.

erefore, adieu, my own heart true!

one other rede I can:

I must to the green wood go,

lone, a banished man.

SHE

Lord, what is this worldys bliss,

hat changeth as the moon!

summer's day in lusty May

darked before the noon.

ear you say, farewell: Nay, nay,

e dèpart not so soon.

y say ye so? wheder will ye go?

las! what have ye done?

my welfàre to sorrow and care

hould change, if ye were gone;







HE

ounsel you, remember how,

is no maiden's law,

thing to doubt, but to renne out

o wood with an outlàw:

ye must there in your hand bear

bow, readó to draw;

d, as a thief, thus must you live,

ver in dread and awe;

ereby to you great harm might grow:

et had I lever than, p. 136

at I had to the green wood go,


SHE

ink not nay, but as ye say,

is no maiden's lore;

love may make me for your sake,

s I have said before,

come on foot, to hunt, and shoot

o get us meat in store;

so that I your company

ay have, I ask no more:m which to part, it maketh my heart

s cold as any stone;


ove but you alone.

HE

an outlàw this is the law,

hat men him take and bind;

thout pitó, hangèd to be,

nd waver with the wind. p. 137

had nede, (as God forbede!)

hat rescue could ye find?sooth, I trow, ye and your bow

or fear would draw behind:

d no mervayle: for little avail

ere in your counsel then:

erefore I will to the green wood go,


SHE

ht well know ye, that women be

ut feeble for to fight;

womanhede it is indeed

o be bold as a knight:, in such fear if that ye were

ith enemies day or night,

ould withstand, with bow in hand,

o greve them as I might,

d you to save; as women have

om death men many a one:


ove but you alone.

8

HE




take good hede; for ever I drede

hat ye could not sustain

e thorny ways, the deep vallèys,

he snow, the frost, the rain,

e cold, the heat: for dry, or wet,

e must lodge on the plain;

d, us above, none other roof

ut a brake bush, or twain;

ich soon should grieve you, I believe,

nd ye would gladly then

at I had to the green wood go,lone, a banished man.

SHE

h I have here been partynère

ith you of joy and bliss,

ust alsò part of your woe

ndure, as reason is:

am I sure of one pleasùre;

nd, shortly, it is this:

at, where ye be, me seemeth, pardè,

could not fare amiss. p. 139

thout more speech, I you beseech

hat we were soon agone;


ove but you alone.

HE

e go thyder, ye must consider,

hen ye have lust to dine,

ere shall no meat be for you gete,

or drink, beer, ale, nor wine.

shetès clean, to lie between,

ade of thread and twine;

ne other house, but leaves and boughs,

o cover your head and mine;mine heart sweet, this evil diète

hould make you pale and wan;

erefore I will to the green wood go,


SHE

mong the wild dere, such an archère,

s men say that ye be, p. 140

may not fail of good vitàyle,

here is so great plentó:

d water clear of the ryvére

hall be full sweet to me;th which in hele I shall right wele

ndure, as ye shall see;

d, or we go, a bed or two

can provide anone;


ove but you alone.

HE

yet, before, ye must do more,

ye will go with me:

cut your hair up by your ear,




our kirtle by the knee;

th bow in hand, for to withstand

our enemies, if need be:

d this same night before day-light,

o wood-ward will I flee.

hat ye will all this fulfil,

o it shortly as ye can p. 141

e will I to the green wood go,


SHE

all as now do more for you

han 'longeth to womanhede;

shorte my hair, a bow to bear,

o shoot in time of need.

my sweet mother, before all other

or you I have most drede:

now, adieu! I must ensue,

here fortune doth me lead.

this make ye: Now let us flee;

he day cometh fast upon;


ove but you alone.

HE

y, nay, not so; ye shall not go,

nd I shall tell ye why,--

ur appetite is to be light

f love, I wele espy: p. 142

, like as ye have said to me,

like wise hardely

would answère whosoever it were

way of companó.

s said of old, Soon hot, soon cold

nd so is a womàn.

erefore I to the wood will go,lone, a banished man.

SHE

e take heed, it is no need

uch words to say by me;

oft ye prayed, and long assayed,

r I you loved, pardè:

d though that I of ancestry

baron's daughter be,

have you proved how I you loved

squire of low degree;

d ever shall, whatso befall;o die therefore anone;


ove but you alone.




HE

aron's child to be beguiled!

were a cursèd dede;

be felàwe with an outlàwe!

lmighty God forbede!

better were, the poor squyère

lone to forest yede,

an ye should say another day,

hat, by my cursèd dede,

were betrayed: Wherefore, good maid,

he best rede that I can,that I to the green wood go,


SHE

atever befall, I never shall

f this thing you upbraid:

if ye go, and leave me so,

hen have ye me betrayed.

member you wele, how that ye dele;

or, if ye, as ye said,

so unkind, to leave behind,

our love, the Nut-brown Maid, p. 144st me truló, that I shall die

oon after ye be gone;


ove but you alone.

HE

hat ye went, ye should repent;

or in the forest now

ave purvayed me of a maid,

hom I love more than you;

other fayrère, than ever ye were,

dare it wele avow;

d of you both each should be wroth

ith other, as I trow:

were mine ease, to live in peace;

o will I, if I can;

erefore I to the wood will go,


SHE

ough in the wood I understood

e had a paramour, p. 145

this may nought remove my thought,

ut that I will be your:




d she shall find me soft and kind,

nd courteys every hour;

d to fulfil all that she will

ommand me to my power:

had ye, lo! an hundred mo,

f them I would be one;


ove but you alone.

HE

ne own dear love, I see the proof hat ye be kind and true;

maid, and wife, in all my life,

he best that ever I knew.

merry and glad, be no more sad,

he case is changèd new;

it were ruth, that, for your truth,

e should have cause to rue.

not dismayed, whatsoever I said

o you, when I began; p. 146

ill not to the green wood go,

am no banished man.

SHE

ese tidings be more glad to me,

han to be made a queen,

were sure they should endure:

ut it is often seen,

en men will break promise, they speak

he wordès on the splene.

shape some wile me to beguile,

nd steal from me, I ween:

en, were the case worse than it was,

nd I more wo-begone:


ove but you alone.

HE

shall not nede further to drede;

will not disparàge

u, (God defend!) sith ye descend

f so great a lineàge. p. 147

w understand; to Westmoreland,

hich is mine heritage,

ill you bring; and with a ring,

y way of marriàge

ill you take, and lady make,

s shortly as I can:us have you won an erly's son,

nd not a banished man.

AUTHOR

re may ye see, that women be

love, meek, kind, and stable;

never man reprove them then,

r call them variàble;

, rather, pray God that we may

o them be comfortàble;

ich sometime proveth such, as he loveth,




they be charitàble.

sith men would that women should

e meek to them each one;

ch more ought they to God obey,

nd serve but Him alone.

8

The Fause LoverFAIR maid sat in her bower door,

ringing her lily hands;

d by it came a sprightly youth,

ast tripping o'er the strands.

here gang ye, young John," she says,

ae early in the day?

ars me think, by your fast trip,

our journey's far away."

turn'd about wi' surly look,

nd said, "What's that to thee?ga'en to see a lovely maid,

air fairer far than ye."

9

ow hae ye play'd me this, fause love,

simmer, 'mid the flowers?

all repay ye back again,

winter, 'mid the showers.

ut again, dear love, and again, dear love,

ill ye not turn again?

as ye look to ither women,

hall do to other men."

ake your choice o' whom you please,

or I my choice will have;

chosen a maid more fair than thee,

never will deceive."

she's kilt up her claithing fine,

nd after him gaed she;

aye he said, "Ye'll turn again,

ae farder gae wi' me."

again, dear love, and again, dear love,

ill ye never love me again?




s! for loving you sae well,

nd you na me again."

0

e firstan' town that they came till,

e bought her brooch and ring;

aye he bade her turn again,

nd gang nae farder wi' him.

ut again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc.

e nextan' town that they came till,e bought her muff and gloves;

aye he bade her turn again,

nd choose some other loves.

again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc.

e nextan' town that they came till,

is heart it grew mair fain;

d he was deep in love wi' her.

s she was ower again.

e nextan' town that they came till,

e bought her wedding gown;

d made her lady o' ha's and bowers,

sweet Berwick town.

1

The Mermaid

yon fause stream that, near the sea,

ides mony an elf and plum,

d rives wi' fearful din the stanes,

witless knicht did come.

e day shines clear--far in he's gane

har shells are silver bright,

hes war loupin' a' aroun',




nd sparklin' to the light.

an, as he laved, sounds cam sae sweet

ae ilka rock an' tree;

e brief was out, 'twas him it doomed

he mermaid's face to see.

2

e 'neath a rock, sune, sune she rose,

nd stately on she swam,

pped i' the midst, and becked and sang

o him to stretch his han'.

wden glist the yellow links

hat round her neck she'd twine;

r een war o' the skyie blue,

er lips did mock the wine;

e smile upon her bonnie cheek

as sweeter than the bee;

r voice excelled the birdie's sang

pon the birchen tree.

couthie, couthie did she look,

nd meikle had she fleeched;t shot his hand--alas! alas!

ast in the swirl he screeched.

e mermaid leuch, her brief was gane,

nd kelpie's blast was blawin',

low she duked, ne'er raise again,

or deep, deep was the fawin'.

3

oon the stream his wraith was seen,

arlochs tirled lang at gloamin';

at e'en was coarse, the blast blew hoarse,

e lang the waves war foamin'.




4

The Battle of Otterburn

THE FIRST FYTTE

fell about the Lammas tide,

hen husbands winn their hay,

e doughty Douglas bound him to ride

to England to take a prey.

e Earl of Fife, withouten strife,

e bound him over Solway;e great would ever together ride

hat race they may rue for aye.

er Ottercap hill they came in,

nd so down by Rotheley crag,

on Green Leighton they lighted down,

yrande many a stag;

5

d boldly brente Northumberland,

nd harried many a town;

ey did our Englishmen great wrong

o battle that were not bown.

en spake a berne upon the bent,

f comfort that was not cold,

d said, "We have brente Northumberland,

e have all wealth in holde.

ow we have harried all Bamborough shire

ll the wealth in the world have we;

de we ride to Newcastle,

o still and stalworthlye."

on the morrow, when it was day,




he standards shone full bright;

the Newcastle they took the way,

nd thither they came full right.

Henry Percy lay at the Newcastle,

ell you, withouten dread;

has been a March-man all his days,

nd kept Berwick upon Tweed.

6

the Newcastle when they came,

he Scots they cried on hyght:r Harry Percy, an thou bist within,

ome to the field and fight:

r we have brente Northumberland,

hy heritage good and right;

d syne my lodging I have take,

ith my brand dubbed many a knight."

Harry Percy came to the walls,

he Scottish host for to see:

nd thou hast brente Northumberland,

ull sore it rueth me.

thou hast harried all Bamborough shire,

hou hast done me great envy;

the trespàss thou hast me done,

he one of us shall die."

here shall I bide thee?" said the Douglas;

Or where wilt thou come to me?

Otterburn in the high way,

here mayst thou well lodged be.

7

e roe full reckless there she runs,

o make thee game and glee;e falcon and the pheasant both,

mong the holtes on hee.

here mayst thou have thy wealth at will,

ell lodged there mayst thou be;

hall not be long ere I come thee till,"

aid Sir Harry Percyè.

ere shall I bide thee," said the Douglas,

By the faith of my bodó."

hither shall I come," said Sir Harry Percó,

My troth I plight to thee."

ipe of wine he gave them over the walls,or sooth, as I you say;

ere he made the Douglas drink,

nd all his host that day.

e Douglas turned him homeward again,

or sooth withouten nay;

took his lodging at Otterburn

pon a Wednèsday;

8

d there he pyght his standard down.

is getting more and less;




d syne he warned his men to go

nd get their geldings gress.

cottish knight hoved upon the bent,

watch I dare well say;

was he ware on the noble Percó

the dawning of the day.

pricked to his pavilion door,

s fast as he might ronne;

waken, Douglas!" cried the knight,

or His love that sits in throne.

waken, Douglas!" cried the knight,

or thou mayst waken with wynne;

nder have I spied the proud Percó,

nd seven standàrds with him."

y, by my troth," the Douglas said,

t is but a feignèd tale;

durst not look on my broad bannèr,

or all Englànd so hayle

9

as I not yesterday at the Newcastle,hat stands so fair on Tyne?

all the men the Percy had,

e could not garre me once to dyne."

stepped out at his pavilion door,

o look, and it were less;

rray you, lordyngs, one and all,

or here begins no peace.

he Earl of Menteith, thou art my eme,

he forward I give to thee;

e Earl of Huntley cawte and keen,

e shall with thee be.

he Lord of Buchan, in armour bright,

n the other hand he shall be;

rd Johnstone, and Lord Maxwell,

hey two shall be with me.

wynton fair field upon your pride

o battle make you bowen;

Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward,

r John of Agerstone."

0

THE SECOND FYTTEe Percy came before his host,

hich ever was a gentle knight,

on the Douglas loud did he cry,

will hold that I have hight;

r thou hast brente Northumberland,

nd done me great envó;

this trespàss thou hast me done

he one of us shall die."

e Douglas answered him again,




ith great words up on hee,

d said, "I have twenty against thy one,

ehold, and thou mayst see."

th that the Percy was grievèd sore,

or sooth as I you say;

lighted down upon his foot,

nd shot his horse clean away

1

ery man saw that he did so,

hat ryall was ever in rout;ery man shot his horse him fro,

nd light him round about.

us Sir Harry Percy took the field,

or sooth as I you say,

u Christ in heaven on high,

id help him well that day.

nine thousand, there was no more,

chronicle will not layne;

ty thousand Scots and four

hat day fought them again,

when the battle began to join,

haste there came a knight,

en letters fair forth hath he ta'en,

nd thus he said full right:

y lord, your father he greets you well,

ith many a noble knight;

desires you to bide,

hat he may see this fight.

2

he baron of Grastock is come out of the west,

ith him a noble company;they lodge at your father's this night,

nd the battle fain would they see."

Jesu's love," said Sir Harry Percó,

That died for you and me,

nd to my lord, my father, again,

nd say thou saw me not with ee;

y troth is plight to yon Scottish knight,

needs me not to layne,

at I should bide him upon this bent,

nd I have his troth again;

nd if that I wend off this ground,or sooth unfoughten away,

would me call but a coward knight,

his land another day.

et had I lever to be rynde and rent,

y Mary that mykel may,

an ever my manhood should be reproved

ith a Scot another day.

3

herefore shoot, archers, for my sake,

nd let sharp arrows flee;




nstrels, play up for your warison,

nd well quit it shall be.

very man think on his true love,

nd mark him to the Trinitó;

to God I make mine a-vow

his day will I not flee."

e bloody heart in the Douglas' arms,

is standard stood on high,

at every man might full well know;

eside stood starrès three.

e white Liòn on the English part,

or sooth as I you sayne,

e luces and the crescents both

he Scots fought them again.

on Saint Andrew loud did they cry,

nd thrice they shout on hyght,

d syne marked them on our Englishmen,

s I have told you right.

4

nt George the bright, our Lady's knight,o name they were full fain,

r Englishmen they cried on hyght,

nd thrice they shout again.

th that sharp arrows began to flee,

ell you in certain;

n of arms began to join;

any a doughty man was there slain.

e Percy and the Douglas met,

hat either of them was fain;

ey schapped together, while that they sweat,

ith swords of fine Collayne;

the blood from their basenets ran

s the roke doth in the rain.

eld thee to me," said the Douglas,

Or else thou shalt be slain;

r I see by thy bright basenet,

hou art some man of might;

d so I do by thy burnished brand,

hou art an earl, or else a knight."

5

y my good faith," said the noble Percó,

Now hast thou rede full right;will I never yield me to thee,

hile I may stand and fight."

ey swapped together, while that they sweat,

ith swordès sharp and long;

ch on other so fast they beat,

ll their helms came in pieces down.

e Percy was a man of strength,

ell you in this stound

smote the Douglas at the sword's length,

hat he felled him to the ground.




e sword was sharp, and sore did byte,

ell you in certàin;

the heart he did him smite,

hus was the Douglas slain.

e standards stood still on each side;

ith many a grievous groan,

ere they fought the day, and all the night,

nd many a doughty man was slone.

6

ere was no freyke that there would fly,

ut stiffly in stour did stand,

hone hewing on other while they might dry,

ith many a baleful brand.

ere was slain upon the Scottes side,

or sooth and certainló,

James of Douglas there was slain,

hat day that he did die.

e Earl of Menteith he was slain.

rysely groaned upon the ground;

Davy Scot, Sir Walter Steward,r John of Agerstone.

Charles Murray in that place,

hat never a foot would fly;

Hugh Maxwèll, a lord he was,

ith the Douglas did he die.

ere was slain upon the Scottes side,


four and forty thousand Scots,

ent but eighteen away.

7

ere was slain upon the English side,

or sooth and certainló,

entle knight, Sir John Fitzhugh,

was the more pitó.

James Harebotell there was slain,

or him their hearts were sore

e gentle Lovel there was slain,

hat the Percy's standard bore.

ere was slain upon the English side,





nine thousand Englishmen,

ve hundred came away;

e others were slaynè in the field,

hrist keep their souls from woe,

ing there were so few friends

gainst so many a foe!

en on the morn they made them biers

f birch and hazel gray;

ny a widow with weeping tearsheir makes they fetch away.

8

s fray began at Otterburn,

etween the night and the day;

ere the Douglas lost his life,

nd the Percy was led away.

en was there a Scottish prisoner ta'en,

r Hugh Montgomery was his name,

sooth as I you say,

e borrowed the Percy home again.

w let us all for the Percy pray,

o Jesu most of might,

bring his soul to the bliss of heaven,

or he was a gentle knight.

9




The Lament of the Border Widow

Y love he built me a bonny bower,

d clad it a' wi' a lilye flower,

rawer bower ye ne'er did see,

an my true love he built for me.

ere came a man, by middle day,

spied his sport and went away,

d brought the king that very night,

o brake my bower, and slew my knight.

slew my knight, to me so dear;

slew my knight, and poined his gear;

servants all for life did flee,

d left me in extremitie.

0

wed his sheet, making my mane;

atched the corpse, myself alane;

atched his body, night and day;

living creature came that way.

ok his body on my back,

d whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat,gged a grave, and laid him in,

d happed him with the sod so green.

think na ye my heart was sair,

en I laid the moul' on his yellow hair;

nk na ye my heart was wae,

en I turned about, away to gae?

e living man I'll love again,

ce that my lovely knight is slain;

ae lock of his yellow hair

chain my heart for evermair.

1




The Banks o' Yarrow

TE at e'en, drinking the wine,

nd ere they paid the lawing,

ey set a combat them between,

o fight it in the dawing.

hat though ye be my sister's lord,

e'll cross our swords to-morrow."

hat though my wife your sister be,

l meet ye then on Yarrow."

stay at hame, my ain gude lord!

stay, my ain dear marrow!

cruel brither will you betray

n the dowie banks o' Yarrow."

2

fare ye weel, my lady dear!

nd put aside your sorrow;

if I gae, I'll sune return

ae the bonny banks o' Yarrow."

e kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,s oft she'd done before, O;

e belted him wi' his gude brand,

nd he's awa' to Yarrow.

en he gaed up the Tennies bank,

s he gaed mony a morrow,

ne armed men lay in a den,

n the dowie braes o' Yarrow.

come ye here to hunt or hawk

he bonny Forest thorough?

come ye here to wield your brand




pon the banks o' Yarrow?"

ome not here to hunt or hawk,

s oft I've dune before, O,

I come here to wield my brand

pon the banks o' Yarrow.

3

ye attack me nine to ane,

hen may God send ye sorrow!--

will I fight while stand I may,

n the bonny banks o' Yarrow."

o has he hurt, and three has slain,

n the bloody braes o' Yarrow;

the stubborn knight crept in behind,

nd pierced his body thorough.

ae hame, gae hame, you brither John,

nd tell your sister sorrow,--

come and lift her leafu' lord

n the dowie banks o' Yarrow."

r brither John gaed ower yon hill,

s oft he'd dune before, O;ere he met his sister dear,

am' rinnin' fast to Yarrow.

dreamt a dream last night," she says,

wish it binna sorrow;

eamt I pu'd the heather green

i' my true love on Yarrow."

4

read your dream, sister," he says,

ll read it into sorrow;

re bidden go take up your love,

e's sleeping sound on Yarrow."

e's torn the ribbons frae her head

hat were baith braid and narrow;

e's kilted up her lang claithing,

nd she's awa' to Yarrow.

e's ta'en him in her arms twa,

nd gi'en him kisses thorough;

e sought to bind his mony wounds,

ut he lay dead on Yarrow.

haud your tongue," her father says,

And let be a' your sorrow;

wed you to a better lordhan him ye lost on Yarrow."

haud your tongue, father," she says,

ar warse ye mak' my sorrow;

etter lord could never be

han him that lies on Yarrow."

5

e kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair,

s aft she had dune before, O;

d there wi' grief her heart did break,

pon the banks o' Yarrow.




6

Hugh of Lincoln

SHOWING THE CRUELTY OF A JEW'S DAUGHTER

UR and twenty bonny boys

ere playing at the ba',

d up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh,

he flower among them a'.

kicked the ba' there wi' his foot,

nd keppit it wi' his knee,

even in at the Jew's window

e gart the bonny ba' flee.

ast out the ba' to me, fair maid,ast out the ba' to me."

ever a bit," says the Jew's daughter,

ll ye come up to me."

7




ome up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,

ome up and get the ba'."

winna come, I mayna come,

ithout my bonny boys a'."

e's ta'en her to the Jew's garden,

here the grass grew lang and green,

e's pu'd an apple red and white,

o wyle the bonny boy in.

e's wyled him in through ae chamber,

he's wyled him in through twa,e's wyled him into the third chamber,

nd that was the warst o' a'.

e's tied the little boy, hands and feet,

he's pierced him wi' a knife,

e's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup,

nd twinn'd him o' his life.

e row'd him in a cake o' lead,

ade him lie still and sleep,

e cast him in a deep draw-well

as fifty fathom deep.

8

en bells were rung, and mass was sung,

nd every bairn went hame,

en ilka lady had her young son,

ut Lady Helen had nane.

e row'd her mantle her about,

nd sair, sair 'gan she weep;

d she ran unto the Jew's house,

hen they were all asleep.

y bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh,

pray thee to me speak!"

ady Helen, come to the deep draw-wellin ye your son wad seek."

dy Helen ran to the deep draw-well,

nd knelt upon her knee:

y bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here,

pray thee speak to me!"

he lead is wondrous heavy, mither,

he well is wondrous deep;

keen penknife sticks in my heart,

is hard for me to speak.




9

ae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,

etch me my winding-sheet;

d at the back o' merry Lincoln,

s there we twa sall meet."

w Lady Helen she's gane hame,

ade him a winding-sheet;

d at the back o' merry Lincoln,

he dead corpse did her meet.

d a' the bells o' merry Lincolnithout men's hands were rung;

d a' the books o' merry Lincoln

ere read without men's tongue:

ver was such a burial

n' Adam's days begun.

0

Sir Patrick Spens

E king sits in Dunfermline town,

rinking the blude-red wine;whare will I get a skeely skipper,

o sail this new ship of mine?"

p and spak' an eldern knight,

at at the king's right knee,

r Patrick Spens is the best sailòr,

hat ever sailed the sea."

r king has written a braid letter,

nd seated it with his hand,

d sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,

as walking on the strand.




1

o Noroway, to Noroway,

o Noroway o'er the faem;

e king's daughter of Noroway

is thou maun bring her hame."

e first word that Sir Patrick read,

ae loud loud laughèd he;

e neist word that Sir Patrick read,

he tear blinded his ee.

wha is this has done this deed,

nd tauld the king o' me,

send us out at this time of the year,

o sail upon the sea?

e it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

ur ship must sail the faem;

e king's daughter of Noroway,

is we must fetch her hame."

ey hoysed their sails an Moneday morn,

i' a' the speed they may;

ey hae landed in Noroway,

pon a Wednèsday.

2

ey hadna been a week, a week,

Noroway, but twae,

en that the lords o' Noroway

egan aloud to say:

e Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,

nd a' our queen's fee."

e lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!

u' loud I hear ye lie;

r I brought as much white monie,

s gane my men and me,

d I brought a half-fou of gude red goud,

ut o'er the sea wi' me.

ake ready, make ready, my merry men a',

ur gude ship sails the morn."

ow, ever alake, my master dear,

ear a deadly storm!

aw the new moon, late yestreen,

i' the old moon in her arm;




d, if we gang to sea, mastèr,

ear we'll come to harm."

3

ey hadna sailed a league, a league,

league but barely three,

en the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud

nd gurly grew the sea.

e ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,

was sic a deadly storm;

d the waves cam o'er the broken ship,ll a' her sides were torn.

where will I get a gude sailòr,

o take my helm in hand,

I get up to the tall top-mast,

o see if I can spy land?"

here am I, a sailor gude,

o take the helm in hand,

you go up to the tall top-mast;

ut I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

hadna gane a step, a step,step but barely ane,

en a bout flew out of our goodly ship,

nd the salt sea it cam in.

4

ae, fetch a web of the silken claith,

nother o' the twine,

d wap them into our ship's side,

nd let nae the sea come in."

ey fetched a web o' the silken claith,

nother o' the twine,

d they wapped them round that gude ship's side,ut still the sea cam in.

aith, laith, were our gude Scots lords

o weet their cork-heeled shoon!

lang or a' the play was played,

hey wat their hats aboon.

d mony was the feather bed,

hat flattered on the faem;

d mony was the gude lord's son,

hat never mair cam hame.

e ladies wrang their fingers white,

he maidens tore their hair,for the sake of their true loves

or them they'll see nae mair.

5

ang, lang, may the ladies sit,

i' their fans into their hand,

fore they see Sir Patrick Spens

ome sailing to the strand!

d lang, lang, may the maidens sit,

ith their goud kaims in their hair

waiting for their ain dear loves,




or them they'll see nae mair!

orty miles off Aberdeen,

is fifty fathoms deep,

d there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens

i' the Scots lords at his feet.

0663882 48819 Edwards Wharton George a Book of Old English Ballads

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