The Project Gutenberg eBook, Story-Telling Ballads, by Frances Jenkins Olcott

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.

Title: Story-Telling Ballads

Selected and Arranged for Story-Telling and Reading Aloud and for the Boys' and Girls' Own Reading

Author: Frances Jenkins Olcott

Release Date: November 23, 2020 [eBook #63858]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORY-TELLING BALLADS***

E-text prepared by MFR, Susan Carr,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(https://www.pgdp.net)
from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive
(https://archive.org)

Note:

Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/storytellingball00olc

STORY-TELLING BALLADS

THE LIFT GREW DARK, AND THE WIND BLEW LOUD,
AND GURLY GREW THE SEA (page 5)

STORY-TELLING
BALLADS

SELECTED AND ARRANGED FOR
STORY-TELLING AND READING ALOUD
AND FOR
THE BOYS’ AND GIRLS’ OWN READING

FRANCES JENKINS OLCOTT

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1920

The Riverside Press

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A

TO MY SISTER

VIRGINIA OLCOTT

[Pg vii]

THE FOREWORD

Here are 77 story-telling ballads and narrative poems, that will make the heart beat faster and the pulse bound, of any boy or girl from twelve to fifteen years of age.

They offer a feast of good things—romances, hero-tales, Faërie legends, and adventures of Knights and lovely Damsels. They sing of proud and wicked folk, of gentle and loyal ones, of Laidley Worms, Witches, Mermaids with golden combs, sad maidens, glad ones and fearless lovers, moss-troopers, border-rievers, and Kings in disguise. All their doings are related in the stirring, leaping, joyous—or at times martial and mournful-ballad measure.

The ancient ballads are here presented exactly as when in days of old they were sung by minstrels and recited by gaffers and gammers. No alterations are made in the texts of the ballad-collectors and collators, except the changing of a few objectionable words. Two or three of the less well-known ballads are done into modern spelling. A number, not hitherto found in children’s collections, will be delightfully new to young people. Some popular ballads, like “King John and the Abbot of Canterbury,” and “The King and the[viii] Miller of Mansfield,” are omitted because they are in Story-Telling Poems.

A goodly number of famous modern ballads are included; and at the end of the volume are 10 short narrative poems of “Pilgrimage and Souls so Strong.”

At the end of the book are a Glossary and Indexes of subjects, authors, titles, and first lines.

TEACHERS, STORY-TELLERS, AND BALLADS

Since great care has been taken to choose authoritative texts (see Acknowledgments, page xv and Suggestions for Teachers, page 363), the teacher will find this collection helpful when instructing classes in early English literature or in ballad structure and measure.

The Glossary for classroom use is placed at the back of the book, not in footnotes, because children who are reading for enjoyment easily learn new words from the context.

The collection may be used for story-hours; or, as older boys and girls prefer being read aloud to, in it may be found an abundance of material for weekly poetry hours and for memorizing.

YOUTH IN THE BALLADS

Ballads are the natural heritage of every boy and girl. Ballads are tuned to the very pulse of Youth. They are red-blooded: joyous with the[ix] freshness of Springtime, and robust with the early Summer of Life. They appeal with peculiar delight to growing boys and girls, satisfying, as do no other poems, their craving for emotional expression in quick, rhythmic form.

Ballads not only feed the romantic spirit of young people, but teach them much homely wisdom. They are essentially democratic and human. In them Kings and tinkers, Knights and shepherds, meet, talk, and feast together like comrades.

And because the vigour of Youth so animates the old ballads, young folk read them eagerly, learn them almost without effort, and recite them with gusto. The wild, free life in the good greenwood, the chivalry, mystery, pathos, heroic deeds, and thrilling experiences—in fact, Life itself running the whole gamut of human emotions—enthrall the ever eager, questioning, shifting moods of boys and girls.

HOW THE BALLADS GREW

The human and universal in the ancient ballads, their eternal youthful appeal, are rooted deepset in the daily life of the People. Their very meter and airs are natural growths like the sheath of a wildflower. For in those good old ballad-making days, minstrels, the welcome guests of rich and poor, wandered from castle to cot and inn,[x] from eyrie-like retreats of Highland chiefs to fortified border-towers of the Lowland or “North Contraye.” And as the minstrels rested their harps or bagpipes on the earthen floors of cottages, or while they sat feasting with nobles in baronial halls, they heard peasants, working-folk, servitors, squires, ladies, and returned Crusaders, telling of their adventures on land and sea, in fights, battles, border-raids, in abductions of lovely maidens, in combats with Saracens and with Laidley monsters, in meetings with Faërie Knights and Elfin Queens all under the greenwood-shade. They heard, also, tales of changelings and visits to Fairyland; stories of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Witches; legends of the sea; and traditions of national heroes.

This material, so varied, so freshly spontaneous and imaginative, the minstrels shaped into ballads, setting them to music now wild and weird, now tragic and mournful, now sweet and debonair. So they played and sang the ballads in cottage, bower, and hall, moulding them to the delight and humours of their hearers, changing them to suit time and place. Thus there grew up many versions of a single ballad.

The old folk, too, the gaffers and gammers by the fireside, learned the ballads and recited or sung them to the children; who in their turn, when they became old, told them to other children.[xi] Thus the old songs were passed along by word of mouth from generation to generation, from countryside to countryside, and even from one land to another.

MAKING A COLLECTION FOR CHILDREN

As was natural in those coarse old times, much that was unsuitable for children was woven into the ballads; which to-day makes it a difficult task to compile a representative juvenile collection. For, as Spenser so aptly put it when writing of Irish bards, they “seldom use to choose unto themselves the doings of good men for the arguments of their poems, but whomsoever they find to be ... most bold and lawless in his doings, most dangerous and desperate in all parts of disobedience and rebellious disposition, him they set up and glorify in their rhymes, him they praise to the people, and to young men make an example to follow.”

But Spenser’s criticism of the Irish bards is far too violent a stricture on all Scottish and English ballad literature. For there are Scottish and English ones, clean, merry, and nobly heroic; fine and wholesome reading for our boys and girls.

For Sir Walter Scott’s romantic tastes and his interest in Highland and Border life were awakened and fired, when he was a boy, by reading[xii] ballads. And Sir Philip Sydney wrote in his Defence of Poetry, “Certainly, I must confess mine own barbarousness; I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas, that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet; and yet it is sung but by some blind crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style ... In Hungary I have seen it the manner at all feasts, and all other such-like meetings, to have songs of their ancestors’ valour, which that right soldier-like nation think one of the chiefest kindlers of brave courage.”

But in making a collection of ballads for modern boys and girls, it is not enough to choose those that will arouse only the higher emotions. The interests of young people have to be consulted; while nothing in extremely difficult Scottish dialect may be included, nor in very old English.

Then there are many versions of individual ballads to choose from. Of “Hynd Horn” there are eight or more; of “Young Beichan and Susie Pye,” fourteen or more; and of other ballads many versions. Next, authoritative texts must be found, for some transcribers have made mistakes or have altered the originals. So it may be seen what a painstaking task it is to compile a collection of ballads for educational purposes as well as for the boys’ and girls’ own reading.

As for this volume, it covers so wide a range[xiii] of fascinating subjects that it will surely entrance any lad or lass who, opening its pages for pleasure-reading, steps with Valentine and Ursine, Robin Hood and Clorinda, and the brave outlaw Murray, into

The gude green-wood amang the lily flower.

[xiv]
[xv]

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks are due Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company for the use of the following modern ballads, “The Ballad of the Oysterman,” by Oliver Wendell Holmes; “The Luck of Edenhall,” “The Three Kings,” and “The Skeleton in Armour,” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; “The Singing Leaves,” by James Russell Lowell; “Barclay of Ury,” by John Greenleaf Whittier.

Among the authoritative texts from which I have taken ancient and popular ballads, are Bell’s Early Ballads and Songs of the Peasantry of England; Bishop Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, and his Folio Manuscript, edited by Hales and Furnivall; A Collection of Old Ballads, London, 1723-25; Dixon’s Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England (Percy Society); Jamieson’s Popular Ballads and Songs; Monk Lewis’s Tales of Wonder; Motherwell’s Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern; Nicholson’s Historical and Traditional Tales ... Connected with the South of Scotland; Ritson’s Robin Hood; Sir Walter Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border; Sheldon’s Minstrelsy of the English Border; also the scholarly collection of English and Scottish Popular Ballads, compiled and edited by Professor Francis[xvi] James Child, for the use of which my acknowledgments are due its publishers, Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company.

The best texts available have been followed for the original ballads by Sir Walter Raleigh, George Herbert, Hogg, Scott, Lover, Kingsley, Tennyson, Campbell, and Keats.

[xvii]

THE SALT BLUE SEAS
The Stormy Winds Do Blow		2
Sir Patrick Spens		3
The Dæmon Lover		7
The Mermaid	Dr. John Leyden	10
A-HARROWING O’ THE BORDER
The Galloway Raid		20
The More Modern Ballad of Chevy-Chase		21
The Ballad of Meikle-Mouthed Meg		32
Belted Will	Frederick Sheldon	47
BRAVE HEARTS AND PROUD
Earl Haldan’s Daughter	Charles Kingsley	58
Lady Clare	Alfred, Lord Tennyson	59
Proud Lady Margaret		62
The Famous Flower of Serving-Men		65
Cochrane’s Bonny Grizzy		70
The Greeting of Kynast	Charles T. Brooks, from Rückert	74
LAYS O’ FAËRIE
The Fairy Tempter	Samuel Lover	80
Alice Brand	Sir Walter Scott	81
The Erl-King	Sir Walter Scott, from Goethe	86
The Fairy Thorn	Samuel Ferguson	87
La Belle Dame sans Merci	John Keats	91[xviii]
Thomas the Rhymer		93
The Kelpie of Corrievreckan	Charles Mackay	97
Kilmeny	The Ettrick Shepherd	101
LAYS O’ WONDER
The Wee Wee Man		114
The Earl of Mar’s Daughter		115
Kemp Owyne		122
The Lady of Shalott	Alfred, Lord Tennyson	124
The Singing Leaves	James Russell Lowell	131
The Luck of Edenhall	Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, from Uhland	135
May of the Moril Glen	The Ettrick Shepherd	138
The Laidley Worm o’ Spindleston-Heughs		148
MERRY GESTES
A Tragic Story	William Makepeace Thackeray, from Chamisso	158
Little Billee	William Makepeace Thackeray	159
Brian o’Linn		160
Dicky of Ballyman		162
The Ballad of the Oysterman	Oliver Wendell Holmes	164
The Cinder King	Modern, anon.	167
The Frolicksome Duke; or, the Tinker’s Good Fortune		169
King James the First and the Tinkler		173
King Alfred and the Shepherd		176[xix]
SAD GESTES
The Sands of Dee	Charles Kingsley	190
Fair Anny of Roch-royal		191
The Cruel Sister		196
Barbara Allen’s Cruelty		201
Song: Earl March Looked on his Dying Child	Thomas Campbell	203
Lord Lovel		204
PRETTY MAYS AND KNIGHTS SO BOLD
The Noble Riddle		208
Blancheflour and Jellyflorice		209
Glenara	Thomas Campbell	212
The Beggar-Maid	Alfred, Lord Tennyson	214
Lochinvar	Sir Waller Scott	215
The Gay Goss-Hawk		218
Bonny Baby Livingston		224
Hynd Horn		231
Young Beichan and Susie Pye		237
The Child of Elle		244
FOR HALLOWEEN AND MIDSUMMER EVE
The Spell	John Gay	254
The Young Tamlane		255
The Wife of Usher’s Well		263
Sir Roland		265
The Skeleton in Armour	H. W. Longfellow	270
Sweet William’s Ghost		276
The Eve of St. John	Sir Walter Scott	279[xx]
ALL UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE
The Birth o’ Robin Hood		290
Robin Hood and Little John		291
Robin Hood and Clorinda		297
Song of the Outlaw Murray		301
Valentine and Ursine		314
O’ PILGRIMAGE AND SOULS SO STRONG
The Pilgrim	John Bunyan	332
The Heart of the Bruce	William Edmondstoune Aytoun	333
Barclay of Ury	John Greenleaf Whittier	341
The Touchstone	William Allingham	347
Sir Galahad	Alfred, Lord Tennyson	348
Pilgrimage	Sir Walter Raleigh	351
The Royal Court	Modern, anon.	353
True Valour	John Bunyan	355
Peace	George Herbert	356
The Three Kings	Henry Wadsworth Longfellow	357
APPENDIX
Suggestions for Teachers		363
Programme for a Year of Ballad-Reading and Study		366
Glossary		373
Subject Index		385
Index of First Lines		390
Index of Titles and Authors		392

[xxi]

ILLUSTRATIONS

The lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, and gurly grew the sea	Frontispiece
“I fear not sign,” quoth the grisly elf, “that is made with bloody hands”	84
He turned him round; but still it hung behind him	158
But springing up, he raised his club, and aimed a dreadful blow	318

THE SALT BLUE SEAS

[2]

THE STORMY WINDS DO BLOW

One Friday morn when we set sail,

Not very far from land,

We there did espy a fair pretty maid

With a comb and a glass in her hand, her hand, her hand,

With a comb and a glass in her hand.

While the raging seas did roar,

And the stormy winds did blow,

While we jolly sailor-boys were up into the top,

And the land-lubbers lying down below, below, below,

And the land-lubbers lying down below.

Then up starts the captain of our gallant ship,

And a brave young man was he:

“I’ve a wife and a child in fair Bristol town,

But a widow I fear she will be.”

Then up starts the mate of our gallant ship,

And a bold young man was he:

“Oh! I have a wife in fair Portsmouth town,

But a widow I fear she will be.”

Then up starts the cook of our gallant ship,

And a gruff old soul was he:

“Oh! I have a wife in fair Plymouth town,

But a widow I fear she will be.”

And then up spoke the little cabin-boy,

And a pretty little boy was he:

“Oh! I am more grievd for my daddy and my mammy,

Than you for your wives all three.”

Then three times round went our gallant ship,

And three times round went she:

For the want of a life-boat they all went down,

And she sank to the bottom of the sea.

While the raging seas did roar,

And the stormy winds did blow,

While we jolly sailor-boys were up into the top,

And the land-lubbers lying down below, below, below,

And the land-lubbers lying down below.

[3]

SIR PATRICK SPENS

The king sits in Dunfermline town,

Drinking the blude-red wine;

“O whare will I get a skeely skipper,

To sail this new ship of mine?”

O up and spake an eldern knight,

Sat at the king’s right knee,—

“Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,

That ever sailed the sea.”—

Our king has written a braid letter,

And seal’d it with his hand,

And sent it to sir Patrick Spens,

Was walking on the strand.

“To Noroway, to Noroway,

To Noroway o’er the faem;

The king’s daughter of Noroway,

’Tis thou maun bring her hame.”

The first word that sir Patrick read,

Sae loud loud laughed he;

The neist word that sir Patrick read,

The tear blinded his ee.[4]

“O wha is this has done this deed,

And tauld the king o’ me,

To send us out, at this time of the year,

To sail upon the sea?

“Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Our ship must sail the faem;

The king’s daughter of Noroway,

’Tis we must fetch her hame.”—

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,

Wi’ a’ the speed they may;

They hae landed in Noroway,

Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week,

In Noroway, but twae,

When that the lords o’ Noroway

Began aloud to say,—

“Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s goud,

And a’ our queenis fee.”—

“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!

Fu’ loud I hear ye lie:

“For I brought as much white monie,

As gane my men and me,

And I brought a half-fou o’ gude red goud,

Out o’er the sea wi’ me.[5]

“Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a’!

Our gude ship sails the morn,”—

“Now, ever alake, my master dear,

I fear a deadly storm!

“I saw the new moon, late yestreen,

Wi’ the auld moon in her arm;

And, if we gang to sea, master,

I fear we’ll come to harm.”

They hadna sail’d a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,

And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,

It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves cam o’er the broken ship,

Till a’ her sides were torn.

“O where will I get a gude sailor,

To take my helm in hand,

Till I get up to the tall top-mast;

To see if I can spy land?”—

“O here am I, a sailor gude,

To take the helm in hand,

Till you go up to the tall top-mast;

But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.”[6]

He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step but barely ane,

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,

And the salt sea it cam in.

“Gae, fetch a web o’ the silken claith,

Another o’ the twine,

And wap them into our ship’s side,

And letna the sea come in.”—

They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,

Another o’ the twine,

And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side,

But still the sea cam in.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords

To weet their cork-heel’d shoon!

But lang or a’ the play was play’d,

They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather bed,

That flatter’d on the faem;

And mony was the gude lord’s son,

That never mair cam hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,

The maidens tore their hair,

A’ for the sake of their true loves;

For them they’ll see na mair.

[7]

O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit,

Wi’ their fans into their hand,

Before they see sir Patrick Spens

Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,

With their goud kaims in their hair,

A’waiting for their ain dear loves!

For them they’ll see nae mair.

O forty miles off Aberdeen,

’Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude sir Patrick Spens,

Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.

THE DÆMON LOVER

“O where have you been, my long, long love,

This long seven years and mair?”

“O I’m come to seek my former vows

Ye granted me before.”

“O hold your tongue of your former vows,

For they will breed sad strife;

O hold your tongue of your former vows,

For I am become a wife.”

He turned him right and round about,

And the tear blinded his ee:

“I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground,

If it had not been for thee.

[8]

“I might hae had a king’s daughter,

Far, far beyond the sea;

I might have had a king’s daughter,

Had it not been for love o thee.”

“If ye might have had a king’s daughter,

Yer sel ye had to blame;

Ye might have taken the king’s daughter,

For ye kend that I was nane.

“If I was to leave my husband dear,

And my two babes also,

O what have you to take me to,

If with you I should go?”

“I hae seven ships upon the sea—

The eighth brought me to land—

With four-and-twenty bold mariners,

And music on every hand.”

She has taken up her two little babes,

Kissd them baith cheek and chin:

“O fair ye weel, my ain two babes,

For I’ll never see you again.”

She set her foot upon the ship,

No mariners could she behold;

But the sails were o the taffetie,

And the masts o the beaten gold.

[9]

She had not sailed a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

When dismal grew his countenance,

And drumlie grew his ee.

They had not saild a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

Until she espied his cloven foot,

And she wept right bitterlie.

“O hold your tongue of your weeping,” says he,

“Of your weeping now let me be;

I will shew you how the lilies grow

On the banks of Italy.”

“O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,

That the sun shines sweetly on?”

“O yon are the hills of heaven,” he said,

“Where you will never win.”

“O whaten a mountain is yon,” she said,

“All so dreary wi frost and snow?”

“O yon is the mountain of hell,” he cried,

“Where you and I will go.”

He strack the tap-mast wi his hand,

The fore-mast wi his knee,

And he brake that gallant ship in twain,

And sank her in the sea.

[10]

THE MERMAID

PART I

On Jura’s heath how sweetly swell

The murmurs of the mountain bee!

How softly mourns the writhed shell

Of Jura’s shore, its parent sea!

But softer, floating o’er the deep,

The Mermaid’s sweet sea-soothing lay,

That charmed the dancing waves to sleep,

Before the bark of Colonsay.

Aloft the purple pennons wave,

As parting gay from Crinan’s shore,

From Morven’s wars the seamen brave

Their gallant Chieftain homeward bore.

In youth’s gay bloom, the brave Macphail

Still blamed the lingering bark’s delay;

For her he chid the flagging sail,

The lovely Maid of Colonsay.

“And raise,” he cried, “the song of love,

The maiden sung with tearful smile,

When first, o’er Jura’s hills to rove,

We left afar the lonely isle!—

[11]

“‘When on this ring of ruby red

Shall die,’ she said, ‘the crimson hue,

Know that thy favourite fair is dead,

Or proves to thee and love untrue.’”

Now, lightly poised, the rising oar

Disperses wide the foamy spray,

And, echoing far o’er Crinan’s shore,

Resounds the song of Colonsay.

“Softly blow, thou western breeze,

Softly rustle through the sail!

Soothe to rest the furrowy seas,

Before my Love, sweet western gale!”

Thus, all to soothe the Chieftain’s woe,

Far from the maid he loved so dear,

The song arose, so soft and slow,

He seemed her parting sigh to hear.

The lonely deck he paces o’er,

Impatient for the rising day,

And still, from Crinan’s moonlight shore,

He turns his eyes to Colonsay.

The moonbeams crisp the curling surge,

That streaks with foam the ocean green:

While forward still the rowers urge

Their course, a female form was seen.

[12]

That Sea-maid’s form, of pearly light,

Was whiter than the downy spray,

And round her bosom, heaving bright,

Her glossy, yellow ringlets play.

Borne on a foamy-crested wave,

She reached amain the bounding prow,

Then clasping fast the Chieftain brave,

She, plunging, sought the deep below.

Ah! long beside thy feigned bier,

The monks the prayers of death shall say,

And long, for thee, the fruitless tear

Shall weep the Maid of Colonsay!

PART II

But downwards, like a powerless corse;

The eddying waves the Chieftain bear;

He only heard the moaning hoarse

Of waters, murmuring in his ear.

The murmurs sink, by slow degrees;

No more the surges round him rave;

Lulled by the music of the seas,

He lies within a coral cave.

In dreamy mood reclines he long,

Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose,

Till, warbling wild, the Sea-maid’s song,

Far in the crystal cavern, rose;

[13]

“This yellow sand, this sparry cave,

Shall bend thy soul to beauty’s sway;

Canst thou the maiden of the wave

Compare to her of Colonsay?”

Roused by that voice, of silver sound,

From the paved floor he lightly sprung,

And, glancing wild his eyes around,

Where the fair Nymph her tresses wrung,

No form he saw of mortal mould;

It shone like ocean’s snowy foam;

Her ringlets waved in living gold,

Her mirror crystal, pearl her comb.

Her pearly comb the Siren took,

And careless bound her tresses wild;

Still o’er the mirror stole her look,

As on the wondering youth she smiled.

Like music from the greenwood tree,

Again she raised the melting lay;

“Fair Warrior, wilt thou dwell with me,

And leave the Maid of Colonsay?

“Fair is the crystal hall for me,

With rubies and with emeralds set,

And sweet the music of the sea

Shall sing, when we for love are met.

[14]

“How sweet to dance, with gliding feet,

Along the level tide so green,

Responsive to the cadence sweet,

That breathes along the moonlight scene!

“And soft the music of the main

Rings from the motley tortoise-shell,

While moonbeams, o’er the watery plain,

Seem trembling in its fitful swell.

“Through the green meads beneath the sea,

Enamoured, we shall fondly stray—

Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me,

And leave the Maid of Colonsay!”—

“Though bright thy locks of glistening gold,

Fair maiden of the foamy main!

Thy life-blood is the water cold,

While mine beats high in every vein.

“Though all the splendour of the sea

Around thy faultless beauty shine,

That heart, that riots wild and free,

Can hold no sympathy with mine.

“These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay,

They swim not in the light of love:

The beauteous Maid of Colonsay,

Her eyes are milder than the dove!

[15]

“Even now, within the lonely isle,

Her eyes are dim with tears for me;

And canst thou think that siren smile

Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?”

An oozy film her limbs o’erspread;

Unfolds in length her scaly train:

She tossed, in proud disdain, her head,

And lashed, with webbed fin, the main.

“Dwell here, alone!” the Mermaid cried,

“And view far off the Sea-nymphs play;

Thy prison-wall, the azure tide,

Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay.

“Whene’er, like Ocean’s scaly brood,

I cleave, with rapid fin, the wave,

Far from the daughter of the flood,

Conceal thee in this coral cave.

“I feel my former soul return;

It kindles at thy cold disdain:

And has a mortal dared to spurn

A daughter of the foamy main!”—

She fled; around the crystal cave

The rolling waves resume their road

On the broad portal idly rave,

But enter not the Nymph’s abode.

[16]

And many a weary night went by,

As in the lonely cave he lay;

And many a sun rolled through the sky,

And poured its beams on Colonsay;

And oft, beneath the silver moon,

He heard afar the Mermaid sing,

And oft, to many a melting tune,

The shell-formed lyres of ocean ring:

And when the moon went down the sky,

Still rose, in dreams, his native plain,

And oft he thought his love was by,

And charmed him with some tender strain;

And heart-sick, oft he waked to weep,

When ceased that voice of silver sound,

And thought to plunge him in the deep,

That walled his crystal cavern round.

But still the ring, of ruby red,

Retained its vivid crimson hue,

And each despairing accent fled,

To find his gentle Love so true.

PART III

When seven long lonely months were gone,

The Mermaid to his cavern came,

No more misshapen from the zone,

But like a maid of mortal frame.

[17]

“O give to me that ruby ring,

That on thy finger glances gay,

And thou shalt hear the Mermaid sing

The song, thou lovest, of Colonsay.”—

“This ruby ring, of crimson grain,

Shall on thy finger glitter gay,

If thou wilt bear me through the main,

Again to visit Colonsay.”—

“Except thou quit thy former Love,

Content to dwell for aye with me,

Thy scorn my finny frame might move,

To tear thy limbs amid the sea.”—

“Then bear me swift along the main,

The lonely isle again to see,

And, when I here return again,

I plight my faith to dwell with thee.”—

An oozy film her limbs o’erspread,

While slow unfolds her scaly train.

With gluey fangs her hands were clad,

She lashed, with webbed fin, the main.

He grasps the Mermaid’s scaly sides,

As, with broad fin, she oars her way;

Beneath the silent moon she glides,

That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay.

[18]

Proud swells her heart! she deems, at last,

To lure him with her silver tongue,

And, as the shelving rocks she past,

She raised her voice, and sweetly sung.

In softer, sweeter strains she sung,

Slow gliding o’er the moonlight bay,

When light to land the Chieftain sprung,

To hail the Maid of Colonsay.

Oh! sad the Mermaid’s gay notes fell,

And sadly sink remote at sea!

So sadly mourns the writhed shell

Of Jura’s shore, its parent sea.

And ever as the year returns,

The charm-bound sailors know the day,

For sadly still the Mermaid mourns

The lovely Chief of Colonsay.

Dr. John Leyden. (Condensed)

[19]

A-HARROWING O’ THE BORDER

[20]

THE GALLOWAY RAID

The reavers of Eskdale were mounted for weir,

And Annandale moss-troopers grasped the spear;

And the blades that they bore in the sun glittered bright;

And breast-plate and helmet reflected the light.

They spurred the fleet charger thro’ bog and thro’ brake;

To the yell of their slogan the echoes awake;

The Johnstones and Jardines cry, “Lads, we’ll away,

And we’ll foray the pastures of Fair Galloway!”

The men were determined—their steeds they were strong,

And eager for plunder they pranced along;

The clang of their weapons rung loud on the dale,

And their helmet-plumes waving aloft an the gale.

Beholdst thou the beacon-light gleaming afar,

On misty Glenbennan, the signal of war?

Bengairn and Caerlochan their blazes display,

And they warn the bold spearmen of Fair Galloway.

But the damsels of Esk and of Annan may mourn,

And in vain may they look for their lovers’ return;

On the green dale of Dryburgh they rest in their grave,

And o’er them the hemlock and rank nettles wave.

And few have escaped from the Galloway spear,

That followed the flying and glanced in their rear,

And the moss-troopers’ widows are ruing the day

Their husbands departed for Fair Galloway.

(Condensed)

[21]

THE MORE MODERN BALLAD OF CHEVY-CHASE

PART I

God prosper long our noble King,

Our liffes and saftyes all!

A woefull hunting once there was

In Chevy-Chase befall.

To drive the deere with hound and horne,

Erle Percy took the way;

The child may rue that is unborne

The hunting of that day!

The stout Erle of Northumberland

A vow to God did make,

His pleasure in the Scottish woods

Three sommers days to take;

The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chase

To kill and beare away.

These tydings to Erle Douglas came,

In Scottland where he lay,

Who sent Erle Percy present word,

He wold prevent his sport,

The English Erle, not fearing that,

Did to the woods resort,

[22]

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold,

All chosen men of might,

Who knew ffull well in time of neede

To ayme their shafts arright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran

To chase the fallow deere;

On Munday they began to hunt

Ere daylight did appeare;

And long before high noone they had

A hundred fat buckes slaine.

Then having dined, the drovyers went

To rouze the deare againe;

The bowmen mustered on the hills,

Well able to endure;

Theire backsids all with speciall care,

That day were guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods

The nimble deere to take,

That with their cryes the hills and dales

An eccho shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went

To view the tender deere;

Quoth he, “Erle Douglas promised once

This day to meete me heere;

[23]

But if I thought he wold not come,

Noe longer wold I stay.”

With that, a brave younge gentlman

Thus to the Erle did say,

“Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,

His men in armour bright,

Full twenty hundred Scottish speres

All marching in our sight,

“All men of pleasant Tivydale,

Fast by the river Tweede:”

“O ceaze your sportts!” Erle Percy said,

“And take your bowes with speede.

“And now with me, my countrymen,

Your courage forth advance!

For there was never champion yett

In Scottland nor in France,

“That ever did on horsbacke come,

But if my hap it were,

I durst encounter man for man,

With him to breake a spere.”

Erle Douglas on his milke white steede,

Most like a Baron bold,

Rode formost of his company,

Whose armour shone like gold.

[24]

“Shew me,” sayd hee, “whose men you bee,

That hunt soe boldly heere,

That without my consent doe chase

And kill my fallow deere.”

The first man that did answer make

Was noble Percy hee,

Who sayd, “Wee list not to declare,

Nor shew whose men wee bee.

“Yett wee will spend our deerest blood

Thy cheefest harts to slay.”

Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe,

And thus in rage did say;

“Ere thus I will outbraved bee,

One of us tow shall dye!

I know thee well! an Erle thou art,

Lord Percy! Soe am I;

“But trust me, Percye, pittye it were,

And great offence, to kill

Then any of these our guiltlesse men,

For they have done none ill;

“Let thou and I the battell trye,

And set our men aside.”

“Accurst bee he!” Erle Percy sayd,

“By whome it is denyed.”

[25]

Then stept a gallant Squire forth,—

Witherington was his name,—

Who said, “I wold not have it told

To Henery our King, for shame,

“That ere my captaine fought on foote,

And I stand looking on:

You bee two Erles,” quoth Witherington,

“And I a Squier alone,

“Ile doe the best that doe I may,

While I have power to stand!

While I have power to weeld my sword,

Ile fight with hart and hand!”

Our English archers bend their bowes—

Their harts were good and trew,—

Att the first flight of arrowes sent,

Full foure score Scotts they slew.

To drive the deere with hound and horne,

Douglas bade on the bent;

Two captaines moved with mickle might

Their speres to shivers went.

They closed full fast on everye side,

Noe slacknes there was found,

But many a gallant gentleman

Lay gasping on the ground.

[26]

O Christ! it was great greeve to see

How eche man chose his spere,

And how the blood out of their brests

Did gush like water cleare!

At last these two stout Erles did meet

Like captaines of great might;

Like Lyons wood they layd on lode,

They made a cruell fight.

They fought untill they both did sweat,

With swords of tempered steele,

Till blood a-downe their cheekes like raine

They trickling downe did feele.

“O yeeld thee, Percye!” Douglas sayd,

And infaith I will thee bringe

Where thou shall high advanced bee

By James our Scottish King;

“Thy ransome I will freely give,

And this report of thee,

Thou art the most couragious Knight

That ever I did see.”

“Noe, Douglas!” quoth Erle Percy then,

“Thy profer I doe scorne;

I will not yeelde to any Scott

That ever yett was borne!”

[27]

With that there came an arrow keene

Out of an English bow,

Who scorke Erle Douglas on the brest

A deepe and deadlye blow;

Who never sayd more words then these,

“Fight on my merrymen all!

For why, my life is att an end,

Lord Percy sees my fall.”

Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke

The dead man by the hand;

And said, “Erle Douglas! for thy sake

Wold I had lost my land!

“O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed

For sorrow for thy sake!

For sure, a more redoubted Knight,

Mischance cold never take!”

PART II

A Knight amongst the Scotts there was,

Which saw Erle Douglas dye,

Who streight in hart did vow revenge

Upon the Lord Percye.

Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he called,

Who, with a spere full bright,

Well mounted on a gallant steed,

Ran feircly through the fight,

[28]

And past the English archers all,

Without all dread or feare,

And through Erle Percyes body then

He thrust his hatfull spere,

With such a vehement force and might,

That his body he did gore,

The staff ran through the other side

A large cloth yard and more.

Thus did both those nobles dye,

Whose courage none cold staine,

An English archer then perceived

The noble Erle was slaine,

He had a good bow in his hand

Made of a trusty tree;

An arrow of a cloth yard long

To the hard head haled hee,

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye

His shaft full right he sett;

The grey goose winge that was there-on,

In his harts bloode was wett.

This fight from breake of day did last

Till setting of the sun,

For when they rung the Evening bell

The battele scarse was done.

[29]

With stout Erle Percy there was slaine

Sir John of Egerton,

Sir Robert Harcliffe and Sir William,

Sir James that bold barron;

And with Sir George and Sir James,

Both Knights of good account;

And good Sir Raphe Rebbye there was slaine,

Whose prowesse did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wayle

As one in doleful dumpes,

For when his leggs were smitten of,

He fought upon his stumpes.

And with Erle Douglas there was slaine

Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,

And Sir Charles Morrell that from feelde

One foote wold never flee;

Sir Roger Hever of Harcliffe tow,—

His sisters sonne was hee,—

Sir David Lamb so well esteemed

But saved he cold not bee;

And the Lord Maxwell in like case

With Douglas he did dye;

Of twenty hundred Scottish speeres,

Scarce fifty five did flye;

[30]

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen

Went home but fifty three;

The rest in Chevy-Chase were slaine,

Under the greenwoode tree.

Next day did many widdowes come

Their husbands to bewayle;

They washt their wounds in brinish teares,

But all wold not prevayle.

Theyr bodyes bathed in purple blood,

They bore with them away,

They kist them dead a thousand times

Ere they were cladd in clay.

The newes was brought to Eddenborrow

Where Scottland’s King did rayne,

That brave Erle Douglas soddainlye

Was with an arrow slaine.

“O heavy newes!” King James can say,

“Scottland may wittenesse bee

I have not any captaine more

Of such account as hee!”

Like tydings to King Henery came

Within as short a space,

That Percy of Northumberland

Was slaine in Chevy-Chase.

[31]

“Now God be with him!” said our King,

“Sith it will noe better bee,

I trust I have within my realme

Five hundred as good as hee!

“Yett shall not Scotts nor Scottland say

But I will vengeance take,

And be revenged on them all

For brave Erle Percyes sake.”

This vow the King did well performe

After on Humble Downe;

In one day fifty Knights were slayne,

With Lords of great renowne,

And of the rest of small account,

Did many hundreds dye:

Thus endeth the hunting in Chevy-Chase

Made by the Erle Percye.

God save our King, and blesse this land

With plentye, joy, and peace;

And grant hencforth that foule debate

Twixt noble men may ceaze!

ffins.

[32]

THE BALLAD OF MEIKLE-MOUTHED MEG

BOLD WILLIE SCOTT

The moonbeam glints on tower and hill,

It’s hey! for the bonny moonlight!

“Go saddle my steed, I’ll ride betimes,

The English Border to-night.”

“Take tent, good lad, the Warder’s men

Are riding over the land.”

“Tuts! six Scotts lads will keep two score

Of such feckless loons at a stand!”

Oh! they were twenty stout and bold,

Mounted on active naigs;

Some armed wi’ guns and Jeddart staves,

Wi’ iron round their craigs.

Young Scott o’ Harden, led them on

To the lands o’ Elibank;

“Good faith, I wat Sir Gideon

Will no his kindness thank.”

He left his towers by Ettrick’s stream,

His minnie’s proverb scorning;

When Scotts set foot in the stirrup-ring,

The blood will flow ere morning.

[33]

Sir Gideon and young Willie Scott

Were ever deadly foes;

Ere they shall clasp each other’s hand,

The Gowan shall grow on the Rose.

THE RAID

They gained the lands o’ Elibank,

And gathered the gear together;

They counted tens, and came to scores,

And drove them out the heather.

There was not a Murray on the lea,

Young Scott his heart was light;

“There’ll be a dry breakfast at Elibank,

At Oakwood, a meal to-night.”

They got half way to Ettrick stream,

When they heard a sleuth-hound yell,

And Scott well kenned his mortal foe,

Pursued him o’er the fell.

Sir Gideon was a doure fierce man,

A terror to a foe;

He had a wife and daughters three,

Well dowered they were I trow.

He let young Harden steal his cows,

And, oh! his arm was slack;

But the grim old Knight was looking on

Wi’ fifty men at his back.

[34]

“I have thee now like a thief in a mill,”

Sir Gideon o’ Elibank said;

He gave the word to loose the hounds;

And the hot pursuit he led.

“Young Scott, yield quietly to me,”

Sir Gideon loudly cried,

“Or a thief’s death shall ye die,

If ye the onset bide.

“Ye’ve driven off my cows and sheep,

And byre and fold are toom,

The corbies and ye shall be acquaint,

For what this night ye’ve done.”

“Brag on! brag on! ye old greybeard!

While Scott o’ Harden stands,

No power on earth shall make him yield

To any o’ Murray’s bands.

“So do your best, and do your worst,

Here’s a hand and sword to fight;

I trow a Scott ne’er turned his back

Whilst a Murray was in sight.”

“Small mercy after what ye’ve stol’n,

I had designed for thee;

But, callant, after what ye’ve said,

I’ll prove your enemy.”

[35]

“Thou old man, measure weapons then,

And I would have ye leave

Your well-faured daughters to the world,

For your loss must they grieve.”

“Before sunrise,” quoth Gideon,

“You’ll speak less vauntingly;

Say what ye like of me, you dog,

But leave my bairnies be.”

The strife went high and bloodily,

They grappled at the throat;

And many was the Elibank,

The reavers deadly smote.

The guns banged off, the sleuth-hounds yelled,

The cattle rowted sore;

And many wights lay on the ground,

That up rose never more.

The fray went hard wi’ Willie Scott,

His horse fell wi’ a bound,

And many Murrays wi’ their swords

Bore him unto the ground.

THE GALLOWS OR MARRIAGE

Lady Murray came forth at noon,

To welcome her husband home;

And there she spied young Scott o’ Harden,

All bounden and his lone.

[36]

They thrust the Scott in a darksome room,

And left him to his thought;

But neither bread nor yet red wine

Unto the youth they brought.

“And what, Lord Gideon,” said his dame,

“Will ye do wi’ young Scott?”

“Do ye see yonder branch o’ the elm,

For that shall be his lot.”

“O goodman,” quo’ his pitying dame,

“Ye could not do this thing;

For lifting a pickle o’ your nowt,

So brave a lad to hing!”

“What mercy did ever a Scott o’ them

E’er show to me or mine?

The reaving Scotts shall surely weep,

The last of all their line.”

She said, “But we have daughters three,

And they are no well-faured,

When ye’ve a husband to your hand,

To hang him would be hard.”

“Sooth, goodwife, faith, but ye are right!

There’s wisdom in your say;

This birkie Scott shall have his choice,

To wed what one he may.

[37]

“We’ll give him respite to the morn,

Nor hang him ’gainst all law;

To marry our daughter Meikle-Mouthed Meg,

Or choke with the death-thraw.”

Quo’ she, “To marry our daughter Meg

More wiselike would it be,

Than kill the hope of an old, old House

And strap him to the tree.”

Quo’ he, “If I were in his place,

I would refuse I ween,

And die a death upon the tree,

Than wed what I’d ne’er seen.

“Go ye, and tell our daughter Meg,

That she’s be wived the morn;

And I will to this young gallant,

And see what he perform.”

She went unto her daughter Meg,

Who had a meikle mouth;

But her teeth were pearls, and her honey breath

Was like the wind from the South.

The mother sat by her daughter’s side;

“Sweet Meg, come tell me this,

Wouldst thou the rather be a bride,

Then live in singleness?

[38]

“Before I was your age, I trow,

I was in a bride her place.”

“Aye, mother,” quo’ Meg, and sighed full sore,

“But ye had a well-faured face.

“But you shall see the Ettrick stream

Run thro’ the dells o’ Yarrow,

Before ye hear o’ an offer to me,

Or a man to be my marrow.

“My face is foul, my heart is large,

A kinder none there is;

And must I pass away my days,

In sullen loneliness?”

The mother told her of young Scott,

And waited her reply;

“O Mother, I’d rather marry him

Than ever he should die!”

But the tears rose welling from their spring,

And filled her cushat eyes;

“But, Mother, how if when we’re wed,

He should my heart despise?”

“Oh, marriage,” quo’ the wily dame,

“Is not that hard to snoove,

If ye should marry Willie Scott,

Ye’ll be like hand and glove.”

[39]Sir Gideon entered young Scott’s dungeon;

“Thy death is at my hand,

Ye came as a thief in the dead o’ night,

And stole my cows from my land.

“But I’ll give ye a chance for life,

For all ye have said of me,

Either to marry my daughter Meg,

Or hang upon yonder tree.

“And the boldest Scott on the Border March,

Shall never take ye down,

Until your skeleton is seen

And ye drop away bone by bone.”

“And ye would spare my life,” he said,

“For all ye come so gleg,

If I would stoop and give my hand

To your bonny daughter Meg?

“Ye are the Murray of Elibank,

I Scott of Oakwood Tower,

I would not marry your daughter Meg,

Tho’ a kingdom were her dower;

“But little I fear to meet my death,

As I do to tell you this;

An ye had fallen in my hands,

Such were your fate, I wiss.

[40]

“Ye think that your winsome daughter Meg,”

Oh! he spoke so scornfully,—

“Will get a husband at the last,

But, faith, my lad, ye lie,

“I rather choose upon the gallows

To render up my breath;

I trow there will be Scots enough

Left to revenge my death.”

“There is my thumb, thou young braggart,”

Sir Gideon chafing cried,

“I wouldn’t hinder ye your choice

For death shall be your bride.

“And let the Scots o’ a’ the Border

Revenge your death that dare.”

He left young Scott unto himself,

And quit his dungeon stair.

YOUNG WILLIE’S MESSENGER

It was about the midnight time,

When his dungeon door ga’ed back;

And the sentinel who guarded it

Let in a woman in black.

“What want ye wi’ me, fair Maiden?”

The Scott o’ Harden said.

“I come to ask if thy dying wish

Can be by me obeyed?

[41]

“I am a lassie o’ the house,

And wait on Sir Gideon’s dame;

And tho’ ye have refused poor Meg,

Her prayers will be the same.”

“Why has Dame Murray sent thee here?”—

“She has a woman’s heart.

Ye have a mother and sisters twain,

From whom full soon ye part.

“If ye have anything to say,

Ye would have carried there,

I swear by all that’s good on earth,

To be your messenger.”

“Maiden,” quo’ he, and his voice was low,

“Of my mother do not speak;

I wish to die as my father’s son,

And yet her heart I break.”

“It cannot be,” then said the girl,

“Ye have rejected Meg,

Without the looking on her face?

I’m sure your life she’d beg.”

“I have not seen, but I have heard

Her face described to me;

And, by my faith, between the two,

I’ll chose the gallows-tree.”

[42]

The tears fell from that poor girl’s eyes,

In anger or in spleen?—

And ever and anon she sighed,

And deep sobs came between.

“Belike,” quo’ she, “they’ve painted her

Far worse than she may look;

Many a man has an ugly wife,

That the gallows could not brook.”

“I have no wish to see her face,

Far less to marry her;

But ye seem o’ a kindly heart,

And aiblins are as fair.

“So let me see your face, my joy,

And by your countenance,

I’ll see if I dare trust you with

A letter for my chance?”

She threw the veil from off her face,

“I’m no well faured I know;

But kernels lie inside hard shells,

And gold in the earth below.”

“So sweet and sensible ye speak,

Ye almost make me wish,

Meikle-Mouthed Meg was like to you,

So kind, so young, so lish.”

[43]

He held the light within the cruse

Close to the maiden’s face,

Wi’ loof o’er e’en, he earnestly

Perused each simple grace.

He saw her face was fair and round,

Her lips like a large rose-leaf;

And her snow-white teeth so even showed,

Like ivory from their sheath.

There stood a tear in her dove-blue eye,

Her eye so mild and meek,

A large tear slowly left the lid,

And trickled down her cheek.

“Ye have the look that never lied,

And tho’ no fine your face,

Ye’ve pleasing sense and kindliness

Wi’ every modest grace.

“So bring to me the writing ink,

The paper and pen so fine;

And tho’ ye abide wi’ my enemy,

Ye’ll take my mother a line.”

She rolled it up so carefully,

The letter he writ so fair;

She had no silk, but she tied it with

A lock o’ her golden hair.

[44]

THE GALLOWS-TREE

It was by cock-crowing the morn,

When Meg wi’ crippled feet,

Like one that had a long way walked

Came in, her sire to greet.

“Grant me another day,” she cried,

“For young Willie Scott his life;

And throw not by the chance, your Meg

Has to become a wife.”

Sir Gideon rubbed his hands in glee,

“I grant it for your sake;

But if he then refuse your hand,

He shall his own way take.”

Much wondered the Laird o’ Oakwood Tower,

As fell the evening gloom,

They did not hang him in the morn,

As he had heard his doom.

He heard the sentry shoot the bolt,

And a kind o’ murmuring;

And then his mother and sisters two

Wi’ loud outcries break in.

And, “O my Son!” the mother cried,

“Is there no other way,

To save thee from a cruel death,

At the hands o’ a fierce Murray?

[45]

“Marry his daughter, Willie dear,

And save thy mother’s life;

Tho’ she be ugly—what of that?

She’ll make a frugal wife.”

“Mother, I will not take his terms.

Who brought ye here?” he said.

“Who, but your messenger so good,

That kind and sonsy maid.”

They passed the time in grief and woe,

Throughout the dead of night;

Nor ever they ceased to weep wi’ him,

Until the morning’s light.

The loud horn blew out o’er the lea,

Sir Gideon stood him before;

“What is thy choice, young man?” he cried,

“Or ere this deed be o’er.”

“The gallows still before the wife,”

Young Harden stoutly said.

“And wi’ the hemp around my throat,

I’ll spit on the ground ye tread.”

They led him forth to the gallows-tree;

When he saw that maiden there,

Who at her risk, unto his mother

Carried his last letter;

[46]

The thoughts o’ the gallows could not stir

The heart o’ that dauntless Chief,

But the weeping look of that young girl,

It pierced his soul wi’ grief.

And while the tear hung in her eye,

He took her lily hand;

And said, “Thy heart is far too meek,

For such a ruffian band.

“Hear me, Murray, speak my mind,

I care not for thy word,

I’d rather marry this poor maiden,

If should my life be spared,

“Then ever I’d wed thy daughter Meg.”—

Sir Gideon clapped his hand;

“A bargain! I take thee at thy word,

Young Scott where dost thou stand.”

They buckled them in holy bonds,

The priest he prayed the while;

And when the marriage knot was tied,

Sir Gideon blithe did smile.

His mother fell upon his neck,

“God bless my bairn, he’s free!

And bless the bonny lassie yet,

Who brought the word to me!”

[47]

“I give thee a father’s blessing, sir,”

The Murray blithely cried;

“For what?”—The lassie modest said,

“Meikle-Mouthed Meg’s your bride.”

Oh! then sore shame fell on the Scott,

And tears came in his eyes;

“And is my bride the scorned Meg,

That I did so despise?

“Let no man hate what he’s not seen,

The shame on me doth lay:—

I rose this morning for my death,

And it ends in my bridal day!”

(Englished. Condensed)

BELTED WILL

THE ROBBER BARON

The Baron of Thirlwall came from the wars,

Laden with treasure bold;

Among the which a fair table,

All of the beaten gold.

And men will speak of the Baron’s wealth,

Whatever he may say,

And how a grizzly Dwarf does guard

His treasure night and day.

[48]

Many a Border freebooter

Eyed Thirlwall’s good Castle,

Thinking to win the bags of gold,

And eke the fair table.

But the Baron hath retainers bold,

And swatchers many ane,

And the Castle walls are high to win,

Howe’er they fidge and fain.

The boldest one o’ a’ his men,

Was Jockey of the Sheugh;

The Baron loved him like a brother,

And that was fair enoo.

Jock could wrestle, run, or leap,

Wi’ ever a living man;

Never a wight in Cumbernauld

Could beat him at the span.

But Thirlwall’s Baron heeded not

The word o’ Belted Will,

Who dwells within the dark Naworth,

The Border March to still;

He can rule all the Border round,

Wi’ a peeled willow-wand;

But Thirlwall’s Baron gecks at him,

And all the laws o’ the land.

[49]

So fast come tidings of ravin wrong

To Belted Willy’s ear;

Quo’ he, “By my belt, I’ll trap this man,

If I catch him in effeir.

“But he is like a wily fox,

That taketh to his hole,

An I can catch him on the turn,

I’ll smoke him from his bole.

“He reaves and harrows every one,

Tho’ he has goups o’ gold;

I’ll lay a trap for him bedeen,

By which he shall be sold.”

Thirlwall’s Baron heard his speech,

Wi’ scorn almost he burst;

“His anger it is like a haggis,

That’s hottest at the first.”

Sore smiled the wily Belted Will,

But in so dark a way;

Better that smile were wanting there,

Than on his lip to lay.

THE TRAP O’ BELTED WILL

Jock o’ the Sheugh tirled at the string,

Of the Baron of Thirlwall’s yett;

“Up, up, and rise, my noble Lord,

Some plunder for to get.

[50]

“There are a swatch o’ Englishers

Coming from Carlysle town,

Well laden wi’ the yellow gold,

For Annan are they boun’.”

“Go, take a dozen o’ my men,

And brattle o’er the lea,

Lay wait, and watch until they pass

The Bowness Witches’ Tree.

“A dozen o’ ye well may lick

Three score o’ English tikes,

Take all they have, and leave them so

To tell o’ this who likes.”

Then Jock banged o’er the broomy knoll,

And reached the Witches’ Tree,

And wi’ his dozen freebooters,

Lay down on their bellie.

There came on twenty Englishers,

Wi’ cloaks and saddlebags;

There came on twenty travellers,

Mounted on goodly nags.

Came on those twenty travellers,

With long cloaks flowing down,

Came on these twenty travellers,

All thro’ the yellow broom.

[51]

Then started up Jock and his men

Wi’ such an awful yell,

Ye might have heard it at the top

Of Skiddaw or Criffell.

“Come off your nags, ye sorning crew,

Of Southron pock-puddings,

Or ye shall have the good cold steel,

So give us all your things!”

“We’ll give ye that,” said one o’ them,

“Ye’ll no forget, I wiss,

This many a day, good Jock o’ the Sheugh,

And that my billie’s this!”

They threw the cloaks from off their hides,

And back and breastplate shone;

They grippit their swords, the first blow struck

Was echoed with a groan.

Good faith! but Jock had found his match,

For the Southrons hacked about;

The Thirlwall boys were fain to fight,

But soon put to the route.

Of twelve o’ Jock’s good freebooters,

But three fled o’er the lea,

The other nine lay still enough

Beside the Witches’ Tree.

[52]

Poor Jock is down upon his back,

Wi’ a fair clour on the head;

His billies all are stiffening,

And three o’ them are fled.

Out spoke the twenty travellers,

“Why, Jock, how’s this of a’,

Ye bid us to a meal, good faith,

And then ye run awa’?”

Quo’ Jock, as they bound fast his arms,

And raised him from the lea,

“If I had kenned ye were Belted Will’s men,

The Devil might stopped ye for me!”

THE GRIZZLY DWARF

The Baron o’ Thirlwall looked abroad,

From out his strong Castle,

And he saw three men come posting on,

Out o’er the fern and fell.

“I wad,” said he, “they run a race,

A thousand merks I lay

Upon the wight in the red jerkin,

He wins the race this day.”

The three men burst in on his room,

“My Lord,” then each one said,

“Jock o’ the Sheugh is wounded fair,

And nine good fellows dead.”

[53]

The dark spot flew to the Baron’s cheek,

“Ye cowards, one and all!

Go, join your bloody billies then,

Whatever may befall!”

He struck each man the neck intil,

And they fell on the floor;

“To fly without a single blow,

Shows valour to be poor!

“If Belted Will should harm a hair

O’ Jock o’ the Sheugh his head,

I’ll put the Border in such a blaze,

Shall make him flee with dread.

“If Jock o’ the Sheugh hangs for this play,

The whole of the March shall weep,

No man shall waken in the morn,

That goes alive to sleep.”

They brought these words to Belted Will

As at racket-ball he played;

But the only answer he let fall,

“We’ll soon see that,” he said.

By Brampton’s town there stands an oak,

Upon a hill so high;

And Jock was broughten there betimes

Upon the tree to die.

[54]

They strapped him to the highest branch

Of all that goodly tree;

And there the righteous chaplain prayed

For Jock’s soul solemnlie,

Thirlwall’s Baron saw the sight,

And swore revenge to have;

For better part o’ a summer’s day

He nothing did but rave.

He sent a messenger so bold

To Will, who cried in scorn,

“Better he looks unto his nest,

I’ll burn it ere the morn!”

The Baron fled to his Castle,

And guarded it so grim,

“The fiend take Belted Will,” he cried,

“’Tis word and blow wi’ him.”

But scarcely had the midnight fell,

When spite o’ a’ his care,

Belted Will his Castle stormed,

For a’ he fought so fair.

A tar barrel and reeking peat,

They laid unto his nest,

Threw open gates and wide windows,

And the night wind did the rest.

[55]

The Baron fled from room to room,

By the flames of his own hall,

“He’s gi’en me light to go to bed,

Whatever may befall.”

He rushed into his inner room,

Where his golden table lay;

The Devil in likeness o’ a Dwarf

Kept watch there night and day.

Belted Will pursued him hard,

Amid the flame and stour,

For he cut the skirt from the Baron’s cloak,

As he whisked through the door.

“Save me, now, thou gruesome Elf,

And my soul and body’s thine!”

The Dwarf he jabbered hideously,

But never made a sign.

Belted Will called for a ram,

To bash the doorway down;

The red flames thro’ the keyhole flashed,

And filled wi’ reek the room.

“My soul and body,” the Baron said,

Abjuring Christ His sign;

The Devil he grippit him in his arms,

“Now, Baron, art thou mine.”

[56]

The door ga’ed splintering from the posts,

In rushed the enemy;

But Baron, Dwarf, and gold table,

I wat they could ne’er see.

And legends say the ugsome Dwarf

Threw all into a well,

And by the glamour o’ his art

Cast over all a spell;

Which never may be rendered vain

But by a Widow’s Son;

And he shall find the gold table,

When years away have run.

Frederick Sheldon. (Condensed)

[57]

BRAVE HEARTS AND PROUD

[58]

EARL HALDAN’S DAUGHTER

A.D. 1400

It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,

She looked across the sea;

She looked across the water,

And long and loud laughed she:

“The locks of six Princesses

Must be my marriage-fee,

So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!

Who comes a-wooing me!”

It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,

She walked along the sand;

When she was aware of a Knight so fair,

Come sailing to the land.

His sails were all of velvet,

His mast of beaten gold,

And “hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat,

Who saileth here so bold?”

“The locks of five Princesses

I won beyond the sea;

I shore their golden tresses,

To fringe a cloak for thee.

One handful yet is wanting,

But one of all the tale;

So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!

Furl up thy velvet sail!”

He leapt into the water,

That rover young and bold;

He gript Earl Haldan’s daughter,

He shore her locks of gold;

“Go weep, go weep, proud Maiden,

The tale is full to-day.

Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!

Sail Westward ho, and away!”

Charles Kingsley

[59]

LADY CLARE

It was the time when lilies blow,

And clouds are highest up in air,

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe

To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn;

Lovers long-betrothed were they;

They two will wed the morrow morn—

God’s blessing on the day!

“He does not love me for my birth,

Nor for my lands so broad and fair;

He loves me for my own true worth,

And that is well,” said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse,

Said, “Who was this that went from thee?”

“It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare;

“To-morrow he weds with me.”

“O God be thanked!” said Alice the nurse,

“That all comes round so just and fair!

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,

And you are not the Lady Clare.”

[60]

“Are ye out of your mind, my Nurse, my Nurse,”

Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak so wild?”

“As God’s above,” said Alice the nurse,

“I speak the truth: you are my child.

“The old Earl’s daughter died at my breast;

I speak the truth, as I live by bread!

I buried her like my own sweet child,

And put my child in her stead.”

“Falsely, falsely have ye done,

O Mother,” she said, “if this be true,

To keep the best man under the sun

So many years from his due.”

“Nay now, my Child,” said Alice the nurse,

“But keep the secret for your life,

And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s

When you are man and wife.”

“If I’m a beggar born,” she said,

“I will speak out, for I dare not lie.

Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,

And fling the diamond necklace by.”

“Nay now, my Child,” said Alice the nurse,

“But keep the secret all ye can.”

She said, “Not so; but I will know

If there be any faith in man.”

[61]

“Nay now, what faith?” said Alice the nurse;

“The man will cleave unto his right.”

“And he shall have it,” the lady replied,

“Tho’ I should die to-night.”

“Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!

Alas, my Child, I sinned for thee!”

“O Mother, Mother, Mother,” she said,

“So strange it seems to me.

“Yet here’s a kiss for my mother dear,

My mother dear, if this be so,

And lay your hand upon my head,

And bless me, Mother, ere I go.”

She clad herself in a russet gown,

She was no longer Lady Clare;

She went by dale, and she went by down,

With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought

Leapt up from where she lay,

Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand,

And followed her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:

“O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!

Why come you drest like a village maid,

That are the flower of the earth?”

[62]

“If I come drest like a village maid,

I am but as my fortunes are;

I am a beggar born,” she said,

“And not the Lady Clare.”

“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,

“For I am yours in word and in deed.

Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald,

“Your riddle is hard to read.”

Oh, and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail;

She looked into Lord Ronald’s eyes,

And told him all her nurse’s tale.

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn;

He turned, and kissed her where she stood;

“If you are not the heiress born,

And I,” said he, “the next in blood,—

“If you are not the heiress born,

And I,” said he, “the lawful heir,

We two will wed to-morrow morn,

And you shall still be Lady Clare.”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

PROUD LADY MARGARET

Fair Margret was a young ladye,

An come of high degree;

Fair Margret was a young ladye,

An proud as proud could be.

[63]

Fair Margret was a rich ladye,

The king’s cousin was she;

Fair Margaret was a rich ladye,

An vain as vain could be.

She war’d her wealth on the gay cleedin

That comes frae yont the sea,

She spent her time frae morning till night

Adorning her fair bodye.

Ae night she sate in her stately ha,

Kaimin her yellow hair,

When in there cum like a gentle knight,

An a white scarf he did wear.

“O what’s your will wi me, sir knight,

O what’s your will wi me?

You’re the likest to my ae brother

That ever I did see.

“You’re the likest to my ae brother

That ever I hae seen,

But he’s buried in Dunfermline kirk,

A month an mair bygane.”

“I’m the likest to your ae brother

That ever ye did see,

But I canna get rest into my grave,

A’ for the pride of thee.

[64]

“Leave pride, Margret, leave pride, Margret,

Leave pride an vanity;

Ere ye see the sights that I hae seen,

Sair altered ye maun be.

“O ye come in at the kirk-door

Wi the gowd plaits in your hair;

But wud ye see what I hae seen,

Ye maun them a’ forbear.

“O ye come in at the kirk-door

Wi the gowd prins i your sleeve;

But wad ye see what I hae seen,

Ye maun gie them a’ their leave.

“Leave pride, Margret, leave pride, Margret,

Leave pride an vanity;

Ere ye see the sights that I hae seen,

Sair altered ye maun be.”

He got her in her stately ha,

Kaimin her yellow hair,

He left her on her sick sick bed,

Sheding the saut saut tear.

[65]

THE FAMOUS FLOWER OF SERVING-MEN

PART I

You beautious ladies, great and small,

I write unto you one and all,

Whereby that you may understand

What I have suffered in this land.

I was by birth a lady fair,

My father’s chief and onely heir,

But when my good old father dy’d,

Then was I made a young knight’s bride.

And then my love built me a bower,

Bedeckt with many a fragrant flower;

A braver bower you never did see

Then my true-love did build for me.

But there came thieves late in the night,

They rob’d my bower, and slew my knight,

And after that my knight was slain,

I could no longer there remain.

My servants all from me did flye,

In the midst of my extremity,

And left me by my self alone,

With a heart more cold then any stone.

[66]

Yet, though my heart was full of care,

Heaven would not suffer me to despair;

Wherefore in hast I chang’d my name

From Fair Elise to Sweet William.

And therewithal I cut my hair,

And drest my self in man’s attire,

My doublet, hose, and bever-hat,

And a golden band about my neck.

With a silver rapier by my side,

So like a gallant I did ride;

The thing that I delighted on,

Was for to be a serving-man.

Thus in my sumptuous man’s array

I bravely rode along the way;

And at the last it chanced so

That I unto the king’s court did go.

Then to the king I bowed full low,

My love and duty for to show,

And so much favour I did crave

That I a serving-man’s place might have.

“Stand up, brave youth,” the king replyd,

“Thy service shall not be denyd;

But tell me first what thou canst do;

Thou shalt be fitted thereunto.

[67]

“Wilt thou be usher of my hall,

To wait upon my nobles all?

Or wilt thou be taster of my wine,

To wait on me when I shall dine?

“Or wilt thou be my chamberlain,

To make my bed both soft and fine?

Or wilt thou be one of my guard?

And I will give thee thy reward.”

Sweet William, with a smiling face,

Said to the king, “If’t please your grace

To show such favour unto me,

Your chamberlain I fain would be.”

The king then did the nobles call,

To ask the counsel of them all,

Who gave consent Sweet William he

The king’s own chamberlain should be.

PART II

Now mark what strange things came to pass:

As the king one day a hunting was,

With all his lords and noble train,

Sweet William did at home remain.

Sweet William had no company then

With him at home but an old man;

And when he saw the coast was clear,

He took a lute which he had there.

[68]

Upon the lute Sweet William plaid,

And to the same he sung and said,

With a pleasant and most noble voice,

Which made the old man to rejoyce:

My father was as brave a lord

As ever Europe did afford;

My mother was a lady bright,

My husband was a valiant knight.

And I my self a lady gay,

Bedeckt with gorgeous rich array;

The bravest lady in the land

Had not more pleasures to command.

I had my musick every day,

Harmonious lessons for to play;

I had my virgins fair and free,

Continually to wait on me.

But now, alas! my husband’s dead,

And all my friends are from me fled;

My former joys are past and gone,

For now I am a serving-man.

At last the king from hunting came,

And presently upon the same

He called for the good old man,

And thus to speak the king began.

[69]

“What news, what news, old man?” quod he;

“What news hast thou to tell to me?”

“Brave news,” the old man he did say;

“Sweet William is a lady gay.”

“If this be true thou tellest me

I ’le make thee a lord of high degree;

But if thy words do prove a lye,

Thou shalt be hanged up presently.”

But when the king the truth had found,

His joys did more and more abound;

According as the old man did say,

Sweet William was a lady gay.

Therefore the king without delay

Put on her glorious rich array,

And upon her head a crown of gold,

Which was most famous to behold.

And then, for fear of further strife,

He took Sweet William for his wife;

The like before was never seen,

A serving-man to be a queen.

[70]

COCHRANE’S BONNY GRIZZY

PART I

Listen, now, both great and simple,

Whilst I croon to you my song,

Ere such another damsel ’pears,

The world will cease to wag ere long:

For she is the flower o’er all the bower,

My blessings on Cochrane’s Bonny Grizzy!

Her father lay long in the Embro jail,

Wearing fast to his end,

For his head must be swept clean from his shoulders,

When the warrant the King shall send;

Singing “Woes me!” wi’ the tear in her e’e,

Did Cochrane’s bonny daughter mourn!

She kissed her father’s lyart locks,

Unkempt for many a day,

And she said, “To save my father’s life,

I aiblins ken a way:

Give me thy love, that I fortune prove?”

Quo’ Cochrane’s bonny daughter!

She rode away thro’ the stragglling town,

Of beggart Hadingtown,

Syne by Dunbar, thro’ Coppersmith,

Till to Berwick she has come:[71]

And she rapped right loud on the barred gates,

Did Cochrane’s bonny daughter!

She slept all night and she rose betimes,

And crossed the long bridge of the Tweed;

And over the moor at Tweedmouth brae,

Sore draggit was her woman’s weed;

And lightin’ down by Haggerston Shaws,

Did Cochrane’s Bonny Grizzy!

A cloak she drew from her saddlebag,

With trunks and a doublet fair;

She cut off with a folding knife,

Her long and raven hair;

And she dressed herself in laddie’s clothes,

Did Cochrane’s Bonny Grizzy!

The horseman rode into Belford town,

Who carried the London mail,

Bold Grizzy she sought the hostel out,

And there with a couthy tale,

Forgathered with the London Post,

Did Cochrane’s Bonny Grizzy!

She roared the loudest of them a’,

Quo’ the fellow, “My canty chiel,

Deil blaw my pipes! yere the crack o’ the wa’,

And the best amang the hail!”

In the dead of night did they go to their beds,

And so did Cochrane’s daughter!

[72]

She rose over the bed ere the second cock,

Went jimply along the floor;

She’s stown her father’s death warrant,

Whilst the lubber loud did snore.

She’s gained the hills ere the hue and cry

They raised on Cochrane’s daughter!

PART II

But the King can write another brief,

For all the first be stown;

And once again the fellow rode,

With the warrant from London town.

Now out and alas! What can she do?

For the heart of Grizzy sank!

The red sun went down o’er the sea,

And the wind blew stiff and snell,

And as it shot by Grizzy’s lugs,

It sounded old Cochrane’s knell.

“But downa despair, ’tis a kittle carle!”

Said Cochrane’s Bonny daughter!

The larch and the tall fir shrieked with pain,

As they bent before the wind,

And down there fell the heavy rain,

Till sense and eyes were blind;

“A lang night ’tis ne’er sees a day,”

Quo’ Cochrane’s undaunted Grizzy!

[73]

The Warlocks are dancing threesome reels,

On Goswick’s haunted links,

The red fire shoots by Ladythorne,

And Tam wi’ the Lanthorne falls and sinks.

On Kyloe’s hills there’s awful sounds,

But they frighted not Cochrane’s Grizzy!

The moon beams shot from the troubled sky,

In glints of flickering light,

The horseman came skelping thro’ the mire,

For his mind was in affright:

His pistol cocked he held in his hand,

But the sient a fear had Grizzy!

As he came fornents the Fenwicke woods,

From the whin-bushes shot out a flame;

His dappled filly reared up in affright,

And backward over he came;

There’s a hand on his craig, and a foot on his mouth,

’Twas Cochrane’s Bonny Grizzy!

“I will not take thy life,” she said,

“But give me thy London news;

No blood of thine shall syle my blad,

Gin me ye dinna refuse:”

She’s prie’d the warrant, and away she flew,

With the speed and strength of the wild curlew![74]

Love will make a foe grow kind,

Love will bring blossom where bud is naught.

Love hath softened a kingly mind,

Grizzy hath mercy to councillors taught.

Her friends at Court have prieven the life

O’ Grizzy’s banished father!

She’s wedded unto a German Knight,

Her bairnies blithe with her sire remain,

She’s cast the laddie’s clouts away,

And her raven hair is growing again.

What think ye, gentles o’ every degree,

Of Cochrane’s Bonny Grizzy?

(Englished)

THE GREETING OF KYNAST

She said, “This narrow chamber is not for me the place,”

Said the Lady Kunigunde of Kynast!

“’Tis pleasanter on horseback, I’ll hie me to the chase,”

Said the Lady Kunigunde!

She said, “The Knight who weds me, I do require of him,”

Said the Lady Kunigunde of Kynast!

“To gallop round the Kynast and break not neck nor limb.”

[75]

A noble Knight came forward and galloped round the wall;

The Lady Kunigunde of Kynast,

The lady without lifting a finger saw him fall.

And yet another galloped around the battlement;

The Lady Kunigunde,

The lady saw him tumble, yet did she not relent.

And rider after rider spurred round his snorting horse;

The Lady Kunigunde

Saw him vanish o’er the rampart, and never felt remorse.

Long time the folly lasted, then came no rider more;

The Lady Kunigunde,

They would not ride to win her, the trial was too sore.

She stood upon her towers, she looked upon the land,

The Lady Kunigunde of Kynast:

“I’m all alone at home here, will no one seek my hand?

“Is there none will ride to win me, to win me for his bride,

The Lady Kunigunde of Kynast?

[76]

Oh fie! the paltry rider who dreads the bridal ride!”

Then out and spake from Thüringen the Landgrave Adelbert,

“The Lady Kunigunde of Kynast!

Well may the haughty damsel her worthiness assert.”

He trains his horse to gallop on narrow walls of stone;

The Lady Kunigunde of Kynast!

“The lady shall not see us break neck or limb or bone.

“See here, O noble Lady, I’m he that dares the ride!”

The Lady Kunigunde,

She looks in thoughtful silence, to see him sit in pride.

She saw him now make ready, then trembled she and sighed

The Lady Kunigunde:

“Woe’s me that I so fearful have made the bridal ride!”

Then rode he round the Kynast; her face she turned away,

The Lady Kunigunde:[77]

“Woe’s me, the Knight is riding down to his grave to-day!”

He rides around the Kynast, right round the narrow wall;

The Lady Kunigunde!

She cannot stir for terror her lily hand at all.

He rides around the Kynast, dear round the battlement;

The Lady Kunigunde!

As if a breath might kill him, she held her breath suspent.

He rode around the Kynast and straight to her rode he;

Said the Lady Kunigunde of Kynast:

“Thanks be to God in Heaven, who gave thy life to thee!

“Thanks be to God that into thy grave thou didst not ride!”

Said the Lady Kunigunde:

“Come down from off thy horse now, O Knight, unto thy bride!”

Then spake the noble rider, and greeted, as he sate,

The Lady Kunigunde:

“Oh, trust a Knight for horsemanship! well have I taught thee that.

[78]

“Now wait till comes another who can the same thing do,

O Lady Kunigunde of Kynast!

I’ve wife and child already, can be no spouse for you!”

He gave his steed the spur, now; rode back the way he came;

The Lady Kunigunde!

The lady saw him vanish, she swooned with scorn and shame.

And she remains a virgin, her pride had such a fall,

The Lady Kunigunde!

Changed to a wooden image she stands in sight of all.

An image, like a hedgehog, with spines for hair, is now

The Lady Kunigunde of Kynast!

The stranger has to kiss it, who climbs the Kynast’s brow.

We bring it him to kiss it; and if it shocks his pride,

The Lady Kunigunde Kynast!

He must pay down his forfeit, who will not kiss the bride,

The Lady Kunigunde!

Charles T. Brooks, from Rückert

[79]

LAYS O’ FAËRIE

[80]

THE FAIRY TEMPTER

A fair girl was sitting in the greenwood shade,

List’ning to the music the spring birds made;

When sweeter by far than the birds on the tree,

A voice murmured near her, “Oh! come, Love, with me—

In earth or air,

A thing so fair

I have not seen as thee!

Then come, Love, with me.”

“With a star for thy home, in a palace of light,

Thou will add a fresh grace to the beauty of night;

Or, if wealth be thy wish, thine are treasures untold,

I will show thee the birthplace of jewels and gold gold—

And pearly caves

Beneath the waves,

All these, all these are thine,

If thou will be mine.”

Thus whispered a Fairy to tempt the fair girl,

But vain was his promise of gold and of pearl;

For she said, “Tho’ thy gifts to a poor girl were dear,

My father, my mother, my sisters are here:

Oh! what would be

Thy gifts to me

Of earth, and sea, and air,

If my heart were not there?”

Samuel Lover

[81]

ALICE BRAND

I

Merry it is in the good Greenwood,

When the mavis and merle are singing,

When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,

And the hunter’s horn is ringing.

“O Alice Brand, my native land

Is lost for love of you;

And we must hold by wood and wold,

As outlaws wont to do.

“O Alice, ’t was all for thy locks so bright,

And ’t was all for thine eyes so blue,

That on the night of our luckless flight,

Thy brother bold I slew.

“Now must I teach to hew the beech,

The hand that held the glaive,

For leaves to spread our lowly bed,

And stakes to fence our cave.

“And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,

That wont on harp to stray,

A cloak must sheer from the slaughtered deer,

To keep the cold away.”—

[82]

“O Richard! if my brother died,

’T was but a fatal chance;

For darkling was the battle tried,

And fortune sped the lance.

“If pall and vair no more I wear,

Nor thou the crimson sheen,

As warm, we’ll say, is the russet grey,

As gay the forest green.

“And, Richard, if our lot be hard,

And lost thy native land,

Still Alice has her own Richard,

And he his Alice Brand.”

II

’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good Greenwood,

So blithe Lady Alice is singing;

On the beech’s pride, and oak’s brown side,

Lord Richard’s axe is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King,

Who woned within the hill,—

Like wind in the porch of a ruined church,

His voice was ghostly shrill.

“Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,

Our moonlight circle’s screen?

Or who comes here to chase the deer,

Beloved of our Elfin Queen?[83]

Or who may dare on wold to wear

The Fairies’ fatal green?

“Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,

For thou wert christened man;

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,

For muttered word or ban.

“Lay on him the curse of the withered heart,

The curse of the sleepless eye;

Till he wish and pray that his life would part,

Nor yet find leave to die.”

III

’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good Greenwood,

Though the birds have stilled their singing;

The evening blaze doth Alice raise,

And Richard is fagots bringing.

Up Urgan starts, that hideous Dwarf,

Before Lord Richard stands,

And, as he crossed and blessed himself,

“I fear not sign,” quoth the grisly Elf,

“That is made with bloody hands.”

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand

That woman void of fear,—

“And if there’s blood upon his hand,

’Tis but the blood of deer.”—

[84]

“Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood!

It cleaves unto his hand,

The stain of thine own kindly blood,

The blood of Ethert Brand.”

Then forward stepped she, Alice Brand,

And made the holy sign:

“And if there’s blood on Richard’s hand,

A spotless hand is mine.

“And I conjure thee, Demon Elf,

By Him whom Demons fear,

To show us whence thou art thyself,

And what thine errand here?”

“’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in Fairyland,

When Fairy Birds are singing,

When the Court doth ride by their Monarch’s side,

With bit and bridle ringing:

“And gaily shines the Fairyland—

But all is glistening show,

Like the idle gleam that December’s beam

Can dart on ice and snow.

“And fading, like that varied gleam,

Is our inconstant shape,

Who now like Knight and Lady seem,

And now like Dwarf and Ape.

“I FEAR NOT SIGN,” QUOTH THE GRISLY ELF,
“THAT IS MADE WITH BLOODY HANDS”

[85]“It was between the night and day,

When the Fairy King has power,

That I sunk down in a sinful fray,

And ’twixt life and death, was snatched away

To the joyless Elfin Bower.

“But wist I of a woman bold,

Who thrice my brow durst sign,

I might regain my mortal mould,

As fair a form as thine.”

She crossed him once, she crossed him twice—

That Lady was so brave;

The fouler grew his goblin hue,

The darker grew the cave.

She crossed him thrice, that Lady bold;

He rose beneath her hand

The fairest Knight on Scottish mould

Her brother, Ethert Brand!

Merry it is in good Greenwood,

When the mavis and merle are singing,

But merrier were they in Dunfermline grey,

When all the bells were ringing.

Sir Walter Scott

[86]

THE ERL-KING

Oh! who rides by night thro’ the woodland so wild?

It is the fond father embracing his child;

And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,

To hold himself fast and to keep himself warm.

“O Father, see yonder! see yonder!” he says:

“My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?”—

“Oh! ’tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud,”—

“No, my Son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud.”

THE ERL-KING SPEAKS

“Oh! come and go with me, thou loveliest child;

By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled;

My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy,

And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy.”

“O Father, my Father! and did you not hear

The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?”—

“Be still, my heart’s darling—my child, be at ease;

It was but the wild blast as it sung thro’ the trees.”

THE ERL-KING SPEAKS AGAIN

“Oh! wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy?

My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy;[87]

She shall bear thee so lightly thro’ wet and thro’ wild,

And press thee and kiss thee and sing to my child.”

“O Father, my Father, and saw you not plain,

The Erl-King’s pale daughter glide past thro’ the rain?”——

“Oh, yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon:

It was the grey willow that danced to the moon.”

THE ERL-KING SPEAKS AGAIN

“Oh! come and go with me, no longer delay,

Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away.”—

“O Father! O Father! now, now keep your hold,

The Erl-King has seized me—his grasp is so cold!”

Sore trembled the father; he spurred thro’ the wild,

Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child;

He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread,

But, clasped to his bosom, the infant was dead!

Sir Walter Scott, from Goethe

THE FAIRY THORN

AN ULSTER BALLAD

“Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel;

For your father’s on the hill, and your mother is asleep:[88]

Come up above the crags, and we’ll dance a highland reel

Around the Fairy Thorn on the steep.”

At Anna Grace’s door’t was thus the maidens cried,

Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green;

And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,

The fairest of the four, I ween.

They’re glancing thro’ the glimmer of the quiet eve,

Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;

The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,

And the crags in the ghostly air:

And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,

The maids along the hill-side have ta’en their fearless way

Till they come to where the Rowan Trees in lonely beauty grow

Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.

The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,

Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;

The Rowan berries cluster o’er her low head grey and dim,

In ruddy kisses sweet to see.

[89]

The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,

Between each lovely couple a stately Rowan stem,

And away in mazes wavy like skimming birds they go,

Oh, never carolled bird like them!

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze

That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,

And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes,

And dreamier the gloaming grows.

And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky

When the falcon’s shadow saileth across the open shaw,

Are hushed the maidens’ voices as cowering down they lie

In the flutter of their sudden awe.

For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath

And from the Mountain Ashes and the old Whitethorn between,

A power of faint Enchantment doth through their beings breathe

And they sink down together on the green.

[90]

They sink together silent, and stealing side to side,

They fling their lovely arms o’er their drooping necks so fair,

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,

For their shrinking necks again are bare.

Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed,

Soft o’er their bosoms beating—the only human sound—

They hear the silky footsteps of the silent Fairy crowd,

Like a river in the air, gliding round.

Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say,

But wild, wild the terror of the speechless three—

For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,

By whom they dare not look to see.

They feel her tresses twine with their parting locks of gold,

And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws;

They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,

But they dare not look to see the cause:

[91]

For heavy on their senses the faint Enchantment lies;

Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;

And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes

Or their limbs from the cold ground raise.

Till out of Night the Earth has rolled her dewy side,

With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;

When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide,

The maidens’ trance dissolveth so.

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,

And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain——

They pined away and died within the year and day,

And ne’er was Anna Grace seen again.

Samuel Ferguson

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

[92]

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever dew;

And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

“I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful—a Faery’s child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

“I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long;

For sideways would she lean, and sing

A Faery’s song.

“I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

“She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew;

And sure in language strange she said,—

‘I love thee true.’

[93]

“She took me to her Elfin grot,

And there she gazed and sighed deep,

And there I shut her wild sad eyes eyes—

So kissed to sleep.

“And there we slumbered on the moss,

And there I dreamed—Ah, woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dreamed

On the cold hill-side.

“I saw pale Kings and Princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

Who cried, ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

Hath thee in thrall!’

“I saw their starved lips in the gloom

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke, and found me here

On the cold hill-side.

“And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.”

John Keats

THOMAS THE RHYMER

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;

A ferlie he spied wi his e’e;

And there he saw a lady bright,

Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

[94]

Her shirt was o the grass-green silk,

Her mantle o the velvet fyne;

At ilka tett of her horse’s mane,

Hang fifty siller bells and nine.

True Thomas he pull’d aff his cap,

And louted low down to his knee;

“All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!

For thy peer on earth I never did see.”—

“O no, O no, Thomas,” she said,

“That name does not belang to me;

I am but the Queen of fair elfland,

That am hither come to visit thee.”

“Harp and carp, Thomas,” she said;

“Harp and carp along wi me;

And if ye dare to kiss my lips,

Sure of your bodie I will be.”—

“Betide me weal, betide me woe,

That weird shall never daunton me.”—

Syne he has kissed her rosy lips,

All underneath the Eildon Tree.

“Now, ye maun go wi me,” she said;

“True Thomas, ye maun go wi me,

And ye maun serve me seven years,

Thro weal or woe as may chance to be.”

[95]

She mounted on her milk-white steed,

She’s ta’en True Thomas up behind:

And aye, whene’er her bridle rung,

The steed flew swifter than the wind.

O they rade on, and farther on,—

The steed gaed swifter than the wind:

Until they reached a desart wide,

And living land was left behind.

“Light down, light down, now, True Thomas,

And lean your head upon my knee;

Abide and rest a little space,

And I will show you ferlies three.

“O see ye not yon narrow road,

So thick beset with thorns and briers?

That is the path of righteousness.

Tho after it but few enquires.

“And see not ye that braid, braid road,

That lies across the lily leven?

That is the path of wickedness,

Tho some call it the road to heaven.

“And see not ye that bonny road,

That winds about the fernie brae?

That is the road to fair Elfland,

Where you and I this night maun gae.

[96]

“But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,

Whatever ye may hear or see;

For if you speak word in Elfyn land,

Ye’ll ne’er get back to your ain countrie.”

O they rade on, and farther on,

And they waded thro rivers aboon the knee,

And they saw neither sun nor moon,

But they heard the roaring of the sea.

It was mirk, mirk night, and there was nae stern-light,

And they waded thro red blude to the knee;

For a’ the blude that’s shed on earth

Rins thro the springs o that countrie.

Syne they came on to a garden green,

And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:

“Take this for thy wages, True Thomas;

It will give the tongue that can never lie.”

“My tongue is mine ain,” True Thomas said,

“A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!

I neither dought to buy nor sell,

At fair or tryst where I may be.

“I dought neither speak to prince or peer,

Nor ask of grace from fair ladye.”

“Now hold thy peace!” the lady said,

“For as I say so must it be.”

[97]

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,

And a pair of shoes of velvet green;

And till seven years were gane and past,

True Thomas on earth was never seen.

THE KELPIE OF CORRIEVRECKAN

PART I

He mounted his steed of the water clear,

And sat on his saddle of sea-weed sere;

He held his bridle of strings of pearl,

Dug out of the depths where the sea-snakes curl.

He put on his vest of the whirlpool froth,

Soft and dainty as velvet cloth,

And donned his mantle of sand so white,

And grasped his sword of the coral bright.

And away he galloped, a horseman free,

Spurring his steed through the stormy sea,

Clearing the billows with bound and leap—

Away, away, o’er the foaming deep!

By Scarba’s rock, by Lunga’s shore,

By Garveloch isles where the breakers roar,

With his horse’s hoofs he dashed the spray,

And on to Loch Buy, away, away!

[98]

On to Loch Buy all day he rode,

And reached the shore as sunset glowed,

And stopped to hear the sounds of joy

That rose from the hills and glens of Moy.

The morrow was May, and on the green

They’d lit the fire of Beltan E’en,

And danced around, and piled it high

With peat and heather and pine-logs dry.

A piper played a lightsome reel,

And timed the dance with toe and heel;

While wives looked on, as lad and lass

Trod it merrily o’er the grass.

And Jessie (fickle and fair was she)

Sat with Evan beneath a tree,

And smiled with mingled love and pride,

And half agreed to be his bride.

The Kelpie galloped o’er the green—

He seemed a Knight of noble mien,

And old and young stood up to see,

And wondered who the Knight could be.

His flowing locks were auburn bright,

His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes flashed light;

And as he sprang from his good grey steed,

He looked a gallant youth indeed.

[99]

And Jessie’s fickle heart beat high,

As she caught the stranger’s glancing eye:

And when he smiled, “Ah, well,” thought she,

“I wish this Knight came courting me!”

He took two steps towards her seat—

“Wilt thou be mine, O Maiden sweet?”

He took her lily-white hand, and sighed,

“Maiden, Maiden, be my bride!”

And Jessie blushed, and whispered soft—

“Meet me to-night when the moon’s aloft;

I’ve dreamed, fair Knight, long time of thee—

I thought thou earnest courting me.”

PART II

When the moon her yellow horn displayed,

Alone to the trysting went the maid;

When all the stars were shining bright,

Alone to the trysting went the Knight.

“I have loved thee long, I have loved thee well,

Maiden, oh more than words can tell!

Maiden, thine eyes like diamonds shine;

Maiden, Maiden, be thou mine!”

“Fair Sir, thy suit I’ll ne’er deny—

Though poor my lot, my hopes are high;

I scorn a lover of low degree—

None but a Knight shall marry me.”

[100]

He took her by the hand so white,

And gave her a ring of the gold so bright;

“Maiden, whose eyes like diamonds shine—

Maiden, Maiden, now thou’rt mine!”

He lifted her up on his steed of grey,

And they rode till morning away, away—

Over the mountain and over the moor,

And over the rocks, to the dark sea-shore.

“We have ridden East, we have ridden West—

I’m weary, fair Knight, and I fain would rest,

Say, is thy dwelling beyond the sea?

Hast thou a good ship waiting for me?”

“I have no dwelling beyond the sea,

I have no good ship waiting for thee;

Thou shalt sleep with me on a couch of foam,

And the depths of the ocean shall be thy home.”

The grey steed plunged in the billows clear,

And the maiden’s shrieks were sad to hear.

“Maiden, whose eyes like diamonds shine—

Maiden, Maiden, now thou’rt mine!”

Loud the cold sea-blast did blow,

As they sank ’mid the angry waves below—

Down to the rocks where the serpents creep,

Twice five hundred fathoms deep.

[101]

At morn a fisherman, sailing by,

Saw her pale corse floating high;

He knew the maid by her yellow hair

And her lily skin so soft and fair.

Under a rock on Scarba’s shore,

Where the wild winds sigh and the breakers roar,

They dug her a grave by the water clear,

Among the sea-weed salt and seer.

And every year at Beltan E’en,

The Kelpie gallops across the green,

On a steed as fleet as the wintry wind,

With Jessie’s mournful ghost behind.

I warn you, maids, whoever you be,

Beware of pride and vanity;

And ere on change of love you reckon,

Beware the Kelpie of Corrievreckan.

Charles Mackay

KILMENY

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen;

[102]

But it wasna to meet Duneira’s men,

Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.

It was only to hear the yorlin sing,

And pu’ the cress-flower round the spring;

The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye,

And the nut that hang frae the hazel tree;

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.

But lang may her minny look o’er the wa’,

And lang may she seek i’ the green-wood shaw;

Lang the laird of Duneira blame,

And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!

When many a day had come and fled,

When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,

When mess for Kilmeny’s soul had been sung,

When the bedes-man had prayed, and the dead bell rung,

Late, late in a gloamin when all was still,

When the fringe was red on the westlin hill,

The wood was sere, the moon i’ the wane,

The reek o’ the cot hung over the plain,

Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;

When the ingle lowed with a eiry leme,

Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame!

“Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?

Lang hae we sought baith holt and den;

By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree,

Yet you are halesome and fair to see.

Where gat you that joup o’ the lily scheen?

That bonny snood of the birk sae green?

And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?

Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?”

[103]

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,

But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny’s face;

As still was her look, and as still was her e’e,

As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,

Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.

For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,

And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;

Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,

Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew;

But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,

And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,

When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,

And a land where sin had never been;

A land of love, and a land of light,

Withouten sun, or moon, or night;

Where the river swa’d a living stream,

And the light a pure celestial beam:

The land of vision it would seem,

A still, an everlasting dream.

In yon green-wood there is a waik,

And in that waik there is a wene,

And in that wene there is a maik

That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane;

And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane.

In that green wene Kilmeny lay,

Her bosom happed wi’ the flowerets gay;

But the air was soft and the silence deep,

[104]

And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep.

She kend nae mair, nor opened her e’e,

Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye.

She ’wakened on a couch of the silk sae slim,

All striped wi’ the bars of the rainbow’s rim;

And lovely beings round were rife,

Who erst had travelled mortal life;

And aye they smiled, and ’gan to speer,

“What spirit has brought this mortal here!”

“Lang have I journeyed the world wide,”

A meek and reverend Fere replied;

“Baith night and day I have watched the fair,

Eident a thousand years and mair.

Yes, I have watched o’er ilk degree,

Wherever blooms femenitye;

But sinless virgin, free of stain

In mind and body, fand I nane.

Never, since the banquet of time,

Found I a virgin in her prime,

Till late this bonny maiden I saw

As spotless as the morning snaw:

Full twenty years she has lived as free

As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye:

I have brought her away frae the snares of men,

That sin or death she never may ken.”—

[105]

They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair,

They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair,

And round came many a blooming Fere,

Saying, “Bonny Kilmeny, ye’re welcome here!

Women are freed of the littand scorn:

O, blessed be the day Kilmeny was born!

Now shall the land of the spirits see,

Now shall it ken what a woman may be!

Many a lang year in sorrow and pain,

Many a lang year through the world we’ve gane,

Commissioned to watch fair womankind,

For it’s they who nurice the immortal mind.

We have watched their steps as the dawning shone,

And deep in the green-wood walks alone;

By lily bower and silken bed,

The viewless tears have o’er them shed;

Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep,

Or left the couch of love to weep.

We have seen! we have seen! but the time must come,

And the Angels will weep at the day of doom!

“O, would the fairest of mortal kind

Aye keep the holy truths in mind,

That kindred spirits their motions see,

Who watch their ways with anxious e’e,

And grieve for the guilt of humanitye!

O, sweet to Heaven the maiden’s prayer,

And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair![106]

And dear to Heaven the words of truth,

And the praise of virtue frae beauty’s mouth!

And dear to the viewless forms of air,

The minds that kythe as the body fair!

“O, bonny Kilmeny! free frae stain,

If ever you seek the world again,

That world of sin, of sorrow, and fear,

O, tell of the joys that are waiting here;

And tell of the signs you shall shortly see;

Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be.”

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,

And she walked in the light of a sunless day:

The sky was a dome of crystal bright,

The fountain of vision, and fountain of light:

The emerald fields were of dazzling glow,

And the flowers of everlasting blow.

Then deep in the stream her body they laid,

That her youth and beauty never might fade;

And they smiled on Heaven, when they saw her lie

In the stream of life that wandered bye.

And she heard a song, she heard it sung,

She kend not where; but sae sweetly it rung,

It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn—

“O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born!

Now shall the land of the spirits see,

Now shall it ken what a woman may be!

[107]

The sun that shines on the world sae bright,

A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light;

And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun,

Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun,

Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair,

And the Angels shall miss them travelling the air.

But lang, lang after baith night and day,

When the sun and the world have elyed away;

When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom,

Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!”

They bore her away, she wist not how,

For she felt not arm nor rest below;

But so swift they wained her through the light,

’T was like the motion of sound or sight;

They seemed to split the gales of air,

And yet nor gale nor breeze was there.

Unnumbered groves below them grew,

They came, they past, and backward flew,

like floods of blossoms gliding on,

In moment seen, in moment gone.

O, never vales to mortal view

Appeared like those o’er which they flew!

That land to human spirits given,

The lowermost vales of the storied Heaven;

From thence they can view the world below,

And Heaven’s blue gates with sapphires glow,

More glory yet unmeet to know.

[108]

They bore her far to a mountain green,

To see what mortal never had seen;

And they seated her high on a purple sward,

And bade her heed what she saw and heard,

And note the changes the spirits wrought,

For now she lived in the Land of Thought.

She looked, and she saw nor sun nor skies,

But a crystal dome of a thousand dies:

She looked, and she saw nae land aright,

But an endless whirl of glory and light:

And radiant beings went and came

Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame.

She hid her e’en frae the dazzling view;

She looked again, and the scene was new.

But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw,

So far surpassing nature’s law,

The singer’s voice wad sink away,

And the string of his harp wad cease to play.

But she saw till the sorrows of man were bye,

And all was love and harmony;

Till the stars of Heaven fell calmly away,

Like the flakes of snaw on a winter day.

Then Kilmeny begged again to see

The friends she had left in her own countrye,

To tell of the place where she had been,

And the glories that lay in the land unseen;

[109]

To warn the living maidens fair,

The loved of Heaven, the spirits’ care,

That all whose minds unmeled remain

Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane.

With distant music, soft and deep,

They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep;

And when she awakened, she lay her lane,

All happed with flowers in the green-wood wene.

When seven lang years had come and fled;

When grief was calm, and hope was dead;

When scarce was remembered Kilmeny’s name,

Late, late in a gloamin Kilmeny came hame!

And O, her beauty was fair to see,

But still and steadfast was her e’e!

Such beauty bard may never declare,

For there was no pride nor passion there;

And the soft desire of maiden’s e’en

In that mild face could never be seen.

Her seymar was the lily flower,

And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;

And her voice like the distant melodye,

That floats along the twilight sea.

But she loved to raike the lanely glen,

And keeped afar frae the haunts of men;

Her holy hymns unheard to sing,

To suck the flowers, and drink the spring.

But wherever her peaceful form appeared,

The wild beasts of the hill were cheered;

[110]

The wolf played blythely round the field,

The lordly byson lowed and kneeled;

The dun deer wooed with manner bland,

And cowered aneath her lily hand.

And when at even the woodlands rung,

When hymns of other worlds she sung,

In ecstasy of sweet devotion,

O, then the glen was all in motion!

The wild beasts of the forest came,

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame,

And goved around, charmed and amazed;

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed,

And murmured and looked with anxious pain

For something the mystery to explain.

The buzzard came with the throstle-cock;

The corby left her houf in the rock;

The blackbird alang wi’ the eagle flew;

The hind came tripping o’er the dew;

The wolf and the kid their raike began,

And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;

The hawk and the hern attour them hung,

And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young;

And all in a peaceful ring were hurled:

It was like an eve in a sinless world!

When a month and a day had come and gane,

Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene;

[111]

There laid her down on the leaves sae green,

And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen.

But, O, the words that fell from her mouth,

Were words of wonder and words of truth!

But all the land were in fear and dread,

For they kendna whether she was living or dead.

It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain;

She left this world of sorrow and pain,

And returned to the Land of Thought again.

The Ettrick Shepherd. (Condensed)

[112]
[113]

LAYS O’ WONDER

[114]

THE WEE WEE MAN

As I was walking all alane,

Between a water and a wa’,

And there I spied a wee wee man,

And he was the least that e’er I saw.

His legs were scarce a shathmont’s length,

And thick and thimber was his thie;

Between his brows there was a span,

And between his shoulders there was three.

He took up a meikle stane,

And he flang’t as far as I could see;

Though I had been a Wallace wight,

I couldna liften’t to my knee.

“O, wee wee man, but thou art strang!

O tell me where thy dwelling be?”

“My dwelling’s down by yon bonny bower,

O will you go with me and see?”

On we lap, and awa’ we rade,

Till we came to yon bonny green;

We lighted down to bait our horse,

And out there came a lady fine.

Four-and-twenty at her back,

And they were a’ clad out in green;

Though the King of Scotland had been there,

The warst o’ them might hae been his queen.

On we lap, and awa’ we rade,

Till we came to yon bonny ha’,

Where the roof was o’ the beaten gowd.

And the floor was o’ the crystal a’.

When we came to the stair foot,

Ladies were dancing jimp and sma’;

But in the twinkling o’ an ee,

My wee wee man was clean awa’.

[115]

THE EARL OF MAR’S DAUGHTER

PART I

It was intill a pleasant time,

Upon a simmer’s day,

The noble Earl of Mar’s daughter

Went forth to sport and play.

As thus she did amuse hersell,

Below a green aik tree,

There she saw a sprightly doo

Set on a tower sae hie.

“O Cow-me-doo, my love sae true,

If ye’ll come down to me,

Ye’se hae a cage o guid red gowd

Instead o simple tree:

“I’ll put gowd hingers roun your cage,

And siller roun your wa;

I’ll gar ye shine as fair a bird

As ony o them a’.”

But she hadnae these words well spoke,

Nor yet these words well said,

Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower

And lighted on her head.

[116]

Then she has brought this pretty bird

Hame to her bowers and ha,

And made him shine as fair a bird

As ony o them a’.

When day was gane, and night was come,

About the evening tide,

This lady spied a sprightly youth

Stand straight up by her side.

“From whence came ye, young man?” she said;

“That does surprise me sair;

My door was bolted right secure,

What way hae ye come here?”

“O had your tongue, ye lady fair,

Lat a’ your folly be;

Mind ye not on your turtle-doo

Last day ye brought wi thee?”

“O tell me mair, young man,” she said,

“This does surprise me now;

What country hae ye come frae?

What pedigree are you?”

“My mither lives on foreign isles,

She has nae mair but me;

She is a queen o wealth and state,

And birth and high degree.

[117]

“Likewise well skilld in magic spells,

As ye may plainly see,

And she transformd me to yon shape,

To charm such maids as thee.

“I am a doo the live-lang day,

A sprightly youth at night;

This aye gars me appear mair fair

In a fair maiden’s sight.

“And it was but this verra day

That I came ower the sea;

Your lovely face did me enchant;

I’ll live and dee wi thee.”

“O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,

Nae mair frae me ye’se gae;”

“That’s never my intent, my luve,

As ye said, it shall be sae.”

“O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,

It’s time for us to wed;”

“Wi a’ my heart, my dear marrow,

It’s be as ye hae said.”

PART II

Then he has staid in bower wi her

For sax lang years and ane,

Till sax young sons to him she bare,

And the seventh she’s brought hame.

[118]

But aye as ever a child was born

He carried them away,

And brought them to his mither’s care,

As fast as he coud fly.

Thus he has staid in bower wi her

For twenty years and three;

There came a lord o high renown

To court this fair ladie.

But still his proffer she refused,

And a’ his presents too;

Says, “I’m content to live alane

Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo.”

Her father sware a solemn oath

Amang the nobles all,

“The morn, or ere I eat or drink,

This bird I will gar kill.”

The bird was sitting in his cage,

And heard what they did say;

And when he found they were dismist,

Says, “Wae’s me for this day!

“Before that I do langer stay,

And thus to be forlorn,

I’ll gang unto my mither’s bower,

Where I was bred and born.”

[119]

Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew

Beyond the raging sea,

And lighted near his mither’s castle,

On a tower o gowd sae hie.

As his mither was wauking out,

To see what she coud see,

And there she saw her little son,

Set on the tower sae hie.

“Get dancers here to dance,” she said,

“And minstrells for to play;

For here’s my young son, Florentine,

Come here wi me to stay.”

“Get nae dancers to dance, mither,

Nor minstrells for to play,

For the mither o my seven sons,

The morn’s her wedding-day.”

“O tell me, tell me, Florentine,

Tell me, and tell me true,

Tell me this day without a flaw,

What I will do for you.”

“Instead of dancers to dance, mither,

Or minstrells for to play,

Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men

Like storks in feathers gray;

[120]

“My seven sons in seven swans,

Aboon their heads to flee;

And I mysell a gay gos-hawk,

A bird o high degree.”

Then sichin said the queen hersell,

“That thing’s too high for me;”

But she applied to an auld woman,

Who had mair skill than she.

Instead o dancers to dance a dance,

Or minstrells for to play,

Four-and-twenty wall-wight men

Turnd birds o feathers gray;

Her seven sons in seven swans,

Aboon their heads to flee;

And he himsell a gay gos-hawk,

A bird o high degree.

This flock o birds took flight and flew

Beyond the raging sea,

And landed near the Earl Mar’s castle,

Took shelter in every tree.

They were a flock o pretty birds,

Right comely to be seen;

The people viewd them wi surprise,

As they dancd on the green.

[121]

These birds ascended frae the tree

And lighted on the ha,

And at the last wi force did flee

Amang the nobles a’.

The storks there seized some o the men,

They coud neither fight nor flee;

The swans they bound the bride’s best man

Below a green aik tree.

They lighted next on maidens fair,

Then on the bride’s own head,

And wi the twinkling o an ee

The bride and them were fled.

There’s ancient men at weddings been

For sixty years or more,

But sic a curious wedding-day

They never saw before.

For naething coud the companie do,

Nor naething coud they say

But they saw a flock o pretty birds

That took their bride away.

When that Earl Mar he came to know

Where his dochter did stay,

He signd a bond o’ unity,

And visits now they pay.

[122]

KEMP OWYNE

Her mother died when she was young,

Which gave her cause to make great moan;

Her father married the warst woman

That ever lived in Christendom.

She served her with foot and hand,

In every thing that she could dee,

Till once, in an unlucky time,

She threw her in ower Craigy’s sea.

Says, “Lie you there, dove Isabel,

And all my sorrows lie with thee;

Till Kemp Owyne come ower the sea,

And borrow you with kisses three,

Let all the warld do what they will,

Oh borrowed shall you never be!”

Her breath grew strang, her hair grew lang,

And twisted thrice about the tree,

And all the people, far and near,

Thought that a savage beast was she.

These news did come to Kemp Owyne,

Where he lived, far beyond the sea;

He hasted him to Craigy’s sea,

And on the savage beast lookd he.

[123]

Her breath was strang, her hair was lang,

And twisted was about the tree,

And with a swing she came about:

“Come to Craigy’s sea, and kiss with me.

“Here is a royal belt,” she cried,

“That I have found in the green sea;

And while your body it is on,

Drawn shall your blood never be;

But if you touch me, tail or fin,

I vow my belt your death shall be.”

He stepped in, gave her a kiss,

The royal belt he brought him wi;

Her breath was strang, her hair was lang,

And twisted twice about the tree,

And with a swing she came about:

“Come to Craigy’s sea, and kiss with me.

“Here is a royal ring,” she said,

“That I have found in the green sea;

And while your finger it is on,

Drawn shall your blood never be;

But if you touch me, tail or fin,

I swear my ring your death shall be.”

He stepped in, gave her a kiss,

The royal ring he brought him wi;[124]

Her breath was strang, her hair was lang,

And twisted ance about the tree,

And with a swing she came about:

“Come to Craigy’s sea, and kiss with me.

“Here is a royal brand,” she said,

“That I have found in the green sea;

And while your body it is on,

Drawn shall your blood never be;

But if you touch me, tail or fin,

I swear my brand your death shall be.”

He stepped in, gave her a kiss,

The royal brand he brought him wi;

Her breath was sweet, her hair grew short,

And twisted nane about the tree,

And smilingly she came about,

As fair a woman as fair could be.

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

PART I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro’ the field the road runs by

To many-towered Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

[125]

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below.

The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro’ the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veiled,

Slide the heavy barges trailed

By slow horses; and unhailed

The shallop flitteth silken-sailed

Skimming down to Camelot;

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,

The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly,

Down to towered Camelot;

[126]

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers “’Tis the Fairy

Lady of Shalott.”

PART II

There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro’ a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

Winding down to Camelot;

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly village-churls,

And the red cloaks of market-girls,

Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,

Or long-haired page in crimson clad,

[127]

Goes by to towered Camelot;

And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue

The Knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal Knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror’s magic sights,

For often thro’ the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot;

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed:

“I am half sick of shadows,” said

The Lady of Shalott.

PART III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A Red-cross Knight for ever kneeled

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

[128]

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle-bells rang merrily

As he rode down to Camelot:

And from his blazoned baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burned like one burning flame together,

As he rode down to Camelot;

As often thro’ the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;

On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flowed

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flashed into the crystal mirror,

“Tirra lirra,” by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro’ the room,

[129]

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She looked down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror cracked from side to side;

“The curse is come upon me,” cried

The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

Over towered Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And round about the prow she wrote

The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse

Like some bold seër in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance—

With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

[130]

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right—

The leaves upon her falling light—

Thro’ the noises of the night

She floated down to Camelot;

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darkened wholly,

Turned to towered Camelot.

For ere she reached upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

Dead-pale between the houses high,

Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

And round the prow they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

[131]

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they crossed themselves for fear,

All the Knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, “She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott.”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

THE SINGING LEAVES

I

“What fairings will ye that I bring?”

Said the King to his daughters three;

“For I to Vanity Fair am boun’,

Now say what shall they be?”

Then up and spake the eldest daughter,

That lady tall and grand:

“Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great,

And gold rings for my hand.”

Thereafter spake the second daughter,

That was both white and red:

“For me bring silks that will stand alone,

And a gold comb for my head.”

[132]

Then came the turn of the least daughter,

That was whiter than thistle-down,

And among the gold of her blithesome hair

Dim shone the golden crown.

“There came a bird this morning,

And sang ’neath my bower eaves,

Till I dreamed, as his music made me,

‘Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.’”

Then the brow of the King swelled crimson

With a flush of angry scorn:

“Well have ye spoken, my two eldest,

And chosen as ye were born;

“But she, like a thing of peasant race,

That is happy binding the sheaves;”

Then he saw her dead mother in her face,

And said, “Thou shalt have thy leaves.”

II

He mounted and rode three days and nights

Till he came to Vanity Fair,

And ’t was easy to buy the gems and the silk,

But no Singing Leaves were there.

Then deep in the Greenwood rode he,

And asked of every tree,

“Oh, if you have ever a Singing Leaf,

I pray you give it me!”

[133]

But the trees all kept their counsel,

And never a word said they,

Only there sighed from the pine-tops

A music of seas far away.

Only the pattering aspen

Made a sound of growing rain,

That fell ever faster and faster,

Then faltered to silence again.

“Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page

That would win both hose and shoon,

And will bring to me the Singing Leaves

If they grow under the moon?”

Then lightly turned him Walter the page,

By the stirrup as he ran:

“Now pledge you me the truesome word

Of a King and gentleman,

“That you will give me the first, first thing

You meet at your castle-gate,

And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves,

Or mine be a traitor’s fate.”

The King’s head dropt upon his breast

A moment, as it might be;

’T will be my dog, he thought, and said,

“My faith I plight to thee.”

[134]

Then Walter took from next his heart

A packet small and thin,

“Now give you this to the Princess Anne,

The Singing Leaves are therein.”

III

As the King rode in at his castle-gate,

A maiden to meet him ran,

And “Welcome, Father!” she laughed and cried

Together, the Princess Anne.

“Lo, here the Singing Leaves,” quoth he,

“And woe, but they cost me dear!”

She took the packet, and the smile

Deepened down beneath the tear.

It deepened down till it reached her heart,

And then gushed up again,

And lighted her tears as the sudden sun

Transfigures the summer rain.

And the first Leaf, when it was opened,

Sang: “I am Walter the page,

And the songs I sing ’neath thy window

Are my only heritage.”

And the second Leaf sang, “But in the land

That is neither on earth nor sea,

My lute and I are lords of more

Than thrice this kingdom’s fee.”

[135]

And the third Leaf sang, “Be mine! Be mine!”

And ever it sang, “Be mine!”

Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter,

And said, “I am thine, thine, thine!”

At the first Leaf she grew pale enough,

At the second she turned aside,

At the third, ’t was as if a lily flushed

With a rose’s red heart’s tide.

“Good counsel gave the bird,” said she,

“I have my hope thrice o’er,

For they sing to my very heart,” she said,

“And it sings to them evermore.”

She brought to him her beauty and truth,

But and broad earldoms three,

And he made her Queen of the broader lands

He held of his lute in fee.

James Russell Lowell

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord

Bids sound the festal trumpet’s call;

He rises at the banquet board,

And cries, ’mid the drunken revellers all:

“Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!”

[136]

The butler hears the words with pain,

The house’s oldest seneschal,

Takes slow from its silken cloth again

The drinking-glass of crystal tall;

They call it the Luck of Edenhall.

Then said the Lord: “This glass to praise,

Fill with red wine from Portugal!”

The greybeard with trembling hand obeys;

A purple light shines over all,

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light:

“This glass of flashing crystal tall

Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite;

She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall,

Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall!

“’T was right a goblet the Fate should be

Of the joyous race of Edenhall!

Deep draughts drink we right willingly

And willingly ring, with merry call,

Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!”

First rings it deep, and full, and mild,

Like to the song of a nightingale;

Then like the roar of a torrent wild;

Then mutters at last like the thunder’s fall,

The glorious Luck of Edenhall.

[137]

“For its keeper takes a race of might,

The fragile goblet of crystal tall;

It has lasted longer than is right;

Kling! klang!—with a harder blow than all

Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!”

As the goblet ringing flies apart,

Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;

And through the rift, the wild flames start;

The guests in dust are scattered all,

With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!

In storms the foe, with fire and sword;

He in the night had scaled the wall,

Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord,

But holds in his hand the crystal tall,

The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

On the morrow the butler gropes alone,

The greybeard in the desert hall,

He seeks his Lord’s burnt skeleton,’

He seeks in the dismal ruin’s fall

The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

“The stone wall,” saith he, “doth fall aside,

Down must the stately columns fall;

Glass is this earth’s Luck and Pride;

In atoms shall fall this earthly ball

One day like the Luck of Edenhall!”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, from Uhland

[138]

MAY OF THE MORIL GLEN

PART I

I will tell you of ane wondrous tale,

As ever was told by man,

Or ever was sung by minstrel meet

Since this base world began:—

It is of ane May, and ane lovely May,

That dwelt in the Moril Glen,

The fairest flower of mortal frame,

But a devil amongst the men;

For nine of them sticket themselves for love,

And ten leaped in the main,

And seven-and-thirty brake their hearts,

And never loved women again.

But this bonnie May, she never knew

A father’s kindly claim;

She never was blessed in holy Church,

Nor christened in holy name.

But there she lived an earthly flower

Of beauty so supreme,

Some feared she was of the Mermaid’s brood,

Come out of the salt sea faeme.

[139]

Some said she was found in a Fairy Ring,

And born of the Fairy Queen;

For there was a rainbow behind the moon

That night she first was seen.

And no man could look on her face

And eyne that beamed so dear

But felt a sting go through his heart,

Far sharper than a spear.

So that around the Moril Glen

Our brave young men did lie,

With limbs as lydder and as lithe

As duddis hung out to dry.

And aye the tears ran down in streams

O’er cheeks right woe-begone;

And aye they gasped, and they gratte,

And thus made piteous moan:—

“Alack! that I had ever been born,

Or dandelit on the knee;

Or rockit in ane cradle bed,

Beneath a mother’s e’e!

“For love is like the fiery flame

That quivers through the rain,

And love is like the pang of death

That splits the heart in twain.

[140]

“If I had loved earthly thing

Of earthly blithesomeness,

I might have been beloved again,

And bathed in earthly bliss.

“But I have loved ane freakish Fay

Of frowardness and sin,

With heavenly beauty on the face,

And heart of stone within!”

PART II

But word’s gone East, and word’s gone West,

’Mong high and low degree,

While it went to the King upon the throne,

And ane wrathful man was he.

“What!” said the King, “and shall we sit

In sackcloth mourning sad,

While all mine lieges of the land

For ane young quean run mad?

“Go, saddle me my milk-white steed,

Of true Megaira brode;

I will go and see this wondrous dame,

And prove her by the Rode.

“And if I find her Elfin Queen,

Or thing of Fairy kind,

I will burn her into ashes small,

And sift them on the wind.”

[141]

The King hath chosen four-score Knights,

All busked gallantlye,

And he is away to the Moril Glen,

As fast as he can dree.

And when he came to the Moril Glen,

Ae morning fair and clear,

This lovely May on horseback rode

To hunt the fallow deer.

Her palfrey was of snowy hue,

A pale unearthly thing,

That revelled over hill and dale

Like bird upon the wing.

Her screen was like a net of gold,

That dazzled as it flew;

Her mantle was of the rainbow’s red,

Her rail of its bonny blue.

A golden comb with diamonds bright,

Her seemly virgin crown,

Shone like the new moon’s lady-light

O’er cloud of amber brown.

The lightning that shot from her eyne,

Flickered like Elfin brand;

It was sharper nor the sharpest spear

In all Northumberland.

[142]

The King he wheeled him round about,

And calleth to his men,

“Yonder she comes, this wierdly Witch,

This spirit of the glen!

“Come, rank your master up behind,

This serpent to belay;

I’ll let you hear me put her down,

In grand polemic way.”

Swift came the maid o’er strath and stron—

Nae dantonit dame was she,—

Until the King her path withstood

In might and majestye.

The virgin cast on him a look,

With gay and graceful air,

As on something below her note,

That ought not to have been there.

The King, whose belt was like to burst,

With speeches most divine,

Now felt ane throbbing of the heart,

And quaking of the spine.

And aye he gasped for his breath,

And gaped in dire dismay,

And waved his arm, and smote his breast;

But word he could not say.

[143]

The spankie grewis they scoured the dale,

The dun deer to restrain;

The virgin gave her steed the rein,

And followed, might and main.

“Go bring her back,” the King he cried;

“This reifery must not be.

Though you should bind her hands and feet,

Go, bring her back to me.”

The deer she flew, the garf and grew

They followed hard behind;

The milk-white palfrey brushed the dew

Far fleeter nor the wind.

But woe betide the Lords and Knights,

That taiglit in the dell!

For though with whip and spur they plied,

Full far behind they fell.

They looked out o’er their left shoulders,

To see what they might see,

And there the King, in fit of love,

Lay spurring on the lea.

And, aye, he battered with his feet,

And rowted with despair,

And pulled the grass up by the roots,

And flung it on the air!

[144]

“What ails, what ails my royal Liege?

Such grief I do deplore.”

“Oh, I’m bewitched,” the King replied,

“And gone forevermore!

“Go, bring her back!—go, bring her back!—

Go, bring her back to me!

For I must either die of love,

Or own that dear Ladye!”

The deer was slain; the royal train

Then closed the virgin round,

And then her fair and lily hands

Behind her back were bound.

But who should bind her winsome feet?—

That bred such strife and pain,

That sixteen brave and belted Knights

Lay gasping on the plain.

And when she came before the King,

Ane ireful carle was he;

Saith he, “Dame, you must be my love,

Or burn beneath ane tree.”

“No, I can ne’er be love to thee,

Nor any lord thou hast;

For you are married men each one,

And I a maiden chaste.

[145]

“But here I promise, and I vow

By Scotland’s King and Crown,

Who first a widower shall prove,

Shall claim me as his own.”

The King hath mounted his milk-white steed,—

One word he said not more,—

And he is away from the Moril Glen,

As ne’er rode King before.

And every Lord and every Knight

Made off his several way,

All galloping as they had been mad,

Withoutten stop or stay.

But there was never such dole and pain

In any land befel;

For there is wickedness in man,

That grieveth me to tell.

There was one eye, and one alone,

Beheld the deeds were done;

But the lovely Queen of Fair Scotland

Ne’er saw the morning sun.

And seventy-seven wedded dames,

As fair as e’er were born,

The very pride of all the land,

Were dead before the morn.

[146]

PART III

And the bonny May of the Moril Glen

Is weeping in despair,

For she saw the hills of fair Scotland,

Could be her home nae mair.

Then there were chariots came o’er night,

As silent and as soon

As shadow of ane little cloud

In the wan light of the moon.

Some said they came out of the rock,

And some out of the sea;

And some said they were sent from Hell

To bring that fair Ladye.

The fairest flower of mortal frame

Passed from the Moril Glen;

And ne’er may such a deadly eye

Shine amongst Christian men!

In seven chariots, gilded bright,

The train went o’er the fell,

All wrapt within ane shower of hail;

Whither no man could tell.

But there was a Ship in the Firth of Forth,

The like ne’er sailed the faeme,

For no man of her country knew,

Her colours, or her name.

[147]

Her mast was made of beaten gold,

Her sails of the silken twine,

And a thousand pennons streamed behind,

And trembled o’er the brine.

As she lay mirrored in the main,

It was a comely view,

So many rainbows round her played

With every breeze that blew.

And the hailstone shroud it rattled loud,

Right over ford and fen,

And swathed the flower of the Moril Glen

From eyes of sinful men.

And the hailstone shroud it wheeled and rowed,

As wan as death unshriven,

Like dead cloth of ane Angel grim,

Or winding sheet of Heaven.

It was a fearsome sight to see

Toil through the morning grey,

And whenever it reached the comely Ship,

She set sail and away.

She set her sail before the gale,

As it began to sing,

And she heaved and rocked down the tide,

Unlike an earthly thing.

[148]

The dolphins fled out of her way

Into the creeks of Fife,

And the blackguard seals, they yowlit for dread,

And swam for death and life.

But aye the Ship, the bonny Ship

Out o’er the green wave flew,

Swift as the solan on the wing,

Or terrified sea-mew.

No billow breasted on her prow,

Nor levelled on the lee;

She seemed to sail upon the air,

And never touch the sea.

And away, and away went the bonny Ship,

Which man never more did see;

But whether she went to Heaven or Hell,

Was ne’er made known to me.

The Ettrick Shepherd. (Condensed)

THE LAIDLEY WORM O’
SPINDLESTON-HEUGHS

PART I

The King is gone from Bambrough Castle,

Long may the Princess mourn;

Long may she stand on the Castle wall,

Looking for his return.

[149]

She has knotted the keys upon a string,

And with her she has them taen,

She has cast them o’er her left shoulder,

And to the gate she is gane.

She tripped out, she tripped in,

She tript into the yard;

But it was more for the King’s sake,

Than for the Queen’s regard.

It fell out on a day, the King

Brought the Queen with him home;

And all the Lords in our country,

To welcome them did come.

“Oh welcome, Father!” the Lady cries,

“Unto your halls and bowers;

And so are you, my Stepmother,

For all that is here is yours.”

A Lord said, wondering while she spake,

“This Princess of the North

Surpasses all of female kind

In beauty and in worth.”

The envious Queen replied, “At least,

You might have excepted me:

In a few hours I will her bring

Down to a low degree.

[150]

“I will her liken to a Laidley Worm,

That warps about the stone,

And not till Childy Wynd comes back,

Shall she again be won.”

PART II

The Princess stood at the bower-door,

Laughing, who could her blame?

But e’er the next day’s sun went down,

A long Worm she became.

For seven miles East, and seven miles West,

And seven miles North, and South,

No blade of grass or corn could grow,

So venomous was her mouth.

The milk of seven stately cows—

It was costly her to keep—

Was brought her daily, which she drank

Before she went to sleep.

At this day may be seen the cave

Which held her folded up,

And the stone trough—the very same—

Out of which she did sup.

Word went East, and word went West,

And word is gone over the sea,

That a Laidley Worm in Spindleston-Heughs,

Would ruin the North Countrie.

[151]

Word went East, and word went West,

And over the sea did go;

The Child of Wynd got wit of it,

Which filled his heart with woe.

He called straight his merry men all,

They thirty were and three:

“I wish I were at Spindleston,

This desperate Worm to see.

“We have no time now here to waste,

Hence quickly let us sail:

My only sister Margaret

Something, I fear, doth ail.”

They built a ship without delay,

With masts of the Rowan-Tree,

With fluttering sails of silk so fine,

And set her on the sea.

They went aboard; the wind with speed,

Blew them along the deep;

At length they spied an huge square tower

On a rock high and steep.

The sea was smooth, the weather clear;

When they approached nigher,

King Ida’s Castle they well knew,

And the banks of Bambroughshire.

[152]

PART III

The Queen looked out at her bower-window,

To see what she could see;

There she espied a gallant ship

Sailing upon the sea.

When she beheld the silken sails,

Full glancing in the sun,

To sink the ship she sent away

Her Witch Wives every one.

Their spells were vain; the Hags returned

To the Queen in sorrowful mood,

Crying, that Witches have no power

Where there is Rowan-Tree wood.

Her last effort, she sent a boat,

Which in the haven lay,

With armed men to board the ship,

But they were driven away.

The Worm leapt up, the Worm leapt down,

She plaited round the stane;

And aye, as the ship came to the land,

She banged it off again.

The Child then ran out of her reach

The ship on Budle-sand;

And jumping into the shallow sea,

Securely got to land.

[153]

And now he drew his berry-brown sword,

And laid it on her head;

And swore, if she did harm to him,

That he would strike her dead.

“Oh! quit thy sword, and bend thy bow,

And give me kisses three;

For though I am a poisonous Worm,

No hurt I will do to thee.

“Oh! quit thy sword, and bend thy bow,

And give me kisses three;

If I am not won e’er the sun go down,

Won I shall never be.”

He quitted his sword, he bent his bow,

He gave her kisses three:

She crept into a hole a Worm,

But stept out a Lady.

No clothing had this Lady fine,

To keep her from the cold;

He took his mantle from him about,

And round her did it fold.

He has taken his mantle from him about,

And it he wrapt her in,

And they are up to Bambrough Castle,

As fast as they can win.

[154]

PART IV

His absence and her serpent-shape,

The King had long deplored;

He now rejoiced to see them both

Again to him restored.

The Queen they wanted, whom they found

All pale and sore afraid,

Because she knew her power must yield

To Childy Wynd’s, who said:—

“Woe be to thee, thou wicked Witch,

An ill death mayest thou dee;

As thou my sister hast likened,

So likened shalt thou be.

“I will turn you into a Toad,

That on the ground doth wend;

And won, won, shalt thou never be,

Till this world hath an end.”

Now on the sand near Ida’s tower,

She crawls a loathsome Toad,

And venom spits on every maid

She meets upon her road.

The virgins all of Bambrough town,

Will swear that they have seen

This spiteful Toad, of monstrous size,

Whilst walking they have been.

[155]

All folks believe within the shire,

This story to be true;

And they all run to Spindleston,

The cave and trough to view.

This fact now Duncan Frasier,

Of Cheviot, sings in rhyme,

Lest Bambroughshire men should forget

Some part of it in time.

[156]
[157]

MERRY GESTES

[158]

A TRAGIC STORY

There lived a sage in days of yore,

And he a handsome pigtail wore;

But wondered much, and sorrowed more,

Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,

And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place,

And have it hanging at his face.

Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, “The mystery I’ve found,—

I’ll turn me round,”—he turned him round;

But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in,

All day the puzzled sage did spin;

In vain—it mattered not a pin—

The pigtail hung behind him.

And right, and left, and round about,

And up, and down, and in, and out

He turned; but still the pigtail stout

Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack,

And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,

Alas! still faithful to his back,

The pigtail hangs behind him.

William Makepeace Thackeray
From Chamisso

HE TURNED HIM ROUND;
BUT STILL IT HUNG BEHIND HIM

[159]

LITTLE BILLEE

There were three sailors of Bristol city,

Who took a boat and went to sea.

But first with beef and captain’s biscuits

And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,

And the youngest he was little Billee.

Now when they got as far as the Equator

They’d nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,

“I am extremely hungaree.”

To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,

“We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,

“With one another we shouldn’t agree!

There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender,

We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.

“Oh! Billy, we’re going to kill and eat you,

So undo the button of your chemie.”

When Bill received this information,

He used his pocket handkerchie.

[160]

“First let me say my catechism,

Which my poor mammy taught to me.”

“Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy,

While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.

So Billy went up to the main top-gallant mast,

And down he fell on his bended knee.

He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment

When up he jumps. “There’s land I see:

“Jerusalem and Madagascar,

And North and South Amerikee:

There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor,

With Admiral Napier, K. C. B.”

So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s,

He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;

But as for little Bill he made him

The Captain of a Seventy-three.

William Makepeace Thackeray

BRIAN O’LINN

Brian O’Linn was a gentleman born,

His hair it was long and his beard unshorn,

His teeth were out and his eyes far in,—

“I’m a wonderful beauty,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn was hard up for a coat,

He borrowed the skin of a neighbouring goat,[161]

He buckled the horns right under his chin,—

“They’ll answer for pistols,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no breeches to wear,

He got him a sheepskin to make him a pair,

With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in,—

“They are pleasant and cool,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no hat to his head,

He stuck on a pot that was under the shed,

He murdered a cod for the sake of his fin,—

“’T will pass for a feather,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no shirt to his back,

He went to a neighbour and borrowed a sack,

He puckered a meal-bag under his chin,—

“They’ll take it for ruffles,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no shoes at all,

He bought an old pair at a cobbler’s stall,

The uppers were broken and the soles were thin,—

“They’ll do me for dancing,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no watch for to wear,

He bought a fine turnip, and scooped it out fair,

He slipped a live cricket right under the skin,—

“They’ll think it is ticking,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn was in want of a brooch,

He stuck a brass pin in a big coackroach,

[162]

The breast of his shirt he fixed it straight in,—

“They’ll think it’s a diamond,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn went a-courting one night,

He set both the mother and daughter to fight,—

“Stop! stop!” he exclaimed, “if you have but the tin,

I’ll marry you both,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn went to bring his wife home,

He had but one horse, that was all skin and bone,

“I’ll put her behind me, as nate as a pin,

And her mother before me,” says Brian O’Linn.

Brian O’Linn and his wife and wife’s mother,

They all crossed over the bridge together,

The bridge broke down and they all tumbled in,—

“We’ll go home by water,” says Brian O’Linn!

DICKY OF BALLYMAN

On New Year’s Day, as I heard say,

Dicky he saddled his dapple grey;

He put on his Sunday clothes,

His scarlet vest, and his new made hose.

Diddle dum di, diddle dum do,

Diddle dum di, diddle dum do!

[163]

He rode till he came to Wilson Hall,

There he rapped, and loud did call;

Mistress Ann came down straightway,

And asked him what he had to say.

“Don’t you know me, Mistress Ann?

I am Dicky of Ballyman;

An honest lad, though I am poor,—

I never was in love before.

“I have an uncle, the best of friends,

Sometimes to me a fat rabbit he sends;

And many other dainty fowl,

To please my life, my joy, my soul.

“Sometimes I reap, sometimes I mow,

And to the market I do go,

To sell my father’s corn and hay,—

I earn my sixpence every day!”

“Oh, Dicky! you go beneath your mark,—

You only wander in the dark;

Sixpence a day will never do,

I must have silks, and satins, too!

“Besides, Dicky, I must have tea

For my breakfast, every day;

And after dinner a bottle of wine,—

For without it I cannot dine.”

[164]

“If on fine clothes our money is spent,

Pray how shall my lord be paid his rent?

He’ll expect it when ’tis due,—

Believe me, what I say is true.

“As for tea, good stirabout

Will do far better, I make no doubt;

And spring water, when you dine,

Is far wholesomer than wine.

“Potatoes, too, are very nice food,—

I don’t know any half so good:

You may have them boiled or roast,

Whichever way you like them most.”

This gave the company much delight,

And made them all to laugh outright;

So Dicky had no more to say,

But saddled his dapple and rode away.

Diddle dum di, diddle dum do,

Diddle dum di, diddle dum do!

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN

It was a tall young Oysterman lived by the riverside,

His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;

[165]

The daughter of a Fisherman, that was so straight and slim,

Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive Oysterman that saw a lovely maid,

Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade;

He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,

“I’m wide awake, young Oysterman, and all the folks away.”

Then up arose the Oysterman, and to himself said he,

“I guess I’ll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see;

I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,

Leander swam the Hellespont,—and I will swim this here.”

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,

And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;

Oh! there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,—

But they have heard her father’s step, and in he leaps again!

[166]

Out spoke the ancient Fisherman,—“Oh! what as that, my daughter?”

“’T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water.”

“And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?”

“It’s nothing but a porpoise, sir, that’s been a swimming past.”

Out spoke the ancient Fisherman,—“Now bring me my harpoon!

I’ll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon.”

Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,

Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like seaweed on a clam.

Alas, for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,

And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;

But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,

And now they keep an oyster-shop for Mermaids down below.

Oliver Wendell Holmes

[167]

THE CINDER KING

Who is it that sits in the kitchen and weeps,

While tick goes the clock, and the tabby-cat sleeps,—

That watches the grate, without ceasing to spy

Whether purses or coffins will out of it fly?

’Tis Betty; who saw the false tailor, Bob Scott,

Lead a bride to the altar, which bride she was not.

’Tis Betty, determined love from her to fling,

And woo, for his riches, the dark Cinder-King.

Now spent tallow-candle-grease fattened the soil,

And the blue-burning lamp had half wasted its oil,

And the black-beetle boldly came crawling from far,

And the red coals were sinking beneath the third bar;

When “one!” struck the clock—and instead of the bird

Who used to sing cuckoo whene’er the clock stirred,

Out burst a grim raven, and uttered “caw! caw!”

While Puss, though she woke, durst not put forth a claw.

Then the jack fell a-going as if one should sup,

Then the earth rocked as though it would swallow one up;

[168]

With fuel from Hell, a strange coal-scuttle came,

And a self-handled poker made fearful the flame.

A cinder shot from it, of size to amaze,

With a bounce, such as Betty ne’er heard in her days,

Thrice, serpent-like, hissed as its heat fled away,

And, lo! something dark in a vast coffin lay!

“Come, Betty,” quoth croaking that nondescript thing,

“Come, bless the fond arms of your true Cinder-King!

Three more Kings, my brothers, are waiting to greet ye,

Who—don’t take it ill—must at four o’clock eat ye.

“My darling! it must be, do make up your mind;

We element brothers, united, and kind,

Have a feast and a wedding, each night of our lives,

So constantly sup on each other’s new wives.”

In vain squalled the cook-maid, and prayed not to wed;

Cinder crunched in her mouth, cinder rained on her head.

She sank in the coffin with cinders strewn o’er,

And coffin nor Betty saw man any more.

Modern, anon.

[169]

THE FROLICKSOME DUKE; OR,
THE TINKER’S GOOD FORTUNE

Now, as fame does report, a young Duke keeps a Court,

One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:

But amongst all the rest, here is one, I protest,

Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:

A poor Tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,

As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.

The Duke said to his men, “William, Richard, and Ben,

Take him home to my palace; we’ll sport with him then.”

O’er a horse he was laid, and with care soon conveyed

To the palace, altho’ he was poorly arrai’d:

Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes, and hose,

And they put him to bed for to take his repose.

Having pulled off his shirt, which was all over durt,

They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:

[170]

On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,

They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.

In the morning, when day, then admiring he lay,

For to see the rich chamber, both gaudy and gay.

Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,

Till at last Knights and Squires they on him did wait;

And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,

He desired to know what apparel he’d ware:

The poor Tinker amazed, on the gentleman gazed,

And admired how he to this honour was raised.

Tho’ he seemed something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,

Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;

With a star on his side, which the Tinker off’t eyed,

And it seemed for to swell him no little with pride;

For he said to himself, “Where is Joan my sweet wife?

Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.”

From a convenient place, the right Duke, his good grace,

Did observe his behaviour in every case.[171]

To a garden of state, on the Tinker they wait,

Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, “This is great!”

Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,

With Commanders and Squires in scarlet and blew.

A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,

He was placed at the table above all the rest,

In a rich chair or bed lined with fine crimson red,

With a rich golden canopy over his head:

As he sat at his meat, the musick played sweet,

With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.

While the Tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,

Rich canary, with sherry and tent superfine.

Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl.

Till at last he began for to tumble and roul

From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,

Being seven times drunker than ever before.

Then the Duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,

And restore him his old leather garments again:

’T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,

And they carryed him strait where they found him at first:[172]

Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;

But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.

For his glory to him so pleasant did seem,

That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;

Till at length he was brought to the Duke, where he sought

For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought:

But his Highness he said, “Thou’rt a jolly bold blade:

Such a frolick before, I think, never was plaid.”

Then his Highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,

Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak:

Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground:

“Thou shalt never,” said he, “range the counteries round,

Crying ‘old brass to mend,’ for I’ll be thy good friend,

Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my Duchess attend.”

Then the Tinker replyed; “What! must Joan my sweet bride

Be a Lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?[173]

Must we have gold and land ev’ry day at command?

Then I shall be a Squire, I well understand:

Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace;

I was never before in so happy a case!”

KING JAMES THE FIRST AND THE TINKLER

And now, to be brief, let’s pass over the rest,

Who seldom or never were given to jest,

And come to King Jamie, the first of our throne,

A pleasanter Monarch sure never was known.

As he was a-hunting the swift fallow-deer,

He dropped all his nobles; and when he got clear,

In hope of some pastime away he did ride,

Till he came to an alehouse, hard by a wood-side.

And there with a Tinkler he happened to meet,

And him in kind sort he so freely did greet:

“Pray thee, good fellow, what hast in thy jug,

Which under thy arm thou dost lovingly hug?”

“By the mass!” quoth the Tinkler, “it’s nappy brown ale,

And for to drink to thee, friend, I will not fail;

For although thy jacket looks gallant and fine,

I think that my twopence as good is as thine.”

[174]

“By my soul! honest fellow, the truth thou hast spoke,”

And straight he sat down with the Tinkler to joke;

They drank to the King, and they pledged to each other;

Who’d seen ’em had thought they were brother and brother.

As they were a-drinking the King pleased to say,

“What news, honest fellow? come tell me, I pray?”

“There’s nothing of news, beyond that I hear

The King’s on the border a-chasing the deer.

“And truly I wish I so happy may be

Whilst he is a-hunting the King I might see;

For although I’ve travelled the land many ways

I never have yet seen a King in my days.”

The King, with a hearty brisk laughter, replied

“I tell thee, good fellow, if thou canst but ride,

Thou shalt get up behind me, and I will thee bring

To the presence of Jamie, thy sovereign King.”

“But he’ll be surrounded with nobles so gay,

And how shall we tell him from them, sir, I pray?”

“Thou’lt easily ken him when once thou art there;

The King will be covered, his nobles all bare.”

[175]

He got up behind him and likewise his sack,

His budget of leather, and tools at his back;

They rode till they came to the merry Greenwood,

His nobles came round him, bareheaded they stood.

The Tinkler then seeing so many appear,

He slily did whisper the King in his ear;

Saying, “They’re all clothed so gloriously gay,

But which amongst them is the King, sir, I pray?”

The King did with hearty good laughter, reply,

“By my soul! my good fellow, it’s thou or it’s I!

The rest are bareheaded, uncovered all round”—

With his bag and his budget he fell to the ground,

Like one that was frightened quite out of his wits,

Then on his knees he instantly gets,

Beseeching for mercy; the King to him said,

“Thou art a good fellow, so be not afraid.

“Come, tell thy name.” “I am John of the Dale,

A mender of kettles, a lover of ale.”

“Rise up, Sir John, I will honour thee here,—

I make thee a Knight of three thousand a year!”

This was a good thing for the Tinkler indeed;

Then unto the Court he was sent for with speed,

[176]

Where great store of pleasure and pastime was seen,

In the royal presence of King and of Queen.

Sir John of the Dale he has land, he has fee,

At the Court of the King who so happy as he?

Yet still in his hall hangs the Tinkler’s old sack,

And the budget of tools which he bore at his back.

KING ALFRED AND THE SHEPHERD

PART I—WHEREIN KING ALFRED FIGHTS FOR
HIS DINNER

In elder time there was of yore,

When gibes of churlish glee

Were used among our country carles,

Tho’ no such thing now be:

The which King Alfred liking well,

Forsook his stately Court,

And in disguise unknown went forth

To see that jovial sport;

How Dick and Tom in clouted shoon,

And coats of russet grey,

Esteemed themselves more brave than them

That went in golden ray.

[177]

In garments fit for such a life

The good King Alfred went,

Ragged and torn as from his back

The beggar his clothes had rent.

A sword and buckler good and strong,

To give Jack Sauce a rap;

And on his head, instead of a crown,

He wore a Monmouth cap.

Thus coasting thorough Somersetshire:

Near Newton-Court he met

A shepherd swain of lusty limb,

That up and down did jet:

He wore a bonnet of good grey,

Close-buttoned to his chin;

And at his back a leather scrip,

With much good meat therein.

“God speed, good Shepherd,” quoth the King

“I come to be thy guest,

To taste of thy good victuals here,

And drink that’s of the best.

“Thy scrip, I know hath cheer good store”:

“What then?” the Shepherd said,

“Thou seem’st to be some sturdy thief,

And mak’st me sore afraid.

[178]

“Yet if thou wilt thy dinner win,

Thy sword and buckler take:

And, if thou canst, into my scrip

Therewith an entrance make.

“I tell thee, roister, it hath store

Of beef and bacon fat,

With sheaves of barley-bread to make

Thy chaps to water at!

“Here stands my bottle, here my bag,

If thou canst win them, roister;

Against thy sword and buckler here,

My sheep-hook is my master.”

“Benedicite!” quoth our good King

“It never shall be said,

That Alfred, of the Shepherd’s hook,

Will stand a whit afraid.”

So foundly thus they both fell to ‘t,

And giving bang for bang;

At ev’ry blow the Shepherd gave

King Alfred’s sword cried twang!

His buckler proved his chiefest fence;

For still the Shepherd’s hook

Was that the which King Alfred could

In no good manner brook.

[179]

At last, when they had fought four hours,

And it grew just midday,

And wearied both, with right good will,

Desired each other’s stay:

“A truce, I crave,” quoth Alfred then

“Good Shepherd, hold thy hand,

A sturdier fellow than thyself

Lives not within the land!”

“Nor a lustier roister than thou art,”

The churlish Shepherd said;

“To tell thee plain, thy thievish look

Now makes my heart afraid.

“Else sure thou art some prodigal,

Which hast consumed thy store,

And now com’st wand’ring in this place

To rob and steal for more.”

“Deem not of me, then,” quoth our King,

“Good Shepherd, in this sort.

A gentleman well known I am

In good King Alfred’s Court.”

PART II—WHEREIN KING ALFRED BECOMES
A SHEPHERD

“The Devil thou art!” the Shepherd said,

“Thou go’st in rags all torn;

Thou rather seem’st, I think, to be

Some beggar basely born.

[180]

“But if thou wilt mend thy estate,

And here a shepherd be;

At night, to Gillian, my sweet wife,

Thou shalt go home with me:

“For she’s as good a toothless dame

As mumbleth on brown bread;

Where thou shalt lie in hurden sheets,

Upon a fresh straw bed.

“Of whig and whey we have good store,

And keep good pease-straw fire;

And now and then good barley cakes,

As better days require.

“But for my master, which is Chief

And Lord of Newton-Court,

He keeps, I say, his shepherd swains

In far more braver sort;

“We there have curds and clouted cream

Of red cow’s morning milk;

And now and then fine buttered cakes

As soft as any silk.

“Of beef and reifed bacon store,

That is most fat and greasy,

We have likewise, to feed our chaps

And make them glib and easy.

[181]

“Thus if thou wilt my man become,

This usage thou shalt have;

If not, adieu; go hang thyself;

And so farewell, Sir Knave.”

King Alfred hearing of this glee

The churlish Shepherd said,

Was well content to be his man;

So they a bargain made;

A penny round the Shepherd gave

In earnest of this match,

To keep his sheep in field and fold,

As shepherds use to watch.

His wages shall be full ten groats,

For service of a year,

Yet was it not his use, old lad,

To hire a man so dear:

“For, did the King himself,” quoth he,

“Unto my cottage come,

He should not, for a twelve-month’s pay,

Receive a greater sum.”

PART III—WHEREIN KING ALFRED BURNS THE CAKES

Hereat the bonny King grew blithe,

To hear the clownish jest;

How silly sots, as custom is,

Do descant at the best.

[182]

But not to spoil the foolish sport,

He was content, good King,

To fit the Shepherd’s humour right

In ev’ry kind of thing.

A sheep-hook then, with Patch his dog,

And tar-box by his side;

He, with his master, cheek by jowl,

Unto old Gillian hied,

Into whose sight no sooner come,

“Whom have you here?” quoth she,

“A fellow, I doubt, will cut our throats,

So like a knave looks he.”

“Not so, old Dame,” quoth Alfred straight,

“Of me you need not fear;

My master hired me for ten groats,

To serve you one whole year:

“So, good Dame Gillian, grant me leave

Within your house to stay;

For, by St. Anne, do what you can,

I will not yet away.”

Her churlish usage pleased him still,

And put him to such proof,

That he at night was almost choked

Within that smoky roof.

[183]

But as he sat with smiling cheer

The event of all to see,

His dame brought forth a piece of dough

Which in the fire throws she.

Where lying on the hearth to bake,

By chance, the cake did burn:

“What! canst thou not, thou lout,” quoth she,

“Take pains the same to turn?

“Thou art more quick to take it out,

And eat it up half dough,

Than thus to stay till’t be enough,

And so thy manners show!

“But serve me such another trick,

I’ll thwack thee on the snout:”

Which made the patient King, poor man,

Of her to stand in doubt.

PART IV—WHEREIN KING ALFRED BLOWS HIS
BUGLE-HORN

But, to be brief, to bed they went

The old man and his wife;

But never such a lodging had

King Alfred in his life!

For he was laid in white sheep’s wool,

New-pulled from tanned fells;

And o’er his head hanged spiders’ webs

As if they had been bells.

[184]

“Is this the country guise?” thought he,

“Then here I will not stay,

But hence be gone, as soon as breaks

The peeping of next day!”

The cackling hens and geese kept roost,

And perched at his side;

Where, at the last, the watchful cock

Made known the morning tide.

Then up got Alfred, with his horn,

And blew so long a blast,

That it made Gillian and her groom,

In bed, full sore aghast.

“Arise,” quoth she, “We are undone!

This night we lodged have,

At unawares, within our house,

A false dissembling knave.

“Rise! husband, rise! he’ll cut our throats!

He calleth for his mates.

I’d give, old Will, our good cade lamb,

He would depart our gates!”

But still King Alfred blew his horn,

Before them, more and more,

Till that an hundred Lords and Knights

All lighted at the door.

[185]

Who cried, “All hail! all hail, good King!

Long have we sought your Grace!”

“And here you find, my merry men all,

Your Sov’reign in this place.”

“We surely must be hanged up both,

Old Gillian, I much fear,”

The Shepherd said, “for using thus,

Our good King Alfred here.”

“Oh, pardon, my Liege!” quoth Gillian then,

“For my husband, and for me.

By these ten bones, I never thought

The same that now I see!”

“And by my hook,” the Shepherd said,

“An oath both good and true!

Before this time, O noble King,

I ne’er your Highness knew!

“Then pardon me and my old wife,

That we may after say,

When first you came into our house,

It was a happy day.”

“It shall be done,” said Alfred straight,

“And Gillian, thy old dame,

For this her churlish using me,

Deserveth not much blame;

[186]

“For ’tis thy country guise, I see,

To be thus bluntish still,

And where the plainest meaning is,

Remains the smallest ill.

“And, Master, lo! I tell thee now;

For thy late manhood shown,

A thousand wethers I’ll bestow

Upon thee, for thy own;

“And pasture-ground, as much as will

Suffice to feed them all:

And this thy cottage, I will change

Into a stately hall.”

“And for the same, as duty binds,”

The Shepherd said, “good King,

A milk-white lamb, once ev’ry year,

I’ll to your Highness bring:

“And Gillian, my wife, likewise,

Of wool to make you coats,

Will give you as much at New Year’s tide,

As shall be worth ten groats.

“And in your praise my bag-pipes shall

Sound sweetly once a year,

How Alfred, our renowned King,

Most kindly hath been here.”

[187]

“Thanks, Shepherd, thanks,” quoth he again:

“The next time I come hither,

My Lords with me, here in this house,

Will all be merry together.”

[188]
[189]

SAD GESTES

[190]

THE SANDS OF DEE

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee;”

The western wind was wild and dank wi’ foam,

And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand.

And o’er and o’er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land—

And never home came she.

“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—

A tress o’ golden hair,

A drowned maiden’s hair

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes on Dee.”

They rowed her in across the rolling foam.

The cruel crawling foam.

The cruel hungry foam

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee!

Charles Kingsley

[191]

FAIR ANNY OF ROCH-ROYAL

PART I

“O wha will shoe my fu fair foot?

An wha will glove my han?

An wha will lace my middle gimp

Wi the new made London ban?

“Or wha will kemb my yallow hair,

Wi the new made silver kemb?

Or wha’ll be father to my young bairn,

Till Love Gregor come hame?”

Her father shoed her fu fair foot,

Her mother glovd her han;

Her sister lac’d her middle gimp

Wi the new made London ban.

Her brother kembd her yallow hair,

Wi the new made silver kemb,

But the king o heaven maun father her bairn,

Till Love Gregor come hame.

“O gin I had a bony ship,

An men to sail wi me,

It’s I would gang to my true-love,

Since he winna come to me.”

[192]

Her father’s gien her a bonny ship,

An sent her to the stran;

She’s tane her young son in her arms,

An turnd her back to the lan.

She had na been o the sea saillin

About a month or more,

Till landed has she her bonny ship

Near her true-love’s door.

The night was dark, an the win blew caul,

An her love was fast asleep,

An the bairn that was in her twa arms

Fu sair began to weep.

Long stood she at her true-love’s door,

An lang tirld at the pin;

At length up gat his fa’se mither,

Says, “Wha’s that woud be in?”

“O it is Anny of Roch-royal,

Your love, come oer the sea,

But an your young son in her arms;

So open the door to me.”

“Awa, awa, you ill woman,

You’ve na come here for gude;

You’re but a witch, or wile warlock,

Or mermaid o the flude.”

[193]

“I’m na a witch, or wile warlock,

Nor mermaiden,” said she;

“I’m but Fair Anny o Roch-royal;

O open the door to me.”

“O gin ye be Anny o Roch-royal,

As I trust not ye be,

What taiken can ye gie that ever

I kept your company?”

“O dinna ye mind, Love Gregor,” she says,

“Whan we sat at the wine,

How we changed the napkins frae our necks,

It’s na sae lang sin syne?

“An yours was good, an good enough,

But nae sae good as mine;

For yours was o the cumbruk clear,

But mine was silk sae fine.

“An dinna ye mind, Love Gregor,” she says,

“As we twa sat at dine,

How we changed the rings frae our fingers,

But ay the best was mine?

“For yours was good, an good enough,

Yet nae sae good as mine;

For yours was of the good red gold,

But mine o the diamonds fine.

[194]

“Sae open the door now, Love Gregor,

An open it wi speed,

Or your young son that is in my arms

For cauld will soon be dead.”

“Awa, awa, you ill woman,

Gae frae my door for shame;

For I hae gotten another fair love,

Sae ye may hye you hame.”

“O hae you gotten another fair love,

For a’ the oaths you sware?

Then fair you well now, fa’se Gregor,

For me you’s never see mair.”

O heely, heely gi’d she back,

As the day began to peep;

She set her foot on good ship-board,

An sair, sair did she weep.

PART II

Love Gregor started frae his sleep,

An to his mither did say,

“I dreamd a dream this night, mither,

That maks my heart right wae.

“I dreamd that Anny of Roch-royal,

The flowr o a’ her kin,

Was standin mournin at my door,

But nane would lat her in.”

[195]

“O there was a woman stood at the door,

Wi a bairn intill her arms,

But I woud na lat her within the bowr,

For fear she had done you harm.”

O quickly, quickly raise he up,

An fast ran to the stran,

An there he saw her Fair Anny,

Was sailin frae the lan.

An “Heigh, Anny!” an “Hou, Anny!

O Anny, speak to me!”

But ay the louder that he cried “Anny,”

The louder roard the sea.

An “Heigh, Anny!” an “Hou, Anny!

O Anny, winna you bide?”

But ay the langer that he cried “Anny,”

The higher roard the tide.

The win grew loud, an the sea grew rough,

An the ship was rent in twain,

An soon he saw her Fair Anny

Come floating oer the main.

He saw his young son in her arms,

Baith tossd aboon the tide;

He wrang his hands, than fast he ran,

An plung’d i the sea sae wide.

[196]

He catchd her by the yallow hair,

An drew her to the strand,

But cauld an stiff was every limb

Before he reachd the land.

O first he kissd her cherry cheek,’

An then he kissd her chin;

An sair he kissd her ruby lips,

But there was nae breath within.

O he has mournd oer Fair Anny

Till the sun was gaing down,

Then wi a sigh his heart it brast,

An his soul to heaven has flown.