The Battle of Otterburn

It fell about the Lammas tide,
When muir-men win their hay,
The doughty Douglas bound him to ride
Into England to drive a prey.

He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,
With them the Lindsays, light and gay;
But the Jardines would not with them ride,
And they rue it to this day.

And he has burned the dales o' Tyne,
And part o' Bamburghshire;
And three good towers on Reidswire fells
He left them all on fire.

And he marched up to New Castel,
And rode it round about;
"O wha's the lord of this castel?
Or wha's the lady o't?"

And up spake proud Lord Percy then,
And O! but he spake hie!
"O I'm the lord of this castel,
My wife's the lady gay."

"If thou art the lord of this castel,
Sae weel it pleases me!
For ere I cross the Border fells,
The tane of us sall die."

He took a lang spere in his hand
Shod wi' the metal free,
And for to meet the Douglas there
He rode right furiouslie!

But oh! how pale his lady looked
Frae off the castle wa',
When down before the Scottish speare
She saw proud Percy fa'!

"Had we twa been upon the green,
And never an eye to see,
I wad hae had you, flesh and fell,
But your sword shall gae wi' me."

"But gae ye up to Otterbourne
And wait there dayis three,
And if I come not ere three dayis end,
A fause knight ca' ye me."

"The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn,
'Tis pleasant there to be;
But there is naught at Otterbourne
To feed my men and me.

"The deer rins wild on hill and dale,
The birds fly wild frae tree to tree,
But there is neither bread nor kale
To feed my men and me.

"Yet I will stay at Otterbourne
Where you sall welcome be;
And if ye come not at three dayis end
A fause lord I'll call thee."

"Thither will I come," proud Percy said,
"By the might of Our Ladye!"
"Thither will I bide thee," said the Douglas,
"My troth I plight to thee."

They lighted high on Otterbourne,
Upon the bent sae brown;
They lighted high on Otterbourne
And threw their pallions down.

And he that had a bonnie boy,
Sent out his horse to grass;
And he that had not a bonnie boy,
His ain servant he was.

And up then spake a little foot-page,
Before the peep o' dawn--
"O waken, waken ye, my good lord,
The Percy is hard at hand!"

"Ye lee, ye lee, ye leear loud!
Sae loud I hear ye lee!
For Percy had not men yestreen
To dight my men and me!"

"But I hae dreamed a dreary dream,
Beyond the Isle of Skye;
I saw a dead man win a fight,
An' I think that man was I."

He belted on his gude braid-sword,
And to the field he ran;
But he forgot his helmet good,
That should have kept his brain.

When Percy wi' the Douglas met
I wat he was fu' fain!
They swakked their swords till sair they swat,
The blude ran down like rain.

But Percy, with his gude braid-sword,
That could sae sharply wound,
Has stricken Douglas on the brow,
Till he fell to the ground.

Then he called on his little foot-page
And said, "Run speedilie,
And fetch my ain dear sister's son,
Sir Hugh Montgomerie."

"My nephew good," the Douglas said,
"What recks the death of ane?
Last night I dreamed a dreary dream,
And I ken the day's thy ain.

"My wound is deep, I fain wad sleep;
Take thou the vanguard of the three,
And hide me by the bracken bush
That grows on yonder lilye lea.

"O bury me by the bracken bush,
Beneath the bloomin' brier;
Let never a living mortal ken
That ever a kindly Scot lies here."

He lifted up that noble lord,
Wi' the saut tear in his e'e;
He hid him in the bracken bush
That his merrie men might not see.

The moon was clear, the day drew near,
The speres in flinders flew,
And mony a gallant Englishman
Ere day the Scotsmen slew.

The Gordons gude, in English blude
They steeped their hose and shoon;
The Lindsays flew like fire about
Till a' the fray was dune.

The Percy and Montgomerie met,
And either of other was fain;
They swakked swords, and sair they swat,
And the blude ran doun like rain.

"Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy!" he cried;
"Or else will I lay thee low."
"To whom sall I yield?" quoth Erle Percy,
"Sin I see it maun be so."

"Thou shalt not yield to lord or loon,
Nor yet shalt thou yield to me,
But thou shalt yield to the bracken bush
That grows on yon lilye lea."

"I will not yield to a bracken bush;
Nor yet will I yield to a brier;
But I would yield to Erle Douglas,
Or Hugh Montgomerie if he were here."

As soon as he knew it was Montgomerie
He stuck his sword's-point in the gronde;
The Montgomerie was a courteous knight,
And quickly took him by the honde.

This deed was done at the Otterbourne,
About the breaking of the day;
Erle Douglas was buried at the bracken bush.
And the Percy led captive away.

JOCK O' THE SIDE.

Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid,
But I wat they had better hae staid at hame;
For Michael o' Winfield he is dead,
And Jock o' the Side is prisoner ta'en.

For Mangerton house Lady Downie has gane,
Her coats she has kilted up to her knee;
And down the water wi' speed she rins,
While tears in spates fa' fast frae her e'e.

Then up and spoke our guid auld laird--
"What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?"
"Bad news, bad news, for Michael is killed,
And they hae taken my son Johnnie."

"Ne'er fear, sister Downie," quo' Mangerton,
"I have yokes of owsen, twenty and three,
My barns, my byres, and my faulds a' weel filled,
I'll part wi' them a' ere Johnnie shall dee.

"Three men I'll send to set him free,
A' harnessed wi' the best o' steel;
The English loons may hear, and drie
The weight o' their braid-swords to feel.

"The Laird's Jock ane, the Laird's Wat twa,
O Hobbie Noble, thou ane maun be!
Thy coat is blue, thou has been true
Since England banished thee to me."

Now Hobbie was an English man,
In Bewcastle dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were so great,
They banished him ne'er to return.

Laird Mangerton them orders gave,
"Your horses the wrang way maun be shod;
Like gentlemen ye maunna seem,
But look like corn-cadgers ga'en the road.

"Your armour gude ye maunna show,
Nor yet appear like men of weir;
As country lads be a' array'd,
Wi' branks and brecham on each mare."

Sae their horses are the wrang way shod,
And Hobbie has mounted his gray sae fine;
Jock his lively bay, Wat's on his white horse behind.
And on they rode for the water of Tyne.

At the Cholerford they a' light doun,
And there wi' the help o' the light o' the moon,
A tree they cut, wi' fifteen nogs on each side,
To climb up the wa' of Newcastle toun.

But when they cam' to Newcastle toun,
And were alighted at the wa'
They fand their tree three ells ower laigh,
They fand their stick baith short and sma'.

Then up and spak the Laird's ain Jock,
"There's naething for't; the gates we maun force."
But when they cam' the gate untill,
A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.

His neck in twa the Armstrangs wrung;
With fute or hand he ne'er played pa!
His life and his keys at once they hae ta'en,
And cast the body ahint the wa'.

Now sune they reach Newcastle jail,
And to the prisoner thus they call:
"Sleeps thou, or wakes thou, Jock o' the Side,
Or art thou weary of thy thrall?"

Jock answered thus, wi' doleful tone,
"Aft, aft I wake--I seldom sleep;
But wha's this kens my name sae weel,
And thus to ease my wae does seek."

Then out and spake the gude Laird's Jock,
"Now fear ye na', my billie," quo' he;
"For here are the Laird's Jock, the Laird's Wat,
And Hobbie Noble, come to set thee free."

"Now haud thy tongue, my gude Laird's Jock,
For ever, alas! this canna be;
For if a' Liddesdale were here the night,
The morn's the day that I maun dee."

"Full fifteen stane o' Spanish iron
They hae laid a' right sair or me;
Wi' locks and keys I am fast bound
Into this dungeon dark and dreirie!"

"Fear ye nae that," quo' the Laird's Jock;
"A faint heart ne'er won a fair ladie;
Work thou within, we'll work without,
And I'll be sworn we'll set thee free."

The first strong door that they cam' at,
They loosed it without a key;
The next chain'd door that they cam' at
They gar'd it a' to flinders flee.

The prisoner now upon his back
The Laird's Jock has gotten up fu' hie;
And down the stair, him, irons and a',
Wi' nae sma' speid and joy brings he.

"Now Jock, my man," quo Hobbie Noble,
"Some o' his weight ye may lay on me."
"I wat weel no," quo' the Laird's ain Jock;
"I count him lighter than a flee."

Sae out at the gates they a' are gane,
The prisoner's set on horseback hie;
And now wi' speed they're ta'en the gate,
While ilk ane jokes fu' wantonlie.

"O Jock! sae winsomely 's ye ride,
Wi' baith your feet upon ae side;
Sae weel ye're harnessed, and sae trig,
In troth ye sit like ony bride!"

The night, tho' wat, they didna mind,
But hied them on fu' merrilie
Until they cam' to Cholerford brae,
Where the water ran baith deep and hie.

But when they came to Cholerford,
There they met with an auld man,
Says, "Honest man, will the water ride?
Tell us in haste, if that ye can."

"I wat weel no," quo' the gude auld man;
"I hae lived here thirty years and three,
And I ne'er yet saw the Tyne sae big,
Nor running anes sae like a sea."

Then out and spake the Laird's Saft Wat,
The greatest coward in the companie;
"Now halt, now halt, we needna try't,
The day is come we a' maun dee."

"Puir faint-hearted thief!" cried the Laird's ain Jock,
"There'll nae man die but him that's fey;
I'll guide ye a' right safely thro',
Lift ye the prisoner on ahint me."

Wi' that the water they hae ta'en;
By anes and twas they a' swam thro';
"Here we are a' safe," quo' the Laird's Jock,
"And puir faint Wat, what think ye now?"

They scarce the other brae had won
When twenty men they saw pursue;
Frae Newcastle toun they had been sent,
A' English lads baith stout and true.

But when the land-serjeant the water saw,
"It winna ride, my lads," says he;
Then cried aloud--"The prisoner take,
But leave the fetters, I pray, to me."

"I wat weel no," quo' the Laird's Jock;
"I'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be.
My gude bay mare--for I am sure
She has bought them a' right dear frae thee."

Sae now they are on to Liddesdale,
E'en as fast as they could them hie;
The prisoner is brought to his ain fireside,
And there o' his airns they mak' him free.

"Now, Jock, ma billie," quo' a' the three,
"The day is com'd thou was to dee.
But thou's as weel at thy ain ingle-side,
Now sitting, I think 'twixt thou and me."

BARTHRAM'S DIRGE.

They shot him dead at the Nine-stane Rig,
Beside the Headless Cross,
And they left him lying in his blood,
Upon the moor and moss.

They made a bier of the broken bough
The sauch and the aspin grey,
And they bore him to the Lady Chapel,
And waked him there all day.

A lady came to that lonely bower,
And threw her robes aside;
She tore her ling lang yellow hair,
And knelt at Barthram's side.

She bathed him in the Lady-Well,
His wounds sae deep and sair;
And she plaited a garland for his breast,
And a garland for his hair.

They rowed him in a lily sheet
And bare him to his earth;
And the Grey Friars sung the dead man's mass
As they passed the Chapel garth.

They buried him at the mirk midnight,
When the dew fell cold and still,
When the aspin grey forgot to play,
And the mist clung to the hill.

They dug his grave but a bare foot deep,
By the edge of the Nine-stane Burn,
And they covered him o'er with the heather-flower,
The moss and the lady-fern.

A Grey Friar staid upon the grave,
And sang till the morning tide;
And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul
While the Headless Cross shall bide.

THE FAIR FLOWER OF NORTHUMBERLAND

It was a knight in Scotland born,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Was taken pris'ner and left forlorn,
Even by the good Earl of Northumberland.

Then was he cast in prison strong,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Where he could not walk nor lie along,
Even by the good Earl of Northumberland.

And as in sorrow thus he lay,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
The Earl's sweet daughter passed that way,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

And passing by, like an angel bright,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
The prisoner had of her a sight,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

And aloud to her this knight did cry,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
The salt tears standing in her eye,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

"Fair lady," he said, "take pity on me,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And let me not in prison dee,
And you the fair flower of Northumberland."

"Fair sir, how should I take pity on thee,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Thou being a foe to our countrie,
And I the fair flower of Northumberland?"

"Fair lady, I am no foe," he said,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
"Through thy sweet love here was I stayed,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

"Why shouldst thou come here for love of me,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Having wife and bairns in thy own countrie,
And I the fair flower of Northumberland?"

"I swear by the Blessed Trinity,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
That neither wife nor bairns have I,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

"If courteously thou wilt set me free,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
I vow that I will marry thee,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland.

"Thou shalt be lady of castles and towers,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And sit like a queen in princely bowers,
Even thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

Then parted hence this lady gay,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And got her father's ring away,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

Likewise much gold got she by sleight,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And all to help this forlorn knight,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

Two gallant steeds both good and able,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand),
She likewise took out of the stable,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

And to the goaler she sent the ring,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Who the knight from prison forth did bring,
To meet the fair flower of Northumberland.

This token set the prisoner free,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Who straight went to this fair ladye,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

A gallant steed he did bestride,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And with the lady away did ride,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

They rode till they came to a water clear,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
"Good sir, how shall I follow you here,
And I the fair flower of Northumberland?

"The water is rough and wonderful deep,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And on my saddle I shall not keep,
And I the fair flower of Northumberland?

"Fear not the ford, fair lady," quoth he,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
"For long I cannot stay for thee,
Even thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

The lady prickt her gallant steed,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And over the water swam with speed,
Even she the fair flower of Northumberland.

From top to toe all wet was she,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
"This have I done for love of thee,
Even I the fair flower of Northumberland."

Thus rode she all one winter's night.
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Till Edenborough they saw in sight,
The fairest town in all Scotland.

"Now I have a wife and children five,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
In Edenborough they be alive,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland.

"And if thou wilt not give thy hand,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Then get thee home to fair England,
And thou the fair flower of Northumberland

"This favour thou shalt have, to boot,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
I'll have thy horse; go thou on foot,
Even thou the fair flower of Northumberland."

"O false and faithless knight," quoth she;
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
"And canst thou deal so bad with me,
Even I the fair flower of Northumberland?"

He took her from her stately steed,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And left her there in extreme need,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

Then she sat down full heavily,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
At length two knights came riding by,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

Two gallant knights of fair England,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And there they found her on the strand,
Even she the fair flower of Northumberland.

She fell down humbly on her knee,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Crying, "Courteous knights, take pity on me,
Even I the fair flower of Northumberland.

"I have offended my father dear,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
For a false knight that brought me here,
Even I the fair flower of Northumberland."

They took her up beside them then,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
And brought her to her father again,
And she the fair flower of Northumberland.

Now all you fair maids, be warned by me,
(Follow, my love, come over the strand)
Scots never were true, nor ever will be,
To lord, nor lady, nor fair England.

WHITTINGHAM FAIR.

Are you going to Whittingham Fair
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
Remember me to one that lives there,
For once she was a true lover of mine.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
Without any seam or needlework,
Then she shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell her to wash it in yonder well,
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
Where never spring water or rain ever fell,
And she shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell her to dry it on yonder thorn,
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
Which never bore blossom since Adam was born.
Then she shall be a true lover of mine.

Now he has asked me questions three,
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
I hope he'll answer as many for me,
Before he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to buy me an acre of land,
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
Betwixt the salt water and the sea sand,
Then he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to plough it with a ram's horn.
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
And sow it all over with one pepper corn.
And he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to shear't with a sickle of leather,
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
And bind it up with a peacock feather,
And he shall be a true lover of mine.

Tell him to thrash it on yonder wall,
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
And never let one corn of it fall,
Then he shall be a true lover of mine.

When he has done and finished his work,
(Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme),
O tell him to come and he'll have his shirt,
And he shall be a true lover of mine.

O THE OAK AND THE ASH.

A North country mayde up to London had strayed,
Although with her nature it did not agree.
Which made her repent, and often lament,
Still wishing again in the North for to be.
"O the Oak and the Ash and the bonny Ivy tree,
They are all growing green in my North Countrie!"

"O fain wad I be in the North Countrie
Where the lads and the lasses are all making hay;
O there wad I see what is pleasant to me,--
A mischief 'light on them enticed me away!
O the Oak and the Ash and the bonny Ivy tree,
They are all growing green in my North Countrie!"

"Then farewell my father, and farewell my mother,
Until I do see you I nothing but mourn;
Remembering my brothers, my sisters, and others--
In less than a year I hope to return.
O the Oak and the Ash and the bonny Ivy tree.
They are all growing green in my North Countrie!"

SAIR FEYL'D, HINNY!

"Sair feyl'd, hinny!
Sair feyl'd now,
Sair feyl'd, hinny,
Sin' aw ken'd thou.
Aw was young and lusty,
Aw was fair and clear;
Aw was young and lusty
Mony a lang year.
Sair feyl'd, hinny!
Sair feyl'd now;
Sair feyl'd, hinny,
Sin' aw ken'd thou.

"When aw was young and lusty
Aw cud lowp u dyke;
But now aw'm aud and still.
Aw can hardly stop a syke.
Sair feyl'd, hinny!
Sair feyl'd now,
Sair feyl'd hinny,
Sin' aw ken'd thou.

"When aw was five and twenty
Aw was brave an bauld.
Now at five an' sixty
Aw'm byeth stiff an' cauld.
Sair feyl'd, hinny!
Sair feyl'd now.
Sair feyl'd, hinny,
Sin' aw ken'd thou"

Thus said the aud man
To the oak tree;
"Sair feyl'd is aw
Sin' aw kenn'd thee!
Sair feyl'd, hinny!
Sair feyl'd now;
Sair feyl'd, hinny,
Sin' aw ken'd thou."

AW WISH YOE MUTHER WAD CUM!

"Cum, Geordy, haud the bairn,
Aw's sure aw'll not stop lang,
Aw'd tyek the jewl me-sel,
But really aw's not strang.
Thor's flooer and coals te get,
The hoose-torns thor not deun,
So haud the bairn for fairs,
Ye're often deun'd for fun!"

Then Geordy held the bairn,
But sair agyen his will,
The poor bit thing wes gud,
But Geordy had ne skill,
He haddint its muther's ways,
He sat both stiff an' num,--
Before five minutes wes past
He wished its muther wad cum!

His wife had scarcely gyen,
The bairn begun te squall,
Wi' hikin't up an' doon
He'd let the poor thing fall,
It waddent haud its tung,
Tho' sum aud teun he'd hum,--
'Jack an' Gill went up a hill'--
"Aw wish yor muther wad cum!"

"What weary toil," says he,
"This nursin bairns mun be,
A bit on't's weel eneuf,
Ay, quite eneuf for me;
Te keep a crying bairn,
It may be grand te sum,
A day's wark's not as bad--
Aw wish yor muther wad cum.

"Men seldom give a thowt
Te what thor wives indure,
Aw thowt she'd nowt te de
But clean the hoose, aw's sure.
Or myek me dinner an' tea--
It's startin' te chow its thumb,
The poor thing wants its tit,
Aw wish yor muther wad cum."

'What a selfish world this is,
Thor's nowt mair se than man;
He laffs at wummin's toil,
And winnet nurse his awn;--
It's startin' te cry agyen,
Aw see tuts throo its gum,
Maw little bit pet, dinnet fret,--
Aw wish yor muther wad cum.

"But kindness dis a vast.
It's ne use gettin' vext.
It winnet please the bairn,
Or ease a mind perplext.
At last--its gyen te sleep,
Me wife'll not say aw's num,
She'll think aw's a real gud norse,
Aw wish yor muther wud cum!"

--Joe Wilson

THE AULD FISHER'S LAST WISH

The morn is grey, and green the brae, the wind is frae the wast
Before the gale the snaw-white clouds are drivin' light and fast;
The airly sun is glintin' forth, owre hill, and dell, and plain,
And Coquet's streams are glitterin', as they run frae muir to main.

At Dewshill wood the mavis sings beside her birken nest,
At Halystane the laverock springs upon his breezy quest;
Wi' eydent e'e, aboon the craigs, the gled is high in air,
Beneath brent Brinkburn's shadowed cliff the fox lies in his lair.

There's joy at merry Thristlehaugh tie new-mown hay to win;
The busy bees at Todstead-shaw are bringing honey in;
The trouts they loup in ilka stream, the birds on ilka tree;
Auld Coquet-side is Coquet still--but there's nae place for me!

My sun is set, my eyne are wet, cauld poortith now is mine;
Nae mair I'll range by Coquet-side and thraw the gleesome line;
Nae mair I'll see her bonnie stream in spring-bright raiment drest,
Save in the dream that stirs the heart when the weary e'e's at rest.

Oh! were my limbs as ance they were, to jink across the green.
And were my heart as light again as sometime it has been,
And could my fortunes blink again as erst when youth was sweet,
Then Coquet--hap what might beside--we'd no be lang to meet'

Or had I but the cushat's wing, where'er I list to flee,
And wi' a wish, might wend my way owre hill, and dale, and lea.
'Tis there I'd fauld that weary wing, there gaze my latest gaze.
Content to see thee ance again--then sleep beside thy braes!

--Thomas Doublerday.

A SONNET

Go, take thine angle, and with practised line.
Light as the gossamer, the current sweep;
And if thou failest in the calm, still deep,
In the rough eddy may a prize be thine.
Say thou'rt unlucky where the sunbeams shine;
Beneath the shadow, where the waters creep
Perchance the monarch of the brook shall leap--
For fate is ever better than design.

Still persevere; the giddiest breeze that blows,
For thee may blow with fame and fortune rife.
Be prosperous; and what reck if it arose
Out of some pebble with the stream at strife,
Or that the light wind dallied with the boughs?
Thou art successful.--Such is human life!

--Thomas Doubleday

A VISION OF JOYOUS-GARDE.

"And so sir Launcelot brought sir Tristan and La Beate Isoud unto
Joyous-gard, the which was his owne castle that hee had wonne with his
owne hands."--Malory.

"Bamburgh ... the great rock-fortress that was known to the Celts as
Dinguardi, and was to figure in Arthurian romance as Joyous Garde ...
"--C.J. Bates (History of Northumberland).

I wandered under winter stars
The lone Northumbrian shore;
And night lay deep in silence on the sea.
Save where, unceasingly,
Among the pillared scaurs
Of perilous Farnes, wild waves for ever more
Breaking in foam,
Sounded as some far strife through the star-haunted gloam.

Before me, looming through the night,
Darker than night's sad heart,
King Ida's castle on the sheer crag set
Waked darker sorrow yet
Within me for the light,
Beauty, and might of old loves rent apart,
Time-broken, spent,
And strewn as old dead winds among the salt-sea bent.

Till, dreaming of the glittering days,
And eves with beauty starred,
Time fell from me as some night-cloud withdrawn,
And in enchanted dawn,
All in a golden haze,
I saw the gleaming towers of Joyous Garde
In splendour rise,
Tall, pinnacled, and white to my dream-laden eyes.

While thither, as in days of old,
Launcelot homeward came,
War-wearied, and yet wearier of the strife
Of love that tore his life;

Burning, beneath the cold
Armour of steel, a never-dying flame:
The fierce desire
Consuming honour's gold on the heart's altar fire!

And thither in great love he brought
The fugitives of love,
Isoud and Tristram fleeing from King Mark.
One day 'twixt dark and dark
These lovers, by fate caught
In love's bright web, dreamed with blue skies above
Of love no tide
Of wavering life may part, or death's swift sea divide.

But Launcelot, in their bliss forlorn,
Fled from the laughter clear
Of happy lovers, and love's silent noon;
All night beneath the moon
He strode, his spirit torn
For Guenevere! All night on Guenevere
He cried aloud
Unto the moonlit foam and every windy cloud.

Then faded, quivering, from my sight
The memory-woven dream.
The towers of Joyous Garde shall never more
Lighten that desolate shore;
No longe'r through the night
Wrestling with love, beneath the pale moon gleam
That anguished form!--
But keen with snow and wind, and loud with gathering storm.

--Wilfrid W. Gibson.

(In "The Northern Counties Magazine," March, 1901).

MY NORTH COUNTRIE

O though here fair blows the rose, and the woodbine waves on high,
And oak, and elm, and bracken fronds enrich the rolling lea,
And winds, as if in Arcady, breathe joy as they go by,
Yet I yearn and I pine for my North Countrie!

I leave the drowsing South, and in thought I northward fly,
And walk the stretching moors that fringe the ever-calling sea,
And am gladdened as the gales that are so bitter-sweet rush by.
While grey clouds sweetly darken o'er my North Countrie.

For there's music in the storms, and there's colour in the shades,
And joy e'en in the grief so widely brooding o'er the sea;
And larger thoughts have birth amid the moors and lonely glades
And reedy mounds and sands of my North Countrie!

--Thomas Runciman

Jock O'Hazeldean

Why weep ye by the tide, lady
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son
And ye shall be his bride
And ye shall be his bride, lady
Sae comely to be seen
But aye she let the tears doon fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

Now let this willfu' grief be done
And dry that cheek sae pale
Young Frank is chief of Errington
And laird o' Langley-dale
His step is first in peaceful ha'
His sword in battle keen
But aye she let the tears doon fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

A chain of gold ye shall not lack
Nor braid to bind your hair
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk
Nor palfrey fresh and fair.
And you, the foremost o' them a'
Shall ride our forrest queen
But aye she let the tears doon fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morningtide
The tapers glimmer'd fair
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride
And dame and knight were there
They sought her baith by bower and ha'
The lady was na' seen
She's o'er the border and awa'
Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.

The Deceived Girl

As she walked past the jailhouse door,
She spied a man with head hung low,
And all because of bolts and bars,
His homeland he would never know.

'I am a prisoner far from home,
But if you'll only steal the key,
I'll take you were the grass grows green,
And make of you a great lady.'

'I cannot go, I will not go,
And be your great lady,
For you have got a Scotland wife,
And you've got babies three.'

She's done to her father's stable,
She's done to her mother's till,
She's got the jailhouse key so large,
And she's galloped o'er the hill.

And as they galloped o'er the plain,
It was my dearling dear,
But as they came to Scotland,
Well changed was this cheer.

'Oh pity, pity, pity, please,
As I did pity thee,
Or fling me from your castle's walls
And break my slim body.'

'But how can I have pity
When you are just a whore?
Now get you back to England
Where I'll see you no more!'

'Oh false and faithless knight,' said she,
'I'll to my father's door,
And he will prove to Scotland
That I have never been whore.'

Her mother, who was truly queen,
She gently then did smile:
'You're not the first, nor only one,
The Scotsmen did beguile.'

Come all ye maidens, young and old,
Pray come, be warned of me -
Scots were never, never true.
And Scots will never be.

The Lament of the Border Widow

My love he built me a bonnie bower,
And clad it a’ wi’ lily flower;
A brawer bower ye ne’er did see
Than my true love he built for me.

There came a man by middle day,
He spied his sport and went away;
And brought the king that very night,
Who brake my bower and slew my knight.

He slew my knight, to me sae dear;
He slew my knight and poin’d his gear.
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.

I sewed his sheet, making my mane;
I watched the corpse myself alane;
I watched the body night and day—
No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat.
I digged a grave and laid him in,
And happed him wi’ the sod sae green.

But think na ye my heart was sair
When I laid the moul on his yellow hair?
O think na ye my heart was wae
When I turned about away to gae?

Nae living man I’ll love again,
Since that my lovely knight is slain;
Wi’ ae lock of his yellow hair
I’ll chain my heart for evermair.

The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat
He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away:
‘Be my feth,’ sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn,
‘I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.’

The[n] the Pers owt off Banborowe cam,
With him a myghtee meany,
With fifteen hondrith archares bold off blood and bone; and bone;
The wear chosen owt of shyars thre.

This begane on a Monday at morn,
In Cheviat the hillys so he;
The chylde may rue that ys vn-born,
It wos the mor pitt .

The dryvars thorowe the wood\es went,
For to reas the dear;
Bomen byckarte vppone the bent
With ther browd aros cleare.

Then the wyld thorowe the wood\es went,
On euery syd shear;
Greahondes thorowe the grevis glent,
For to kyll thear dear.

This begane in Chyviat the hyls abone,
Yerly on a Monnyn-day;
Be that it drewe to the oware off none,
A hondrith fat hart\es ded ther lay.

The blewe a mort vppone the bent,
The semblyde on sydis shear;
To the quyrry then the Pers went,
To se the bryttlynge off the deare.

He sayd, It was the Duglas promys
This day to met me hear;
But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;
A great oth the Pers swear.

At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde
Lokyde at his hand full ny;
He was war a the doughetie Doglas commynge,
With him a myghtt meany.

H with spear, bylle, and brande,
Yt was a myghtti sight to se;
Hardyar men, both off hart nor hande,
Wear not in Cristiant .

The wear twenti hondrith spear-men good,
Withoute any feale;
The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde,
Yth bownd\es of Tividale.

‘Leave of the brytlyng of the dear,’ he sayd,
Atend to your bo’ys lock ye tayk good hede;
For neuer sithe ye wear on your mothars borne
Had ye neuer so mickle nede.’

The dougheti Dogglas on a stede,
He rode alle his men beforne;
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;
A boldar barne was never born.

‘Tell me whos men ye ar,’ he says,
’Or whos men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays,
In the spyt of myn and of me.’

The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,
Yt was the good lord Pers:
‘We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar,’ he says,
’Nor whos men that we be;
But we wyll hounte hear in this chays,
In the spyt of thyne and of the.

‘The fattiste hart\es in all Chyviat
E haue kyld, and cast to carry them away:’
‘Be my troth,’ sayd the doughet Dogglas agay[n],
’Therfor the ton of vs shal de this day.’

Then sayd the dought Doglas
Unto the lord Pers:
‘To kyll alle thes giltles men,
Alas, it wear great pitt !

But, Pers, thowe art a lord of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contr;
Let all our men vppone a parti stande,
And do the battell off the and of me.’

‘Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne,’ sayd the lorde Pers,
’Who-so-euer ther-to says nay!
Be my troth, doughtte Doglas,’ he says,
’Thow shalt neuer se that day.

‘Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,
Nor for no man of a woman born,
But, and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him, on man for on.’

Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde,
Richard Wytharyngton was him nam;
‘It shal neuer be told in Sothe-Ynglonde,’ he says,
’To Kyng Herry the Fourth for sham.

‘I wat youe byn great lord\es twaw,
I am a poor squyar of lande;
I wylle neuer se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
And stande my selffe and loocke on,
But whylle I may my weppone welde,
I wylle not [fayle] both hart and hande.’

That day, that day, that dredfull day!
The first fit here I fynde;
And youe wyll here any mor a the hountynge a the Chyviat,
Yet ys ther mor behynde.

The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,
Ther hartes wer good yenoughe;
The first off arros that the shote off,
Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.

Yet byddys the yerle Doglas vppon the bent,
A captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.

The Dogglas partyd his ost in thre,
Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde;
With suar spears off myghtt tre,
The cum in on euery syde;

Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery
Gave many a wounde fulle wyde;
Many a doughet the garde to dy,
Which ganyde them no pryde.

The Ynglyshe men let ther bo’ys be,
And pulde owt brandes that wer brighte;
It was a hevy syght to se
Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.

Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple,
Many sterne the strocke done streght;
Many a freyke that was fulle fre,
Ther vndar foot dyd lyght.

At last the Duglas and the Pers met,
Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
The swapte toghethar tylle the both swat,
With swordes that wear of fyn myllan.

Thes worth freckys for to fyght,
Ther-to the wear fulle fayne,
Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,
As euer dyd heal or ra[y]n.

‘Yelde the, Pers,’ sayde the Doglas,
A+end i feth I shalle the brynge
Wher thowe shalte haue a yerls wagis
Of Jamy our Skottish kynge.

‘Thoue shalte haue thy ransom fre,
I hight the hear this thinge;
For the manfullyste man yet art thowe
That euer I conqueryd in filde fighttynge.’

‘Nay,’ sayd the lord Pers,
‘I tolde it the beforne,
That I wolde neuer yeldyde be
To no man of a woman born.’

With that ther cam an arrowe hastely,
Forthe off a myghtt wane;
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas
In at the brest-bane.

Thorowe lyvar and long\es bathe
The sharpe arrowe ys gane,
That neuer after in all his lyffe-days
He spayke mo word\es but ane:
That was, Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may,
For my lyff-days ben gan.

The Pers leanyde on his brande,
And sawe the Duglas de;
He tooke the dede mane by the hande,
And sayd, Wo ys me for the!

‘To haue savyde thy lyffe, I wolde haue partyde with
My landes for years thre,
For a better man, of hart nare of hande,
Was nat in all the north contr .’

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght,
Was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry;
He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght,
He spendyd a spear, a trusti tre.

e rod vppone a corsiare
Throughe a hondrith archery:
He neuer stynttyde, nar neuer blane,
Tylle he cam to the good lord Pers .

He set vppone the lorde Pers
A dynte that was full soare;
With a suar spear of a myghte tre
Clean thorow the body he the Pers ber,

A the tothar syde that a man myght se
A large cloth-yard and mare:
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiant
Then that day slan wear ther.

An archar off Northomberlonde
Say slean was the lord Pers ;
He bar a bende bowe in his hand,
Was made off trusti tre.

An arow that a cloth-yarde was lang
To the harde stele halyde he;
A dynt that was both sad and soar
He sat on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and sar
That he of Monggomberry sete;
The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar
With his hart-blood the wear wete.

Ther was neuer a freake wone foot wolde fle,
But still in stour dyd stand,
Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the myghte dre,
With many a balfull brande.

This battell begane in Chyviat
An owar befor the none,
And when even-songe bell was rang,
The battell was nat half done.

The tocke . . on ethar hande
Be the lyght off the mone;
Many hade no strenght for to stande,
In Chyviat the hillys abon.

Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde
Went away but seuenti and thre;
Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,
But even five and fifti.

But all wear slayne Cheviat within;
The hade no streng[th]e to stand on hy;
The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
It was the mor pitt .

Thear was slayne, withe the lord Pers,
Ser Johan of Agerstone,
Ser Rogar, the hinde Hartly,
Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone.

Ser Jorg, the worth Loumle,
A knyghte of great renowen,
Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe,
With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharryngton my harte was wo,
That euer he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
Yet he knyled and fought on hys kny.

Ther was slayne, with the dougheti Duglas,
Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry,
Ser Dauy Lwdale, that worth was,
Is sistars son was he.

Ser Charls a Murr in that place,
That neuer a foot wolde fle;
Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was,
With the Doglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the mayde them byears
Off birch and hasell so g[r]ay;
Many wedous, with wepyng tears,
Cam to fache ther makys away.

Tivydale may carpe off care,
Northombarlond may mayk great mon,
For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear
On the March-parti shall neuer be non.

Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe,
To Jamy the Skottishe kynge,
That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches, Marches,
He lay slean Chyviot within.

His handd s dyd he weal and wryn7 he sayd,
Alas, and woe ys me!
Such an othar captayn Skotland within,
He sayd, ye-feth shuld neuer be.

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone,
Till the fourth Harry our kynge,
That lord Pers, leyff-tenante of the Marchis,
He lay slayne Chyviat within.

‘God haue merci on his solle,’ sayde Kyng Harry,
’Good lord, yf thy will it be!
I haue a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde,’ he sayd,
A+es good as euer was he:
But, Pers, and I brook my lyffe,
Thy deth well quyte shall be.’

As our noble kynge mayd his avowe,
Lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Pers
He dyde the battell of Hombyll-down;

Wher syx and thritt Skottishe knyghtes
On a day wear beaten down;
Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght,
Over castille, towar, and town.

This was the hontynge off the Cheviat,
That tear begane this spurn;
Old men that knowen t8e grownde well yenoughe
Call it the battell of Otterburn.

At Otterburn begane this spurne,
Vppone a Monnynday;
Ther was the dought Doglas slean,
The Pers neuer went away.

Ther was neuer a tym on the Marche-parts
Sen the Doglas and the Pers met,
But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not,
As the reane doys in the stret.

Jhesue Crist our balys bete,
And to the blys vs brynge!
Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat:
God send vs alle good endyng!

THE RAID OF REIDSWIRE.
(From 'Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.')

The seventh of July, the suith to say,
At the Reidswire the tryst was set;
Our wardens they affixed the day,
And, as they promised, so they met.
Alas! that day I'll ne'er forgen!
Was sure sae feard, and then sae faine-
They came theare justice for to gett
Will never green to come again.

Carmichael was our warden then,
He caused the country to conveen;
And the Laird's Wat, that worthie man,
Brought in that sirname weil beseen:
The Armestranges, that aye hae been
A hardie house, but not a hail,
The Elliot's honours to maintaine,
Brought down the lave o' Liddesdale.

Then Tividale came to wi' speid;
The sheriffe brought the Douglas down,
Wi' Cranstane, Gladstain, good at need
Baith Rewle water, and Hawick town.
Beanjeddart bauldly made him boun,
Wi' a' the Trurnbills, stronge and stout;
The Rutherfoords, with grit renown,
Convoyed the town of Jedbrugh out.

Of other clans I cannot tell,
Because our warning was not wide -
Be this our folks hae taen the fell,
And planted down pallionesthere to bide.
We looked down the other side,
And saw come breasting ower the brae,
Wi' Sir John Forster for their guyde,
Full fifteen hundred men and mae.

It grieved him sair, that day, I trow,
Wi' Sir George Hearoune of Schipsydehouse:
Because we were not men enow,
They counted us not worth a louse.
Sir George was gentle, meek, and douse,
But he was hail and het as fire;
And yet, for all his cracking crouse,
He rewd the raid o' the Reidswire.

To deal with proud men is but pain;
For either must ye fight or flee,
Or else no answer make again,
But play the beast, and let them be.
It was na wonder he was hie,
Had Tindaill, Reedsdaill, at his hand,
Wi' Cukdaill, Gladsdaill on the lee,
And Hebsrime, and Northumberland

Yett was our meeting meek enough,
Begun wi' merriment and mowes,
And at the brae, aboon the heugh,
The clark sate down to call the rowes
And some for kyne, and some for ewes,
Called in of Dandrie, Hob, and Jock -
We saw, come marching ower the knows,
Five hundred Fennicks in a flock.

With jack and speir, and bows all bent,
And warlike weapons at their will:
Although we were na well content,
Yet be my trouth, we feard no ill.
Some gaed to drink, and some stude still,
And some to cards and dice them sped;
Till on ane Farnstein they fyled a bill,
And he was fugitive and fled.

Carmichael bade them speik out plainlie,
And cloke no cause for ill nor good;
The other, answering him as vainlie,
Began to reckon kin and blood:
He raise, and raxed him where he stood,
And bade him match him with his marrows,
Then Tindaill heard them reasun rude,
And they loot off a flight of arrows.

Then was there nought but bow and speir,
And every man pulled out a brand;
"A Schafton and a Fenwick" thare:
Gude Symington was slain frae hand.
The Scotsmen cried on other to stand,
Frae time they saw John Robson slain -
What should they cry? the King's command
Could cause no cowards turn again.

Up rose the laird to red the cumber,
Which would not be for all his boast
What could we doe with sic a number?
Fyve thousand men into a host.
Then Henry Purdie proved his cost,
And very narrowlie had mischiefed him,
And there we had our warden lost,
Wert not the grit God he relieved him.

Another throw the breiks him bair,
Whill flatlies to the ground he fell:
Than thought I weel we had lost him there,
Into my stomack it struck a knell!
Yet up he raise the treuth to tell ye,
And laid about him dints full dour;
His horsemen they raid sturdily,
And stude about him in the stoure.

Then raise the slogan with ane shout -
"Fy Tindaill to it! Jedbrugh's here!"
I trow he was not half sae stout,
But anis his stomach was asteir.
With gun and genzie, bow and speir,
Men might see mony a cracked crown!
But up amang the merchant geir,
They were as busy as we were down.

The swallow tail frae tackles flew,
Five hundreth flain into a flight,
But we had pestelets anow,
And shot among them as we might.
With help of God the game gaed right,
Frae time the foremost of them fell;
Then ower the know, without goodnight,
They ran with mony a shout and yell.

But after they had turned backs,
Yet Tindaill men they turned again;
And had not been the merchant packs,
There had been mae of Scotland slain.
But, Jesu! if the folks were fain
To put the bussing on their thies;
And so they fled, wi' a' their main,
Down ower the brae, like clogged bees.

Sir Francis Russell ta'en was there,
And hurt, as we hear men rehearse;
Proud Wallinton was wounded sair,
Albeit he be a Fennick fierce.
But if ye wald a souldier search,
Among them a' were ta'en that night,
Was nane sae wordie to put in verse,
As Collingwood, that courteous knight.

Young Henry Schafton, he is hurt;
A souldier shot him wi' a bow:
Scotland has cause to mak great sturt,
For laiming of the laird of Mow.
The Laird's Wat did weel, indeed;
His friends stood stoutlie by himsel',
With little Gladstain, gude in need,
For Gretein kend na gude be ill.

The Sheriffe wanted not gude will,
Howbeit he might not fight so fast;
Beanjeddart,t, Hundlie, and Hunthill,
Three, on they laid weel at the last.
Except the horsemen of the guard,
I could put men to availe,
None stoutlier stood out for their laird
Nor did the lads of Liddisdail.

But little harness had we there;
But auld Badreule had on a jack,
And did right weel, I you declare,
With all his Trurnbills at his back.
Gude Edderstane was not to lack,
Nor Kirktoun; Newton, noble men!
Thirs all the specials I of speake,
By others that I could not ken.

Lord Bateman

He sailed east, and he sailed west,
Until he came to proud Turkey;
Where he was taken, and put to prison,
Until his life was almost weary.

And in this prison there grew a tree,
It grew so stout, and grew so strong;
Where he was chained by the middle,
Until his life was almost gone.

This Turk he had one only daughter,
The fairest creature my eyes did see;
She stole the keys of her father's prison,
And swore Lord Bateman she would set free.

'Have you got houses? Have you got lands?
Or does Northumberland belong to thee?
What would you give to the fair young lady
That out of prison would set you free?'

'I have got houses, I have got lands,
And half Northumberland belongs to me
I'll give it all to the fair young lady
That out of prison would set me free.'

O! then she took him to her father's hall,
And gave to him the best of wine;
And every health she drank unto him,
'I wish, Lord Bateman, that you were mine!

'Now in seven years I'll make a vow,
And seven years I'll keep it strong,
If you'll wed with no other woman,
I will wed with no other man.'

O! then she took him to her father's harbour,
And gave to him a ship of fame;
'Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,
I'm afraid I ne'er shall see you again.'

Now seven long years are gone and past,
And fourteen days, well known to thee;
She packed up all her gay clothing,
And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.

But when she came to Lord Bateman's castle,
So boldly she rang the bell;
'Who's there? who's there?' cried the proud porter,
'Who's there? Unto me come tell.'

'O! is this Lord Bateman's castle?
Or is his Lordship here within?'
'O, yes! O, yes!' cried the young porter,
'He's just now taken his new bride in.'

'O! tell him to send me a slice of bread,
And a bottle of the best wine;
And not forgetting the fair young lady
Who did release him when close confine.'

Away, away went this proud young porter,
Away, away, and away went he,
Until he came to Lord Bateman's chamber,
Down on his bended knees fell he.

'What news, what news, my proud young porter?
What news hast thou brought unto me?'
'There is the fairest of all young creatures
That ever my two eyes did see!

'She has got rings on every finger,
And round one of them she has got three,
And as much gay clothing round her middle
As would buy all Northumberlea.

'She bids you send her a slice of bread,
And a bottle of the best wine;
And not forgetting the fair young lady
Who did release you when close confine.

'Lord Bateman he then in a passion flew,
And broke his sword in splinters three;
Saying, 'I will give all my father's riches
If Sophia has crossed the sea.

' Then up spoke the young bride's mother,
Who never was heard to speak so free,
'You'll not forget my only daughter,
If Sophia has crossed the sea.'

'I own I made a bride of your daughter,
She's neither the better nor worse for me;
She came to me with her horse and saddle,
She may go back in her coach and three.'

Lord Bateman prepared another marriage,
And sang, with heart so full of glee,
I'll range no more in foreign countries,
Now since Sophia has crossed the sea.'

THE KEACH I' THE CREEL

'O! where live ye my bonny lass,
I pray thee tell to me;
For gin the nicht were ever sae mirk,
I wad come and visit thee, thee;
I wad come and visit thee.'

'O! my father he aye locks the door,
My mither keeps the key;
And gin ye were ever sic a wily wicht,
Ye canna win in to me, me;
Ye canna win in to me.'

But the clerk he had ae true brother,
And a wily wicht was he;
And he has made a lang ladder,
Was thirty steps and three, three;
Was thirty steps and three.

He has made a cleek but and a creel -
A creel but and a pin;
And he's away to the chimley-top,
And he's letten the bonny clerk in, in;
And he's letten the bonny clerk in.

The auld wife, being not asleep,
Tho' late, late was the hour;
I'll lay my life,' quo' the silly auld wife,
'There's a man i' our dochter's bower, bower;
There's a man i' our dochter's bower.'

The auld man he gat owre the bed,
To see if the thing was true;
But she's ta'en the bonny clerk in her arms,
And covered him owre wi' blue, blue;
And covered him owre wi' blue.

'O! where are ye gaun now, father?' she says,
'And where are ye gaun sae late?
Ye've disturbed me in my evening prayers,
And O! but they were sweit, sweit;
And O! but they were sweit.'

'O! ill betide ye, silly auld wife,
And an ill death may ye dee;
She has the muckle buik in her arms,
And she's prayin' for you and me, me;
And she's prayin' for you and me.'

The auld wife being not asleep,
Then something mair was said;
'I'll lay my life,' quo' the silly auld wife,
'There's a man by our dochter's bed, bed;
There's a man by our dochter's bed.'

The auld wife she gat owre the bed,
To see if the thing was true;
But what the wrack took the auld wife's fit?
For into the creel she flew, flew;
For into the creel she flew.

The man that was at the chimley-top,
Finding the creel was fu',
He wrappit the rape round his left shouther,
And fast to him he drew, drew:
And fast to him he drew.

'O, help! O, help! O, hinny, noo, help!
O, help! O, hinny, do!
For HIM that ye aye wished me at,
He's carryin' me off just noo, noo;
He's carryin' me off just noo.'

'O! if the foul thief's gotten ye,
I wish he may keep his haud;
For a' the lee lang winter nicht,
Ye'll never lie in your bed, bed;
Ye'll never lie in your bed.'

He's towed her up, he's towed her down,
He's towed her through an' through;
'O, Gude! assist,' quo' the silly auld wife,
'For I'm just departin' noo, noo;
For I'm just departin' noo.'

He's towed her up, he's towed her down,
He's gien her a richt down fa',
Till every rib i' the auld wife's side,
Played nick nack on the wa', wa';
Played nick nack on the wa'.

O! the blue, the bonny, bonny blue,
And I wish the blue may do weel;
And every auld wife that's sae jealous o' her dochter,
May she get a good keach i' the creel, creel;
May she get a good keach i' the creel!

BLOW THE WINDS, I-HO!

There was a shepherd's son,
He kept sheep on yonder hill;
He laid his pipe and his crook aside,
And there he slept his fill.

And blow the winds, I-ho!
Sing, blow the winds, I-ho!
Clear away the morning dew,
And blow the winds, I-ho!

He looked east, and he looked west,
He took another look,
And there he spied a lady gay,
Was dipping in a brook.

She said, 'Sir, don't touch my mantle, Come, let my clothes alone; I
will give you as much money
As you can carry home.'

'I will not touch your mantle,
I'll let your clothes alone;
I'll take you out of the water clear,
My dear, to be my own.'

He did not touch her mantle,
He let her clothes alone;
But he took her from the clear water,
And all to be his own.

He set her on a milk-white steed,
Himself upon another;
And there they rode along the road,
Like sister, and like brother.

And as they rode along the road,
He spied some cocks of hay;
'Yonder,' he says, 'is a lovely place
For men and maids to play!'

And when they came to her father's gate,
She pulled at a ring;
And ready was the proud porter
For to let the lady in.

And when the gates were open,
This lady jumped in;
She says, 'You are a fool without,
And I'm a maid within.

'Good morrow to you, modest boy,
I thank you for your care;
If you had been what you should have been,
I would not have left you there.

'There is a horse in my father's stable,
He stands beyond the thorn;
He shakes his head above the trough,
But dares not prie the corn.

'There is a bird in my father's flock
A double comb he wears;
He flaps his wings, and crows full loud,
But a capon's crest he bears.

'There is a flower in my father's garden, They call it marygold;
The fool that will not when he may,
He shall not when he wold.'

Said the shepherd's son, as he doft his shoon,
'My feet they shall run bare,
And if ever I meet another maid,
I rede that maid beware.'