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 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 LTiiouGH various collections of Britisli Ballads have been 
 published, from time to time, since the elegant mind, re- 
 fined taste, and sound judgment, of Bishop Percy were 
 '-^-■-.^^ brought to bear upon the interesting and important sub- 
 ject, no attempt has been made to select and arrange, in a popular 
 form, the best of these Ballads, from the several volumes in which they 
 are scattered, and mixed up with a mass of inferior, or objectionable, 
 compositions. This appears, indeed, to have been almost the only 
 department of our " Polite Literature," to which public attention 
 has not been adequately directed. Yet, without subscribing to the 
 opinion, attributed to high authorities, — " Give me the making of 
 
 203GX;'18
 
 ii IXTRODVCTIOS. 
 
 National BullaJs, and I ciiit- not wlio makes the Laws," — it requires no 
 argument to prove their powerful influence, over the thoughts and 
 feelings of all classes — the cultivated as well as the uncultivated. It is 
 not too much to say, that in " uncivill ages" no source of instruction 
 was so fertile, — and no missionary so effective in moulding the general 
 sentiment, as " the blindc crowder" — it may have been, — "who, witli no 
 rougher voice than rude style," stirred up the sympathies of the multi- 
 tude, and moved even the great heart of Sidney " more than with a 
 trumpet." Nor can he be considered a visionary, who would draw con- 
 elusions, as to the pre-eminently moral character of Great Britain, from 
 the fact, that the songs which encourage virtue and justice, uphold heroic 
 fortitude, and inculcate, as an axiom, that " God defends the right," have 
 been, in all ages, tlie chiefest " darlings of the common people." 
 
 The Editor will endeavour to form a selection that sliall be agreeable 
 and interesting to the general reader, and not unsatisfactory to the 
 antiquary and the scholar. It is, however, an essential p;irt of his 
 design, to collect only the Ballads that appear most worthy of preser- 
 vation, — and not to reprint those which have no stronger i-ecommendation 
 than their rarity ; — rejecting none, because tliey are already sufficiently 
 knowTi, and accepting none, because tiiey are merely scarce. It will 
 be his duty to decline no labour tluit may give completeness to his task ; 
 and to omit no opportunities of consulting available sources of infor- 
 mation, whether accessible to all readers, or to be obtained only by 
 patient industry and careful search. His plan, in its several details, 
 it is unnecessary for him to explain, inasmuch as it is here sufficiently 
 developed. It will be perceived, that he has not modernised the ortho- 
 graphy ; believing, that "these old and antique songs" will bu most 
 readily welcomed in their ancient dress, — 
 
 "The gail) our Muses wore in former years." 
 
 It will not, however, be expedient to follow any chronological 
 order ; to do so, with accuracy, would be indeed impossible, for 
 there are few of the more ancient compositions to which any date
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ill 
 
 can be assigned. The Editor will, therefore, consider liimself justi- 
 fied in so arranging these Ballads as to obtain variety, both of stylo 
 and illustration, without regard to the period at which tliey were 
 written, or tlie sources in which they originated ; prefacing each by 
 such explanatory remarks as shall conununicate all the information he 
 can obtain concerning its history. 
 
 In illustrating the work, he has been ambitious, so to apply the 
 great and admitted capabilities of British Art, as to prove that the 
 embellished volumes of Germany and France are not of unapproachable 
 excellence, in reference eith.er to design or execution. He believes 
 himself warranted in stating, that as the work progresses, he will be 
 enabled to submit examples of the genius of a large proportion of the 
 more accomplished artists of Great Britain — as exhibited in drawing 
 upon wood. The supremacy of our English engravers, in this class of 
 Art, has been long established.
 
 m^-^ 
 
 modern, 
 
 ^^^ EVY-CHACE. Of the old heroic ballad of "Chevy- 
 vS^'' Chace," thus wrote Sir Philip Sidney: — " I never 
 "" heard the old song of Pereie and Douglas, that 
 
 I found not my heart moved, more than with a 
 trumpet: and yet it is sung but by some blinde 
 crowder, with no rougher voice, than rude style ; which 
 beeing so evill apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that 
 uncivill age, what would it work, trimmed in the gorgeous 
 eloquence of Pindare !" There can be no doubt that he 
 referred to the very ancient, and not to the comparatively 
 f D modern, ballad ; yet Mr. Addison, quoting the great authority, 
 
 applies it to the latter, — an error that did not escape the penetration of 
 Dr. Percy, who printed both ; — the more ancient, from the preface to " Gul. New- 
 brigiensis Hist.," by the learned antiquary Thomas Heame, — (by whom, the 
 authorship is assigned to " R. Sheale ;") — the more recent, from " the common stall 
 copies." The older seems to have been forgotten, until revived in the " Reliques 
 of Ancient English Poetry;" for Mr. Addison confines his criticism to the modern 
 version, with which only he was acquainted ; and it does not appear that any of his 
 contemporaries detected the mistake. 
 
 The style of the old ballad, Dr. Percy characterises as " uncommonly rugged and 
 uncouth;" and "the soul of chivalry," Sir Philip Sidney, describes it as "apparelled 
 in the dust and cobweb of an uncivill age." It is, however, so full of vigour, life, 
 and action, — so grand in its natural rudeness, that few will hesitate to subscribe to 
 the opinion of Sir Walter Scott, that the current version has "lost in poetical fire and 
 energy, and in vigour and pithiness of expression, more than it has gained in suavity 
 of diction." We give, notwithstanding, the modern copy in preference to the ancient, 
 as far more intelligible to the general reader; merely extracting a verse of the latter, 
 as a sample of its rude style and rough strength : — this verse we take from the volume 
 of Heame, exactly as the antiquarian printed it, " in long lines without any division 
 of stanzas," as it was found " in the old written copy:" — 
 
 mc Ijifrsc oat off noriliomtarlanDc. anD a Ooliic to Got mapO lie 
 (Cliat l)c BolB l)untr in tlic mountanns off (TlisOiat toltjin taps lii., 
 £n tijt maagrt of trouglnc Doglts anO all Hat toct tsMt) l)tm be. 
 
 Although it was not the modern version that moved the great heart of Sidney " more 
 than a trumpet," it is undoubtedly that which, for centuries, has maintained its 
 popularity, in England, more firmly, and, perhaps, more universally, than any other 
 of the " favourites of the people." And, whether we agree with Percy, in considering 
 that the old ballad was " expressly modernised," in consequence of the " eulogium" 
 it received in the " Defence of Poetry ;" or with Scott, in believing the changes it 
 has undergone to have been "produced by the gradual alterations of numerous 
 reciters," there can be but one opinion as to its beauty, grandeur, force, and sim- 
 plicity, — qualities, in the happy combination of which, it is unsurpassed by any 
 composition in the language. 
 
 Such border feuds as that of Chevy-Chace were of frequent occurrence; and 
 although no authentic historical documents exist to determine precisely tlie period
 
 had been previously " taken from liim' 
 
 ..t[) 
 
 at which the " woeful hunting" actually occurred, there is no douht that a battle 
 was fought under circumstances such as those recorded in the ballad, and as little 
 that the old poem, by which it is conimeniorated, was composed soon after the 
 evenL Evidence of its popularity has been given so early as the time of Queen 
 Elizabeth, and of its being considered, even then, as the production of an " uncivill 
 age." Reference is made to "the fourth Harry our Kyng ;" but it was written, 
 probably, during the reign of Henry the Sixth, when "James, the Scottish King," 
 the first of the name, wore the crown of Scotland. That the afl'air took place previous 
 to 1 10"J is certain; for the battle of Humbledowne, expressly alluded to, was fought 
 on the fourteenth of September of that year. 
 
 The only battle mentioned in history, wherein an earl of Douglas was slain 
 fighting with a Percy, was that of Otterbourne — the theme of several ballads, both of 
 England and Scotland. This occurred in 1388, during the reign of Richard the 
 Second ; and there are some reasons for supposing it to have been the 
 event commemorated in the ballad of Chevy- Chace. Sir 
 ■Walter Scott, inhis"Bordcr Antiquities," has pub- 
 lished an engraving of the Banner of 
 Douglas, " supposed to have 
 flli^^^v been" borneat this encounter! 
 -— ''jifj which we here copy; as well 
 as the Pennon of Percy, that 
 ' by Douglas, during an incursion of the Scots 
 into the English marches; the attempt to regain which led to the fight of Otter- 
 bourne, where Douglas was killed, and Percy was liiken prisoner. The circum- 
 stances connected with this contest, are strongly 
 characteristic of the chivalric spirit of the age. They 
 are given in Kroissart. " The Earl of Douglas had 
 a long conflict with Sir Henry Percy; and in the 
 end, by gallantry of arms, won his pennon, to the 
 great vexation of Sir Henry and the other English. 
 The Earl of Douglas said — ' I will cany this token of 
 your prowess with me to Scotland, and place it on the 
 tower of my castle at Dalkeith, that it may be seen 
 from far.' 'By God, Earl Douglas,' replied Sir Harry, 'you shall not even bear it 
 out of N'orthumberland.' ' You must come, then,' answered Earl Douglas, ' this 
 night, and, if you « ill, venture to take it aw.ay.' " 
 
 A copy of this ballad — partly in black letter, with which we have collated the text 
 of Dr. Percy — is preserved in the folio collection at the British Museum. One, how- 
 ever, much older, and more perfect, is in the Pepysian Collection, in the library of 
 Magdalen College, Cambridge. Dr. Percy does not state that he had compared his text 
 with this edition ; and it is singular that it siiould have escaped his notice; for he was 
 intimately ac<}uainted with the collection, to which he makes frequent reiercnce in 
 the course of his work. That he overlooked it, we have little doubt; for although 
 the dilferences are not many, nor very material, they are so obviously improvements, 
 that he could not have hesitated to adopt them. We have introduced them in nearly 
 every instance ; the reader may ascertain their value by taking the trouble to com- 
 pare our copy with that of Dr. Percy. 
 
 >..'^^>r^g^ 
 
 m^^ss
 
 ■^■ mL "iM i ^ — ^ ^i jii- ugrr 
 
 
 OD prosper loiij; our noble kina 
 Our lives and safetyes all ; 
 ■yy A woeful hvintinir once there dii 
 In Chevy-Chace befall. 
 
 To drive the deere with hound and horn; 
 
 Erie Percy took his way ; 
 The child may rue that is unborne, 
 
 The hunting of that day.
 
 ; 
 
 (Tftrbii-crftntc. 
 
 "^ 
 
 St . • 7L- jt,:x. 
 
 K^ 
 
 Tlie stout Eric of Noitluiinherlaiul 
 
 A vow to Ciod did make, 
 His pleasure in the Scottish woods 
 
 Three summer days to take ; 
 
 Tlie cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace 
 
 To kill and beare away. 
 These tydiiiijs to Erie l)ouj);las came, 
 
 In Seottland where lie lay : 
 
 Who sent Erie Percy present word, 
 
 He wold prevent his s])ort. 
 The Enfilish Erie, not fearing that. 
 
 Did to the woods resort, 
 
 With fifteen hundred bow-men bold ; 
 
 All chosen men of might, 
 \\ ho knew full 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. 
 
 When day-light did appeare; 
 
 And long before high noonc they had 
 An hundred fat buckes slaine ; 
 
 Then having dined, the drovycrs went 
 To rouze the deere againe. 
 
 The bow-men mustered on the hills, 
 
 Well able to endure ; 
 And all their reare, with speciall care. 
 
 That day was 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. 
 
 J. Pmnklln deL 
 
 T Winiamn tc
 
 Lord Percy to the quarry went, 
 To view the slaughter'd deere ; 
 
 Quoth he, ' Erie Douglas promised 
 This day to meet me heere : 
 
 But if I thought he wold not come, 
 
 Noe longer wold I stay.' 
 With that, a brave younge gentleman 
 
 Thus to the Erie did say : 
 
 ' Loe, yonder doth Erie Douglas come. 
 
 His men in armour bright : 
 Full twenty hundred Scottish speres 
 
 All marching in our sight : 
 
 AH men of pleasant Tivydale, 
 
 Fast by the river Tweede :' 
 ' Then cease your sports,' Erie Percy said, 
 
 ' And take your bowes with speede : 
 
 And now with me, my countrymen. 
 Your courage forth advance ; 
 
 For never was there champion yett. 
 In Scottland or in France, 
 
 That ever did on horsebacke come. 
 
 But if my hap it were, 
 I durst encounter man for man. 
 
 With him to break a spere.' 
 
 Erie Douglas on his niilke-white steede, 
 
 INIost like a baron bold. 
 Rode Ibrmost of his company, 
 
 ■\^liose armour shone like gold. 
 
 ' Show me,' sayd hee, ' whose men you bee, 
 
 That hunt soe boldly heere, 
 That, without my consent, do chase 
 
 And kill my fallow-deere." 
 
 !'( 
 
 Franklin de*. .
 
 The first man that did answer make, 
 
 Was noble Percy hec ; 
 Wlio sayd, ' Wee list not to declare, 
 
 Nor show whose men wee bee : 
 
 Yet will wee spend our deerest blood, 
 Thy cheefest harts to slay.' 
 
 Then Douglas swore a solemne oathe, 
 And thus in rage did say, — 
 
 ' Ere thus I will out -braved bee, 
 
 One of us two shall dye : 
 I know thee well, an erle thou art ; 
 
 Lord Percy, soe am I. 
 
 Hut trust me, Percy, pittye it were. 
 
 And great oU'encc to kill 
 Any of these our guiltlesse men, 
 
 For they have done no ill. 
 
 I, el thou and 1 the l)attell trye, 
 
 And set our men aside.' 
 ' Accurst bee he,' Erie Percy sayd, 
 
 ' By whome this is denyed.' 
 
 Then stept a gallant squicr forth, 
 Wilherington was liis name, 
 
 Who said, ' I wold not have it told 
 To Henry our king for shame. 
 
 That ere my captaine fought on foote, 
 
 And I stood looking on. 
 ■^'ou two bee erles,' quo' Witherington, 
 
 ' And I a squicr alone : 
 
 He doe the best that doe I may, 
 Wiile I have power to stand : 
 
 While I have power to weeld my sword. 
 He fiffht with heart and hand.' 
 
 !l^ 
 
 Armtitroog.tc
 
 Our English archers bent their bowes, 
 Their hearts were good and trew ; 
 
 Alt the first fliglit of arrowes sent, 
 Full four-score Scots they slew. 
 
 Yet bides Erie Douglas on the bent, 
 As chieftain stout and good ; 
 
 As valiant captain, all unmov'd 
 The shock he firmly stood. 
 
 His host he parted had in three. 
 
 As leader ware and try'd ; 
 And soon his spearmen on their foes 
 
 Bare down on every side. 
 
 Throughout the English archery 
 They dealt full many a wound : 
 
 But still our valiant Englishmen 
 All firmly kept their ground : 
 
 And throwing strait their bowes away, 
 They grasp'd their swords so bright : 
 
 And now sharp blows, a heavy shower. 
 On shields and helmets light.* 
 
 They closed fidl fast on everye side, 
 Noe slacknes there was found ; 
 
 And man}' a gallant gentleman 
 Lay gasping on the ground. 
 
 • The four preceding stanzas, taken chieny from 
 the old ballad, were introduced by Dr. Percy, in lieu of 
 the following stanza: — 
 
 "To drive the deere with houndc and home, 
 Douglas bade on the bent : 
 Two captaines moved with mickle might 
 Their speres to shivers went." 
 These lines are, as Dr. Percy states, " confused and ob- 
 scure." — and seriously interrupt the progress of the story. 
 Tlie black letter copies, in the British Museum and the 
 Pepysian Library, instead of "two captains," have "a 
 captain ;" and " the spere," in lieu of " their speres." 
 
 Franklin d5l.
 
 (iTj^tby-yrftnct. 
 
 W 
 
 Christ ! it was a griefe to see, 
 
 How each one chose l>is spere, 
 And how the blood out of their brests 
 Did gush like water eleere. 
 
 At last these two stout cries did meet, 
 Like captaines of great might : 
 
 Like Ijons wode, they layd on lode. 
 And made a crucll fight : 
 
 They fought untill they both did sweat, 
 AVitli swords of tempered Steele ; 
 
 Until the blood, like drops of rain, 
 They trickling downe did feele. 
 
 ' Yeeld thee, Lord Percy,' Douglas sayd ; 
 
 ' In faith I will thee briiige, 
 Where thou shalt high advanced bee 
 
 IJy 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 Erie Percy then, 
 ' Thy proffer I doe scorne ; 
 
 1 will not yeelde to any Scott, 
 
 That ever yctt was borne.' 
 
 With that, there came an arrow keene 
 
 Out of an English bow. 
 Which struck Eric Douglas to the heart, 
 
 A decpe and deadlye blow ; 
 
 Who never spake more words than these, 
 ' Fight on, my merry men all ; 
 
 For why, my life is at an end ; 
 Lord I'ercy sees my fall.' 
 
 11 
 
 I
 
 ''1m ' J -" ■ ""^'C^'&t^J'?':'? 
 
 
 Then leaving life, Erie Percy tooke 
 The dead man by the hand ; 
 
 And said, ' Erie Douglas, for thj' life 
 AVold I had lost my land. 
 
 O Christ ! my verry heart doth bleed 
 ^^ ith sorrow for thy sake ; 
 
 For sure, a more redoubted knicrht 
 ^Mischance did never take.' 
 
 A knight amongst the Scotts there was. 
 Which saw Erie Douglas dye. 
 
 Who streight in wrath did vow revenge 
 Upon the Erie Percy : 
 
 Sir Hugh ilountgomery was he call'd, 
 ^Mio, with a spere full bright, 
 
 Well-mounted on a gallant steed. 
 Ran fiercely through the fight ; 
 
 And past the English archers all. 
 
 Without a dread or feare ; 
 And through Erie Percy's body then 
 He thrust his hatefidl spere ; 
 
 With such vehement force and miglit 
 
 He did his body gore. 
 The staff' ran through the other side 
 
 A large cloth-yard, and more. 
 
 So thus did both these nobles dye. 
 Whose courage none could staine : 
 
 An English archer then perceiv'd 
 The noble erle was slaine : 
 
 He had a bow bent in his hand. 
 
 Made of a trusty tree ; 
 An arrow of a cloth-yard long 
 
 To the hard head haled he : 
 
 F.-auklin, del.
 
 (1 
 
 1, 
 
 II 
 
 ,' i 
 
 Against Sir Hugh Mountgonicry 
 
 So right the shaft he sett ; 
 The grey goose wing that was thereon 
 
 In liis hearts bloode was wett. 
 
 This fight did last from breake of day, 
 
 Till setting of the sunnc ; 
 For when they rung the evening-bell, 
 
 The battel scarce was done. 
 
 With stout Erie Percy, there was slainc 
 
 Sir John of Egerton, 
 Sir Robert Ratcliif, and Sir John, 
 
 Sir James, that bold barron. 
 
 And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
 Both knights of good account. 
 
 Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, 
 Whose prowesse did surmount. 
 
 For Witherington my heart is woe. 
 That ever he slaine shold be : 
 
 For when his legs were hewn in two 
 He knelt and fouglit on his knee.* 
 
 And with Erie Douglas, there was slaine 
 
 Sir Hugh Mountgomery, 
 Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld 
 
 One foote wold never flee. 
 
 Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, 
 
 His sisters Sonne was hee ; 
 Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, 
 
 Hut saved he cold not bee. 
 
 * Tliis stanza is introduced from the old ballad — 
 in accordance with tlie suggestion of Dr. Percy; for 
 although the death of Witlierington, as described in 
 the ancient copy, is exquisitely touching, in the 
 motlern version it " never fails to excite ridicule." 
 
 _^ ^ ^L 
 
 10
 
 ^"^^ 
 
 
 And the Lord Maxwell in like case 
 Did with Erie Douglas dye : 
 
 Of twenty hundred Scottish spares, 
 Scarce fifty-five did flye. 
 
 Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 
 
 Went home but fifty-three ; 
 The rest in Chevy-Chase were slaine, 
 
 Under the greene woode tree. 
 
 Next day did many widdowes come, 
 
 Their husbands to bewayle ; 
 They washt their wounds in brinish teares. 
 
 But all wold not prevayle. 
 
 Their 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 Scottlands king did raigne, 
 
 That brave Erie Douglas suddenlye 
 Was with an arrow slaine : 
 
 ' O heavy newes,' King James did say, 
 
 ' Scottland can witnesse bee, 
 I have not any captaine more 
 
 Of such account as hee.' 
 
 Like tydings to King Henry came, 
 
 Within as short a space. 
 That Percy of Northumberland 
 
 Was slaine in Chevy-Chase : 
 
 ' Now God be with him,' said our king, 
 
 ' Sith 't will noe better bee ; 
 I trust I have, within mj' realme. 
 
 Five hundred as good as hee : 
 
 Armstrong, gc
 
 Yctt shall not Scotts nor Scottland say, 
 
 But I will vengeance take : 
 1 '11 be revenged on them all, 
 
 For brave I'lrle Percy's sake.' 
 
 Tliis vow full well the king perforni'd 
 
 After, at 1 1 unibledowne ; 
 In one day, fifty knights were slayne, 
 
 With lords of high rcnowne : 
 
 And of the rest, of small account, 
 
 Did many hundreds dye. 
 Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, 
 
 Made by the Erie Percy. 
 
 God save the king, and bless this land 
 M'ith plentj-e, joy, and peace ; 
 
 And grant, henceforth, that foule debate 
 "I'wixt noblemen may cease. 
 
 ft t 
 
 /r 
 
 >^. 
 
 ■.f 
 
 R> V 
 
 r 
 

 
 that— 
 
 HE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD is characterised by 
 B^V\ Mr. Addison, as "one of the darling songs of the 
 Jrjjj common people," and "the delight of most Eng- 
 i^^'Jl lishmen in some part of their age." In the motto 
 prefi.xed to the essay in which he refers to it, he 
 describes it, by a quotation from Horace, as " sine pon- 
 dere et arte," — "a plain and simple copy of nature, 
 destitute of the helps and ornaments of art." Few com- 
 positions in the language have been more universally 
 read, or more extensively popular, among all classes ; so 
 
 One toucli of nature makes the whole world kin ; — 
 
 for the language is mean, and the style is poor. There is, indeed, to borrow 
 from the same classic authority, "even a despicable simplicity in the verse;" 
 and he carries his notions of refinement so far as to add, that " the quoting 
 any of it would look like a design to turn it into ridicule," — an opinion by no means 
 worthy of the critic, and which conveys an ill compliment to the taste and judg- 
 ment of his readers. But it makes its way into the heart by a surer passage than 
 that of poetic grace: the sentiments are genuine and unaffected; and, therefore, 
 "they are able to move the mind of the most polite reader with inward meltings 
 of humanity and compassion." Mr. Addison perceived and appreciated the in- 
 trinsic value of the gem, through its coarse natural coating; it gave him "a most 
 exquisite pleasure," and he recommended it to popularity by a short paper in the 
 " Spectator." 
 
 According to Ritson, " it appears to have been written in 1595, being entered 
 in that year on the Stationers' Books." Dr. Percy reprinted it, — collating it with 
 another ancient edition, — from a black letter copy in the Pepys collection, where its 
 title, at large, is, "The Children in the Wood; or. The Norfolk Gentleman's Last 
 Will and Testament, to the tune of Rogero." This tune of " Rogero" we print, as 
 it is given by Ritson : — 
 
 ^^ 
 
 But Dr. Percy and Ritson are at issue as to the date of the composition. The 
 former considers the subject of the ballad to have been taken from an old play, " Of 
 a young child murthered in a wood, by two rulBns, with the consent of his unkle ; by 
 Robert Yarrington, 1601 ;" the story being similar in its leading features, although 
 the scene of the drama, is laid, not in Norfolk, but in Padua. Percy's reasons for 
 giving the merit of originality to the play-wright are by no means conclusive, and 
 the point must be considered as determined by the fact of its previous entry oil the 
 Stationers' Books. Indeed, the ballad may be said to carry with it internal evidence 
 
 ¥9
 
 of its English birlh ; ami was, most probably, founded on some actual occurrence ; 
 for its great merit lies in the apparent absence of invention, the seeming adherence 
 to plain truth, and the thorough simplicity that pervades it, as if tlie author were 
 content with the mere relation of the story — aiming at nothing but to tell a tale in 
 rhyme ; even the touching incident to which the composition is mainly indebted for 
 its fame — the babes lying unburied in the forest, — 
 
 Till robin rtDbrtast piinfulli) 
 Did contr iljtm ttiirl) Itants,— 
 
 is a picture so natural as to have resulted without an effort of imagination. The 
 justice accorded to the murderer, — the mode in which it is administered, — the way in 
 which the crime is made manifest by the confession of one of the fellows who was 
 " for a robbery judged to die," — the tracing its discovery to the " blessed will of 
 God," — the picture of the uncle dying in prison for debt,— and the moral appended 
 to the story,— may all be accepted as proofs of the English origin of the ballad. 
 
 We regard the ballad, therefore, as a very model of the pure old English style, — 
 the native species of poetry of this country ; " rough rhymes and unadorned narra- 
 tives, such" — we quote from Dr. Aikin — "as were ever the delight of the vulgar;" — 
 and although the age which gave them birth was fertile in productions infinitely 
 surpassing them in correctness, elegance, and beauty, the more simple compositions 
 were sure to have made greater way with the "common sort of people." It is so, 
 indeed, to this day; an assertion that may be readily established by reference to the 
 contents of any modern ballad-monger's stall. Many who are insensible to the 
 harmonies of refinement are readily aroused and excited by the voice of Nature. 
 
 Our version is taken, not from the " Reliques" of Dr. Percy — although the 
 accomplished prelate took few liberties with the ballad as he found it in the 
 Pepysian collection, — but from an old copy in the British Museum : — it is thus 
 entitled; "The Norfolk Gentleman's Last Will and Testament, who, on his death- 
 bed, committed the keeping of his two children, a boy and girl, to his own brother, 
 who did most wickedly cause them to be destroyed, that so he might possess himself 
 and children of the estate ; but, by the just judgments of the Almighty, himself and 
 all that he had, was destroyed from off the face of the earth. To the tune of 
 Rogero, &c. London ; Printed by and for W. D., and sold by C. Boxes, at the 
 Sun and Bible, in Gilt-Spur Street." This ballad differs in many passages from 
 that which Dr. Percy has given ; and is, we think, more true to the rugged nature 
 which the writer desired to exhibit. We have collated it, however, with that in 
 black letter, in the Pcpys Library, where its title is as follows: — "The Norfolk 
 Gentleman, his Last Will and Testament, who committed the keeping of his 
 children to his own brother, who dealt most wickedly with them, and how God 
 plagued him for it. The tune — Rogero. Printed for W. Thackeray and T. Pas- 
 singer." From this edition, we introduce a few verbal restorations ; such, for example, 
 as the word "painfully " instead of " piously," in the verse above quoted; and in 
 the line that precedes it, the words "as babes wanting relief," in lieu of "as wanting 
 due relief" The Pepysian ballad is ornamented by two coarse wood-cuts ; the prin- 
 cipal of which exhibits the robbers fighting over the sleeping babes, surrounded by 
 robin-red-breasts, who are prematurely covering them with leaves. 
 
 
 I 
 
 r^ 
 
 ^(^M 
 
 14
 
 ei-bert A R A del
 
 Wbi OfUirrn fn tbf tEiHoob. 
 
 Sore sicke lie was, and like to dye, 
 
 No lielpe his liie eould save ; 
 His wife by liim as sicke did lye, 
 
 And both possest one grave. 
 No love between these two was lost, 
 
 Each was to other kinde, 
 In love they lived, in love they dyed, 
 
 And left two babes behinde : 
 
 The one a fine and pretty boy, 
 
 Not passing three yeares olde ; 
 The other a girl more young than he. 
 
 And made in beautyes molde. 
 The father left his little son. 
 
 As plainlyc doth appeare, 
 Mlien he to perfect age should come. 
 
 Three hundred poundcs a yeare. 
 
 And to his little daughter Jane, 
 
 Two hundred poundes in gold. 
 To be paid downe on marriage-day. 
 
 Which might not be controll'd : 
 But if the children chance to dye. 
 
 Ere they to age should come. 
 Their uncle should possesse their wealth ; 
 
 For so the wille did run. 
 
 ' Now, brother,' said the dying man. 
 
 ' Look to my children deare ; 
 Be good unto my boy and girl. 
 
 No friendes else have they here : 
 To God and you I do commend 
 
 My children night and day ; 
 A little while be sure we have 
 
 Within this world to stave. 
 
 You must be father and mother both, 
 
 And luicle all in one : 
 God knowes what will become of them, 
 
 When I am dead and gone.' 
 
 Heih«rl, A E A. 'lel
 
 
 ^^^^^ 
 
 W^t ©fiiltrrcit in tf)c ffltoolJ. 
 
 With that bespake their mother deare, 
 ' O brother kinde,' quoth shee, 
 
 ' You are the man must bring my babes 
 To wealth or niiserie : 
 
 If you do keep them carefully, 
 
 Then God will you reward ; 
 If otherwise you seem to deal, 
 
 God will your deedes regard.' 
 With lippes as cold as any stone, 
 
 They kist the children small : 
 ' God bless you both, my children deare !' 
 
 With that the teares did fall. 
 
 These speeches then their brother spoke 
 
 To this sicke couple there : 
 ' The keeping of your children dear 
 
 Sweet sister, do not feare : 
 God never prosper me nor mine. 
 
 Nor aught else that I have. 
 If I do wrong your children deare, 
 
 When you are layd in grave.' 
 
 Their parents being dead and gone, 
 
 The children home he takes. 
 And brings them both unto his house, 
 
 Where much of them he makes. 
 He had not kept these pretty babes 
 
 A twelvemonth and a daye, 
 But, for their wealth, he did devise 
 
 To make them both awaye. 
 
 He bargain'd with two ruffians rude. 
 
 Which were of furious mood, 
 Tliat they shoidd take the children young, 
 
 And slay them in a wood. 
 He told his wife, and all he had, 
 
 He would the children send 
 To be brought up in faire London, 
 
 With one that was his friend. 
 
 i^ ^ 
 
 ^^^^r^=^ ^ 
 
 Herbert. A R A del. 
 
 17
 
 5^^==^- .V 
 
 €^i)c djilircn in tjjr (HiAooti. 
 
 
 Away tlien went tlic pn-tty babes, 
 
 Rejoycing at that tide, 
 Rejoycing witli a merry minde, 
 
 Tliey should on cock-horse ride. 
 Tliey prate and prattle pleasantly, 
 
 As they rode on the wave, 
 To those that should tlieir butchers be. 
 
 And work their lives decaye : 
 
 So that the pretty speeche they had, 
 
 Made murtherers heart relent : 
 And they that tooke the deed to do, 
 
 Full sore they did repent. 
 Yet one of them more hard of lieart, 
 
 Did vowe to do liis charge. 
 Because the wrcteli, that hired him, 
 
 Had paid him very large. 
 
 The other would not agree thereto, 
 
 So liere they fell at strife ; 
 Willi one another they did fight, 
 
 About the eliildrens life : 
 And he that was of mildest mood, 
 
 Did slaye the other tlicre, 
 AVithin an unfrequented wood ; 
 
 ■\\liere babes did quake for feare ! 
 
 He took the children by the hand, 
 
 When teares stood in tlieir eye. 
 And bade them come and go with him. 
 
 And look they did not crye : 
 And two long miles he ledd them thus, 
 
 While they for bread complaine : 
 ' Stay here,' ([uotli he, ' I '11 bring ye bread, 
 
 AVhen 1 do come againe.' 
 
 Tliese pretty babes, with hand in hand, 
 Went wandering up and dowiic ; 
 
 But never more they sawe the man 
 Ajiproachiiig from the town ; 
 
 v;\ 
 
 B«rbert,A KA.de],
 
 ®6e eCJljilijan in tje MooU. 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 Their prettye lippes witli black-berries, 
 Were all besmear'd and dyed, 
 
 And when they sawe the darksome night. 
 They sat them downe and cryed. 
 
 Thus wandered these two pretty babes, 
 
 Till deathe did end their grief. 
 In one anothers armes they dyed. 
 
 As babes wanting relief: 
 No burial these pretty babes 
 
 Of any man receives. 
 Till robin-red-breast painfully 
 
 Did cover them with leaves. 
 
 And now the lieavy wrathe of God 
 
 Upon their uncle fell ; 
 Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house, 
 
 His conscience felt an hell : 
 His barnes were fired, his goods consum'd. 
 
 His landes were barren made. 
 His cattle dyed within the field, 
 
 And nothing with him stayd. 
 
 And in the voyage of Portugal 
 
 Tw o of his sonnes did dye ; 
 And to conclude, himself was brought 
 
 Unto much niiserye : 
 He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land 
 
 Ere seven years came about. 
 And now at length this wicked act 
 
 Did by this meanes come out : 
 
 The fellowe, that did take in hand 
 
 These children for to kiU, 
 Was for a robbery judg'd to dye, 
 
 As was God's blessed will : 
 Who did confess the very truth. 
 
 The which is here exprest ; 
 Their uncle dyed while he for debt 
 
 Did long in prison rest. 
 
 Herbert. A R. A. del 
 
 ^^^IS^^^^S^^^^
 
 ^ 
 
 Zlit (BhUtittn m tbc WSiodii. 
 
 S^^^Si^£^^i^-;^^ 
 
 All you that be executors, 
 
 And overseers eke, 
 Of cliiklren tliat he I'atherless, 
 
 Ami infants mild and meek; 
 Take you exam|)le l)j' this thinj;, 
 
 And yield to each his right, 
 Lest God with sueli like niiserye 
 
 Your wicked minds requite. 
 
 >^'v?)^ 
 
 Hettxut. A R A del 
 
 ^ ^^.^ ''^^sgry'^gLL^ Tia..^ nsi^ ''^^ 
 
 Green, sc
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 
 AIR ROSAMOND. The fate of " Fair Rosamond," 
 was a favourite theme with the early minstrels, 
 and the historians have not disdained to preserve 
 the memory of her exceeding beauty, and her sad story. 
 It is, however, briefly told. She was, according to Stowe, 
 who follows Higden the monk of Chester, the daughter of 
 Walter Lord Clifford ; became the "lemman" of Henry the 
 Second, to whom she bore two sons, William Longsword, Earl of 
 Salisbury, and Geoffrey, Bishop of Lincoln; and died at Wood- 
 stock, A.D. 1177, — " poisoned by Queen Eleanor, as some thought." 
 Stowe proceeds to relate, that her royal lover " had made for her a 
 house of wonderful! working; so that no man or woman might come to her 
 but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right secret with 
 him, touching the matter. This house, after some, was named Labyrinthus, or 
 Dedalus' worke, which was wrought like unto a knot, in a garden called a 
 maze." Drayton, in his "Epistle to Rosamond," using the poet's license, 
 describes it as " consisting of vaults under ground, arched and walled ;" and in 
 the ballad we shall copy, it is more minutely pictured as "a bower," curiously 
 built of "stone and timber strong," having no fewer than one hundred and fifty 
 doors ; and so cunningly contrived, with turnings round about, that none could 
 obtain access to it except by "a clue of thread." But jealousy is proverbially 
 quick-sighted. Queen Elinor discovered the secret, possessed herself of " the clue 
 of thriddle or silk," and "so dealt" with her rival that — she lived not long. 
 Authorities differ as to the mode by which the queen obtained the necessary guide. 
 Hollinshed seriously relates, that "the king had drawne it after him out of her 
 chamber with his foot;" and Speed, that "it fell from Rosamond's lappe as she 
 sate to take ayre, and suddenly ffeeing from the sight of the searcher, the end of 
 her silke fastened to her foote, and the clew still unwinding, remained behinde." 
 But historians content themselves with informing us, that the lady " lived not long 
 after," and do uot insinuate that she was wounded with other weapons than sharp 
 words ; although tradition and the ballad-makers, unite in charging the queen with 
 the murder of Fair Rosamond, by compelling her to drink poison. 
 
 She was buried at " Godstow, in a house of nunnes, beside Oxford," and, 
 according to Stowe, " with these verses carved upon her tombe," — 
 
 s 
 
 ]l!lt Ucet in tuinba, Kosi munDi. non £osa munDa: 
 iJon rtBolct, sctr olft, qua: rctolcrc sold. 
 
 Her body, we learn from Speed, in his " History of Henry the Second," remained 
 " in the quire under a fair hearse of silk, with tapers continually burning before it, 
 which, as it should seeme, was so furnished at the charges of King John — that 
 the holy virgins might releeve, with their prayers, the soules of his father. King 
 Henrie, and of Lady Rosamond, there interred." 
 
 Percy printed this ballad: and also "Queen Eleanor's Confession," "from an 
 old copy, in which the queen is described as confessing her numerous crimes to her 
 husband, disguised as a friar, in the presence of her paramour, ' Earl Marshall,' who 
 
 21
 
 had previously obtnincd the king's promise, that no harm should happen to him, 
 ' no matter what the queen might say.' " At the conclusion of the ceremony, — 
 
 The King lonkt over liis \e(i shoulder. 
 
 And a grim look, looked he ; 
 ' Earl Marshall,' he said, * but for my oath. 
 
 Thou hadst swung on the gallows tree.' 
 
 This verse is quoted, not from Percy, but from a more spirited version of the story, 
 in the " Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern," of Villiani Motherwell, by whom it was 
 " recovered from recitation." The ballad was recited, or sung, to the following air; — 
 
 Of this ballad, there are two copies in the folio collection at the British Museum ; 
 one of them is in black letter, "printed for C. Bates, in Pye Corner." Another 
 ballad, together with the air to which it was recited, or sung, printed in " The Garland 
 of Delight," makes the queen a penitent in prison, where she "was kept twenty- 
 six years ;" and in another, the " Overthrow of Fair Rosamond" is stated to have 
 been caused by " her brother's unadvisedly praising her beauty to two young knights 
 of Salisbury as they rid on the road;" King Harry, who chanced to be by, overheard 
 the conversation, and " writ three letters sealed with gold," which he charged young 
 Clifford to deliver into the maiden's hands. The result was, her arrival at court, her 
 subsequent removal to Woodstock, and her death, " by force of poison strong." 
 
 According to Dr. Percy, " the ballad (of " Fair Rosamond ") appears to have been 
 first published in " Strange Histories, or Songes and Sonets, of Kinges, Princes, 
 Dukes, Lords, Ladyes, Knights, and Gentlemen, &c. By Thomas Deloney. Lond. 
 1612. 4to." Percy printed it, "with conjectural emendations," from four ancient 
 copies in black letter ; two of them in the Pepys Library. With these two we have 
 collated it, restoring several of the passages as we there found them. The reader 
 who will take the trouble to compare our copy with that of Dr. Percy, will find that 
 these "restorations" are neither few in number nor of small importance. One 
 example may, perhaps, suffice :— 
 
 a 
 
 p»:ncv s ropT. 
 
 Fairc ladies brookc not bluodyc warres ; 
 
 Soft peace their scxc delightes : 
 Nut rugged campes, but courtlyc bowers ; 
 
 Gay feastcs, nor cniel) fighteb. 
 
 THE PEPYSIAN COPY. 
 
 Fairc ladies hrooke not bloody warre.* ; 
 
 Sweet peace their pleasures breede 
 The nuurisher o( hearts content, 
 
 Which fancy first did feede. 
 
 Deloncy's "Strange Histories" has Iccn recently reprinltd by the "Percy 
 Society," from the only perfect copy kiioun to exist lis date is 1607. The ballad, 
 here, very closely resembles that which occurs in the Pepysian Colleclion ; although 
 in several passages it is different. 
 
 s
 
 T WilhiiiiiB.sc.
 
 --hi 
 
 JFnir mosnmonli. 
 
 11 
 
 Tlie blood within her chrystal clicekes 
 
 Did sucli a colour drive, 
 As though the lillye and the rose 
 
 For mastership did strive. 
 
 Yea Rosamond, fair Rosamond, 
 
 Her name was called so, 
 To whom our queene, dame Elinor, 
 
 Was known a deadlye foe. 
 
 The king, therefore, for her defence. 
 Against the furious queene, 
 
 At Woodstocke builded such a bower. 
 The like was never seene. 
 
 Most curiously that bower was built 
 Of stone and timber strong, 
 
 An hundred and fifty doors 
 Did to this l)()wer belong : 
 
 And they so cunninglye contriv'd, 
 With turnings round about. 
 
 That none but with a clue of thread 
 Could enter in or out. 
 
 And for his love and ladyes sake. 
 That was so faire and brighte, 
 
 The keeping of this bower he gave 
 Unto a valiant knighte. 
 
 But fortune, that doth often frowne 
 Where she before did smile, 
 
 The kinges delighte, the ladyes joy, 
 Tull soon shee did beguile : 
 
 I'or why, the kinges ungracious sonne, 
 Whom he did high advance, 
 
 Against his father raised warres 
 Within the realme of France. 
 
 i I .^__ 
 
 ' 4^ PranluiQ. del 
 
 -I r 
 2t i^i-\
 
 VHV 
 
 J^trP 
 
 jpatr IRosamontt. 
 
 n 
 
 But yet before our comelye king 
 Tlie Eiiglisli land fbrsooke, 
 
 Of Rosamond, his ladye faire, 
 His farewelle tlius he tooke : 
 
 ' My Rosamond, my only Rose, 
 That pleasest best mine e3'e : 
 
 The fairest flower in all the worlde 
 To feed mj' fantasye : 
 
 The flower of mine affected heart. 
 Whose sweetness doth excelle ; 
 
 !My royal Rose, a thousand times, 
 I bid thee nowe farewelle ! 
 
 For I must leave my fairest flower, 
 JMy sweetest Rose, a space, 
 
 And cross the seas to famous France, 
 Proud rebellcs to abase. 
 
 But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt 
 
 JNIy coming shortly see, 
 And in my heart, when hence I am. 
 
 He beare my Rose with mee.' 
 
 When Rosamond, that ladye brighte. 
 Did heare the kinge saye soe, 
 
 The sorrowe of her grieved heart 
 Her outward looks did showe ; 
 
 And from her cleare and crystall eyes 
 The teares gusht out apace, 
 
 ^^^^ch like the silver-pearled dewe 
 Ranne downe her comely face. 
 
 Her lippes erst like the corall redde. 
 Did waxe both wan and pale, 
 
 And for the sorrowe she conceivde 
 Her vitall spirits faile ; 
 
 25 

 
 Jfnir IXosnmonlr. 
 
 —i^jh 
 
 irnnmn.del. 
 
 And fallin^T down all in a swoone 
 
 Bei'orc King llenryes face, 
 Full oft lie in his princelye amies 
 
 Her body did embrace ; 
 
 And twcntye times, with watery eyes, 
 
 He kist her tender cheeke, 
 Until he had revivde againe 
 
 Her senses milde and meeke. 
 
 ' Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?' 
 
 The king did often say. 
 ' Because,' quoth sliee, ' to bloodye warres 
 
 My lord must pass awaye. 
 
 But sith your grace in forrayne coastes, 
 
 Amonge your foes uukinde 
 Must goe to hazarde life and limbe, 
 
 ^^'lly should I staye behinde ? 
 
 Nay, rather let me, like a page, ' 
 Your sworde and target beare. 
 
 That on my breast the blowes may liglite, 
 Which woidd offend )'ou there. 
 
 Or lett mec, in your royal tent. 
 
 Prepare your bed at nighte. 
 And with sweete baths refresh your grace, 
 
 At your returne from figlite. 
 
 So 1 your presence may enjoye 
 
 No toil I will refuse ; 
 But wanting you, my life is death : 
 
 Nay, death He rather choose.' 
 
 ' Content thy self, my dearest love ; 
 
 Thy rest at home shall bee 
 In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle ; 
 
 For travel! fits not thee. 
 
 2B
 
 1^^ 
 
 .^trf 
 
 jfaix Mo%amonti. 
 
 Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres ; 
 
 Sweet peace their pleasures breede, 
 The nourisher of hearts content, 
 
 Which fancy first did feede. 
 
 My Rose shall rest in Woodstocke bower, 
 With musickes sweete delight ; 
 
 Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes. 
 Against my foes do fighte. 
 
 My Rose in robes of pearle and golde, 
 With diamonds richly dight ; 
 
 Shall dance the galliards of my love, 
 Whilst I my foes do fighte. 
 
 And you, Sir Thomas, whom I trusto 
 
 To bee my love's defence ; 
 Be careful of my gallant Rose 
 
 WTien I am parted hence.' 
 
 And therewithal! he fetcht a sigh, 
 
 As though his heart would breake : 
 
 And Rosamond, for inward griefe. 
 
 Not one plaine worde could speake. 
 
 And at their parting well they niighte 
 
 In heart be grieved sore : 
 After that daye faire Rosamond 
 
 The king did see no more. 
 
 For when his grace had passed the seas, 
 And into France was gone ; 
 
 With envious heart, Queene Elinor, 
 To Woodstocke came anone. 
 
 And forth she calls the trustye knighte 
 Which kept this curious bower ; 
 
 Who with his clue of twined thread. 
 Came from the famous flower. 
 
 -~t^ 
 
 Fraiiklin, del. 
 
 •-27 ^ — >^.
 
 JFair IXosnmcntJ. 
 
 1^ -e 
 
 ^ 
 
 And when that they liad Avoundt'd him, 
 The queeuc his thread did gette, 
 
 And went where Lady Rosamond 
 Was like an angell sette. 
 
 And wlien the qiieenc witli stcdfast eye 
 Beheld her heavcnlye face, 
 
 She was amazed in her minde 
 At her exceeding grace.* 
 
 • In tlie old ballad, — "Rosamond's Ovt-rlhrow," to 
 wliich wc have referred in our introductory remarks,— the 
 interview between the enraged Queen and her hapless rival 
 is thus described : — 
 
 The angry Queen witli malice frauglit, 
 
 Couhl not herself contain, 
 1'tll she X'air Uosamond had brought 
 
 To her sad, fatal biine. 
 The sweet and charming precious Rose, 
 
 King IKnry'.s cliicf delight I 
 The (iiiceii she to her howt-r goes. 
 
 And wrought her hi^teful spight. 
 
 But when she to the bower came, 
 
 Where Lady ClifTord lay, 
 Enraged Ellinor by name, 
 
 She could noi find the way, 
 Until the silken clew of thread, 
 
 Became a fatal guide 
 Unto the Queen, who laid her dead 
 
 Ere she was satisfied. 
 
 Alas ! it was no small surprise 
 
 To Rosamond the fair; 
 When death appeared before her eyes, 
 
 No faithful friend was there, 
 Who could stand up in her defence, 
 
 To put the potion by; 
 So, by the Itands of violence. 
 
 Compelled she was to die. 
 
 I will not pardon you, she said, 
 
 So take this fatal cup; 
 And yuu may well be satisfied 
 
 I'll see you drink it up. 
 Then with her fair and milk-white hand 
 
 The fatal cup she took; 
 Which being drank, she could not stand, 
 
 But soon the world forsook. 
 
 it. A Williama, sc.
 
 
 ^ 
 
 jpair iilosamonli. 
 
 ' Cast off' from tliee (liy robes,' she said, 
 ' That riche and costlye bee ; 
 
 And drinke tliou up this deadlye draught, 
 Which I have brought to tliee.'* 
 
 But presentlye upon her knees 
 Sweet Rosamond did falle ; 
 
 And pardon of the queene she crav'd 
 For her offences all. 
 
 ' Take pittie on my youthfull yeares,' 
 
 Fair Rosamond did cr\'e ; 
 ' And lett niee not with poison stronge 
 
 Enforced bee to dye. 
 
 I will renounce my sinfull life. 
 And in some cloyster bide ; 
 
 Or else be banisht, if you please, 
 To range the world see wide ; 
 
 And for the fault that I have done. 
 Though I was forc'd theretoe. 
 
 Preserve my life, and punish mee 
 As you thinke good to doe.' 
 
 And with these words, her lillie handes 
 She wrunge full often there ; 
 
 And downe along her comelye face 
 Did trickle many a teare. 
 
 * In "the Lamentation of Queen Elinor." during 
 her "twenty-six years'" imprisonment, she is made 
 to confess the crime, — 
 
 ' The which I did with all despite. 
 Because she was tlie King's delight ' 
 
 And in " Queen Elinor's Confession," she infonns the 
 King,— 
 
 ' The next vile thing that ever I did. 
 To you I will discover: 
 1 poysoned faire Rosamond. 
 
 All in faire Wuodstocke Bower.' 
 
 ^-^ 
 
 FrauKliu.del 
 
 Wa'.insley sc
 
 Mz- 
 
 Jpair l^osamonD 
 
 But nothing could this furious queene 
 
 Therewith appeased bee ; 
 The cup of deadyle poyson stronge, 
 
 As she knelt on her knee, 
 
 Shee gave the comelye dame to drinke ; 
 
 Who tooke it in her hand, 
 And from iier bended knee arose. 
 
 And on her feet did stand : 
 
 And casting up her eyes to heaven, 
 
 Shee did for mercye calle ; 
 And drinking up the poison stronge, 
 
 Her life she lost withalle. 
 
 And when that death through everye limbe 
 Had showde his greatest spite, 
 
 Her chiefest foes did there confesse 
 Shee was a jjlorious wiiirht. 
 
 11 er body then they did entomb. 
 When life was fled away. 
 
 At Godstowe, neere to Oxford towne 
 As may be scene this day. 
 
 ■n 
 
 '4^ 
 
 ■ - I-^Z FnuiiUo.dol 
 
 Walmsley. ec. ^\ *
 
 ( 
 
 HE DEMON LOVER. This ballad first appeared in the 
 "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border;" it was communi- 
 cated to Sir Walter Scott by Mr. William Laidlaw, by 
 whom it was "taken down from recitation." Mr. 
 Motherwell, by whom it was reprinted in his valuable 
 volume, " Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern," surmises 
 tiiat, " although it would be unfair for a moment to 
 imagine that Sir Walter Scott made any addition to it, 
 Mr. Laidlaw may have improved upon its naked 
 original." That he did so, is by no means unlikely; 
 nor is it very improbable that, in passing through the alembic of the great 
 Magician of the North, it received additional purity, without lositig aught of 
 its intrinsic worth. Mr. Motherwell, " with all his industry, was unable to find 
 it in a more perfect state than this,"— which the reader will be interested 
 in comparing with the appended copy from the " Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
 Border:" — 
 
 • 1 have seven ship upon the sea 
 
 Laden with the finest gold, 
 And mariners to wait us upon — 
 
 All these you may behold. 
 
 And I liave shoes for my love's feet, 
 
 Beaten of the purest gold, 
 And lined with the velvet soft, 
 
 To keep my love's feet from the cold. 
 
 O how do you love the ship,' he said, 
 ' Or how do you love the sea t 
 
 Or how do you love the bold mariners, 
 That wait upon thee and me V 
 
 ' O I do love the ship,' she said, 
 
 ' And I do love the sea ; 
 But woe be to the dim mariners, 
 
 That nowhere I can see.' 
 
 They had not sailed a mile awa', 
 
 Never a mile but one, 
 When slie began to weep and mourn. 
 
 And to think on her little wee son. 
 
 ' O hold your tongue, my dear,' he said, 
 ' And let all your weeping abee, 
 
 For I '11 soon show to you how the lilies grow 
 On the banks of Italy.' 
 
 They had not sailed a mile awa', 
 
 Never a mile but two, 
 Until she espied his cloven foot, 
 
 From his gay robes sticking thro'. 
 
 They had not sailed a mile awa'. 
 
 Never a mile but three, 
 Wlien dark dark grew his eerie looks, 
 And raging grew the sea. 
 
 They had not sailed a mile awa', 
 
 Never a mile but four, 
 When the little wee ship ran round about 
 
 And never was seen more. 
 
 If this be, in reality, the skeleton which Mr, Laidlaw clothed in sinews and flesh, 
 he has given unquestionable proof of genius of a very rare order. There is, however, 
 little doubt that he had actually " taken down, from recitation," a much more perfect 
 copy, to which he gave some "finishing touches" of his own; for the composition 
 bears unequivocal marks of old time ; and a collateral proof of its antiquity, m a 
 more extended form, is supplied by an authority, to which reference is made by the 
 accomplished editor of the latest edition of the " Border Minstrelsy." Mr. Buchan, 
 in his "Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland, hitherto unpublished," 
 prints another version of the story, under the title ol "James Herries ;" with this 
 difference, however, that here, the lover, who wreaks his vengeance on the " fause
 
 woman/' is not a demon with a " cloven foot," but the ghost of a " first true love ;" 
 — the other incidents are precisely simitar, and many of the lines are exactly the 
 same; although as a whole it is far less grand, touching, and dramatic, than the 
 version as preserved by Sir Walter Scott. Mr. Uuchan gives three additional 
 stanzas, descriptive of the misery of the betrayed husband; they are fine and 
 eflective, and contribute strongly to impress the moral of the tale :— 
 
 ■O wae be to the ship, the ship, 
 And wae be to the sea ; 
 
 And wae be lo the niuriners 
 
 Took Jcanie Douglas frae me ! 
 
 O bonny, bonny was my love, 
 A pleasure to behold ; 
 
 The very hair o' my love's head 
 Was like the threads of gold. 
 
 O bonny was her cheek, her cheek, 
 
 And bonny was her chin; 
 And bonny was the bride she was. 
 The day she was made mine.' 
 
 From Mr. Motherwell's volume we copy the air, to which tlic old ballad was sung: — 
 
 M^ — j-^^j^^irrri luxiv^u^^-u-u 
 
 ^ >4.^LN^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 The legend contained in the ballad is, according to Sir Walter Scott, " in various 
 shapes current in Scotland;" but it is by no means peculiar to that country. 
 Similar stories are told in many of the English counties ; and in Ireland it is 
 very common;— the moral conveying a warning against the crime of infidelity. 
 Sir Walter says, " I remember to have heard a ballad, in which a fiend is introduced 
 paying his addresses to a beautiful maiden ; but, disconcerted by the holy herbs she 
 wore in her bosom, makes the following lines the burthen of his courlsliiji : — 
 
 ' Gin ye wish to be leman mine, 
 
 Lay aside the St. John's wort, and the vervain.'" 
 
 Tlie same power of keeping away evil spirits is attributed to the vervain in Ireland ; 
 where, when it is pulled by village mediciners, while the morning dew is on the 
 ground, this verse is generally repeated: — 
 
 ' Vervain, thou growest upon holy ground, 
 In Mount Calvary thou wcrt found ; 
 Thou curest all 6urcs and all diseases. 
 And in the name of Holy Jesus, 
 1 pull you out uf the ground.' 
 
 The unhappy lady whose fate is described in the accompanying ballad had no 
 such " protection," and was without that surer safeguard, to which the great poet 
 refers as a possession, o'er which 
 
 No goblin or swart fairy of the mine 
 Hath hurtful power.
 
 Folltani 8C
 
 k 
 
 tunu'd him right and round about, 
 And the tear blinded his e'e ; 
 ' I wad never liae trodden on Irish ground, 
 If it had not been lor thee. 
 
 I might have liad a king's daughter. 
 
 Far far beyond the sea ; 
 I might have liad a king's daughter, 
 
 Had it not been for love o' thee.' 
 
 ■ If ye might have had a king's daughter, 
 
 Yersell ye had to blame ; 
 Ye might have taken the king's daughter. 
 For ye kend that I was nane.' 
 
 ■ O faulse are the vows o' womankind, 
 
 But fair is their faulse bodie ; 
 I never would hae trodden on Irish ground, 
 Had it not been for love o' thee.' 
 
 ' If I was to leave my liusband dear, 
 
 And my two babes also, 
 () what have you to take me to, 
 
 If with you I should go?' 
 
 ' I have seven ships upon the sea. 
 The eighth brought me to land ; 
 
 \\'ith four-and-twenty bold mariners, 
 And music on every hand.' 
 
 She has taken up her two little babes, 
 Kissed them baith cheek and chin : 
 
 ' O fare ye weel, ray ain two babes, 
 For I '11 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. 
 
 ^L 
 
 .^^ 
 
 34
 
 trijc IDcmon ILobcr. 
 
 She had not sailed a league, a league, 
 
 A league but barely three, 
 When dismal grew his countenance. 
 
 And drumlie grew his e'c. 
 
 The masts that were like tlie beaten gold. 
 Bent not on the heaving seas ; 
 
 And the sails, that were o' the tafFetie, 
 Filled not in the eastland breeze. 
 
 They had not sailed a league, a league, 
 
 A league but barely three. 
 Until she espied his cloven loot, 
 
 And she wept right bitterlie.* 
 
 ' O hold your tongue of your weeping,' says he. 
 
 ' Of your weeping now let me be ; 
 I will show 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 movmtain 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.' 
 
 • In Mr. Buchan's ballad, remorse is made to visit tlie 
 heroine, not by the siglit of the "cloven foot," but by a 
 feeling more natural and more worthy : — 
 
 She minded on lier dear husband. 
 Her liitle son tee. 
 
 And, at the same time, — ■ 
 
 The thoughts o' grief came in her minil. 
 And slie lunged for to be lianie ; 
 
 Wliile the miseralle woman thus prays: — 
 
 ' 1 may be buried in Scottish ground, 
 Where I was bred and born.' 
 
 Oilbert, rtel.
 
 And aye when she turned her round about, 
 
 Aye taller he seemed to be ; 
 Until that the tops o' the gallant ship 
 
 Xac taller were than he. 
 
 The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud, 
 
 And tlie levin filled her e'e ; 
 And waesome wailed the snow-white sprites. 
 
 Upon the gurlie sea. 
 
 He struck the topmast wi' his hand. 
 
 The foremast wi' his knee ; 
 And he brake that gallant ship in twain, 
 
 And sank her in the sea. 
 
 .k.
 
 beautiful composition is unquestionable. There are, 
 indeed, satisfactory reasons for believing that we may 
 assign to it a date so remote as the year 1400. The 
 only ancient copy of it, known to exist, is to be found 
 in Arnold's Chronicle, where alone a discovery of it 
 has been, hitherto, made : this was first printed about 
 1502; and although the old chronicler did not accom- 
 pany it with any explanatory note or comment, it is 
 more than probable that, if it had been the production 
 of a contemporary, or of a wriier not far removed from his own time, the antiquary 
 would either have given the name of the author, or not have considered it his 
 business to preserve the Poem. 
 
 Dr. Percy printed it in his " Reliques : " "its sentimental beauties," he says, 
 "have always reconnneuded it to readers of taste, notwithstanding the rust of 
 antiquity which obscures the style and expression." He found in his ancient folio 
 MS.,— to which we shall, hereafter, have occasion to refer,— a "very corrupt and 
 defective" copy, by which, however, he was enabled to effect a great improvement in 
 one passage;* he consulted the several editions of Arnold, the reprint of 1707, and 
 some otlier sources, and restored the pure old ballad to popularity. Although his 
 copy varies in no very essential particulars from the one that exists in Arnold's 
 Chronicle, with which we have collated it, some passages he has changed without 
 improving, and a few lie has altered to advantage. The latter we have retained ; 
 the former we have presumed to restore. 
 
 In the original, every other line is divided into two. It is unnecessary to occupy 
 the space that would be retiuired so to copy it ; we extract, part of one of the verses, 
 as an example of the manner, as well as the style, in which it was first printed. 
 
 pom t litjinnc 
 
 Sioo tliat pt mc aiisffirrr 
 
 aaiijcrtorc re 
 
 fftat present lit 
 
 J prjn pou af'it 311 tart 
 
 I am lilt tiiu'fllit 
 
 i turn lit in'Blit 
 
 as sttrtt as i tan 
 
 Sajma alas 
 
 jri)U5 siontii'tl) tilt taust 
 
 I am a liaiiniosljtO man. 
 
 or its pi)p\ilarity in the sixteenth century, evidence is supplied by tlie fact, that 
 it was parodied, in compliance with an abused fashion of the period— to convert 
 familiar songs into pious homilies in rhyme. A copy, iu black letter, with the 
 colophon " thus cndeth the boke of tlie ncwe not browne niayd vpon the i>assion of 
 
 " Tlie passage referred to occurs in verse 26 ; wliere the line 
 iu lieu of llic words " jet wolde I be tliat one." 
 
 ' or tlieni 1 wolde be one," is given
 
 Cryste," was reprinted in 1820, for the Roxburghc Club. The ballad was first made 
 familiar to comparatively modern readers in 1707, when it was revived in the " Muses' 
 Mercury," where it was given as "near 300 years old." Here Prior met with it; 
 and hence he took it, as the ground-work of his poem " Henry and Emma," — a 
 poem in which he has drawn out the original thought and grievously impaired the 
 strength and vigour of the rugged old ballad-maker. 
 
 Although it was to be found iu every edition of Arnold's Chronicle, a book very 
 generally read at the time of its publication, and for a century afterwards, it is 
 remarkable that a composition of so much merit should never have made its way to 
 the stalls of the ballad-monger, — a class of persons, who were, no doubt, sufficiently 
 on the alert to multiply copies of such poems as were, or were likely to be, 
 favourites of the people. It is, at least, clear that evidence of its popularity is not 
 to be obtained from these sources ; notwithstanding that there may be, according to 
 a modern annotator, whose authority is " hear-say," — " in a manuscript of University 
 College, O.xford, a list of books on sale at a stall in that city, in 1520, among which 
 is the ' Not-broon Mayd,' price one-penny ;" — and Laneham, in his account of 
 Elizabeth's visit to Kenelworth, mentions the Nut-brown Mayd as a separate book. 
 
 No notice is taken of it in the published lists of the old dealers, of which 
 several exist, and a copy of it has not been discovered in any collection. Yet, if it 
 had not been known and admired, somewhat extensively, it certainly would not have 
 been selected, as one likely to be made subservient to the purpose of those who 
 reasoned much as some mistaken persons have done in our own days — that religious 
 lessons might be inculcated by changing, in part the words, and, altogether the sen- 
 timent of a popular air; losing sight of the important fact, that it was inipiissilile 
 to remove the associations indissolubly connected with it. 
 
 I'rior reprinted the ballad, in the edition of his " Poems," 1721, where he states 
 it to have been " written near three hundred years since." " Upon the model" of 
 it, he wrote " Henry and Etnma ;" his purpose and his moral he intimates, in some 
 introductory lines, " to Chloe :" — 
 
 ' No longer man of woman shdll coinpluiii. 
 That he may love and not be lov'd ag.iin ; 
 That we in vain the fickle sex pursue, 
 Who change the constant lover for the new; 
 Whatever has been writ, wh;itever said, 
 Of female passion feigned, or faith decay'd; 
 Henceforth shall, in my vei^e, refuted stand, 
 Itc sent to winds, or writ upon the sand.' 
 
 liut tlie mystery that hangs over the old ballad — leaving us uncertain whether 
 the lover were, or were not, justified in trying, by so severe a test, the faith of his 
 mistress — is dispelled in the lengthened and detailed composition of Prior ; from 
 the perusal of which the reader rises with a feeling of loathing for the " Henry" 
 and contempt for the "Emma" of the story; sentiments which hy no means result 
 from the experiment of "the Knyght" who succeeds in proving of women. 
 
 10 
 
 riiat tlitp lout ircot anO (onipncm 
 
 ^^"'<^.^<J^^^>^^.
 
 it riifht, or wronr;, these men among 
 
 On women do conipla_yne 
 Affermyng this, how that it is 
 
 A labour spent in vayne, 
 To love tliem wele ; for never a dele 
 
 They love a man agayne : 
 For lete a man do what he can, 
 
 Theyr favour to attayne, 
 Yet, yf a newe do them persue, 
 
 Theyr first true lover than 
 Laboureth for nought : and from her thought 
 
 He is a banyshed man. 
 
 Creswick. del.
 
 ^fte Xiit--13rcton if\ni)D. 
 
 -4- 
 
 I saj' not nay, hut that all day 
 
 It is hothe writ and savde 
 That womans faith is, as who saytli, 
 
 All utterly decayde ; 
 But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnesse 
 
 In this case might be lavd. 
 That they love trewe, and contyncw : 
 
 Reoorde the Nut-brown Mayd : 
 Which, iVom lier love, (when, her to jirove, 
 
 He cam to make his mone), 
 Wolde not depart ; for in her herte 
 
 She loved but hym alone. 
 
 Than, betweinc us, lete us discusse 
 
 What was all the manere 
 Betwene them two : we wyll also 
 
 Tell all the payne, and fere. 
 That she was in. Now I bcgyn, 
 
 So that ye me answere ; 
 Wherfore, ye, that present be 
 
 I pray you, gyve an ears 
 I am the knyght ; I come by nyght. 
 
 As secret as I can ; 
 Sayinge, ' Alas ! tlius standeth the case, 
 
 I am a banyshed man.' 
 
 ' And I your wyll for to fulfyll 
 
 In this wjll not refuse ; 
 Trustyinge to shewe, in wordes few, 
 
 That men have an ille use 
 (To theyr own shame) women to blame, 
 
 And eauselesse them accuse ; 
 Therfore to you I answere nowe, 
 
 All women to excuse, — 
 My owne hart dcre, with you what cherc ? 
 
 I pray you, tell anone ; 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
 
 I love but vou alone.' 
 
 Creswick del 
 
 a. Wiiliiims sc.
 
 ' It stondeth so ; a dedc is do 
 
 A\niereof moche harme shall growe : 
 My destiny is for to dy 
 
 A shamefull deth, I trowe ; 
 Or elles to flee : the one must bee. 
 
 None other way I knowe, 
 But to withdrawe as an outlawe, 
 
 And take me to my bowe. 
 ■\Alierfore, adue, my owne liart true ! 
 
 None other rede I can ; 
 For I must to the grene wode go, 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 
 
 ' O Lord, what is thys worldys blysse, 
 
 That changeth as the mone ! 
 My somers day in lusty may 
 
 Is derked before the none. 
 I here you say, farewell : nay, nay, 
 
 We depart not so sone. 
 Why say ye so ? wheder will ye go ? 
 
 Alas ! what have ye done ? 
 All my welfare to sorrowe and care 
 
 Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone ; 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
 
 I love but you alone.' 
 
 ' I can beleve, it shall you grave, 
 
 And somewhat you dystrayne ; 
 But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde 
 
 Within a day or twayne 
 Shall sone aslake ; and ye shall take 
 
 Comfort to you agayne. 
 AVhy sholde ye nought? for, to make thought, 
 
 Your labour were in vayne. 
 And thus I do ; and pray you to. 
 
 As hartely, as I can ; 
 For I must to the grene wode go. 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 
 
 41
 
 LaodeUa.sc. 
 
 ' Now, syth tliat ye have sliewcd to me 
 
 The secret of your mynde, 
 I shall be playne to you aj^ayne, 
 
 Lyke as ye shall me fyiule. 
 Syth it is so, that ye wyll <^o, 
 
 I woUe not leve behj-nde ; 
 Shall never be sayd, the Nut-brown Mayd 
 
 Was to her love unkynde : 
 Make you redy, for so am I, 
 
 AUthough it were anone ; 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
 
 T love but you alone.' 
 
 ' Yet I you rede to take good hede 
 
 What men wyll thynke, and say : 
 Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde. 
 
 That ye be gone away, 
 Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, 
 
 In grene wodc you to j)lay ; 
 And that ye myght from your delyght 
 
 No lenger make delay. 
 Rather than ye sholde thus for me 
 
 Be called an yU woman. 
 Yet wolde I to the grene wode go 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 
 
 ' Though it be songe of old and yonge. 
 
 That I sholde be to blame, 
 Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large 
 
 In hurtynge of my name : 
 For I wyll prove, that faythfidle love 
 
 It is devoyd of shame ; 
 In your dystresse, and hevynesse, 
 
 To part with you the same : 
 And sure all tlio, that do not so, 
 
 True lovers are they none ; 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde, 
 
 I love but you alone.' 
 
 42
 
 ' I councelye you, remember howe, 
 
 It is no maydens lawe, 
 Nothynge to dout, but to renne out, 
 
 To wode with an outliiwe : 
 For ye must there in your hand bere 
 
 A bowe, redy to drawe ; 
 And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve. 
 
 Ever in drede and awe ; 
 Wherby to you grete harme myght growe : 
 
 Yet had I lever than, 
 That I had to the grene wode go, 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 
 
 ' I thinke not nay, but as ye say. 
 
 It is no maydens lore : 
 But love may make me for your sake, 
 
 As ye have sayd before 
 To come on fote, to hunt, and shote 
 
 To gete us mete in store ; 
 For so that I your company 
 
 May have, I aske no more : 
 From which to part, it maketh my hart 
 
 As colde as ony stone : 
 For, in my mynde, of all mank)-nde 
 
 I love but you alone.' 
 
 ' For an outlawe this is the lawe. 
 
 That men hym take and bynde ; 
 Without pytee, hanged to be, 
 
 And waver with the wynde. 
 If I had nede, (as God forbede !) 
 
 AVhat rescous coude ye fynde ? 
 Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe 
 
 For fere wokle drawe behynde : 
 And no mervayle ; for lytell avayle 
 
 Were in your counceyle than : 
 Mlierfore I to the wode will go, 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 
 
 8 Affiliiam'i, del et 8C.
 
 ':f:V 
 
 ■■■d 
 
 V- 
 
 
 :>A 
 
 ' Right wcle knowe ye, that women be 
 
 l-'ul feble for to fyght ; 
 No womanhede is it indede 
 
 To be bolde as a knyght : 
 Yet, in such fere yf that ye were 
 
 With enemyes day and nyglit, 
 I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande, 
 
 To greve them as I myght, 
 And you to save ; as women have 
 
 From deth saved many one : 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
 
 T love but you alone.' 
 
 ' Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede 
 
 That ye coude not sustayne 
 The thornie wayes, the depo valeies. 
 
 The snowe, the frost, the rayno, 
 The colde, the hete : for, dry or wete, 
 
 We must lodge on the plaync ; 
 And, us above, none other rofo 
 
 But a brake bush, or twayne ; 
 Wiich sone sholde greve you, I beleve ; 
 
 And ye wolde gladly than 
 That I had to the grenc wode go, 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 
 
 ' Syth 1 have here bene partynere 
 
 With you of joy and blysse, 
 I must also parte of your wo 
 
 Endure, as reson is : 
 Yet am I sure of one plesure ; 
 
 And, shortely, it is this : 
 That, where ye be, me semeth, perd&, 
 
 I coude not fare amysse. 
 Without more spcche, I you beseche 
 
 That we were sone agone ; 
 For, in my mjTide, of all mankynde 
 
 I love but you alone.' 
 
 Vizetelly sc.
 
 ®:i)c iiut-aatoton iWaglr. 
 
 VizeteUy. ac 
 
 ' If ye go thyder, ye must consyder, 
 
 WTian ye have lust to d3'ne, 
 There shall no mete be for to gete, 
 
 Nor drinke, here, ale, ne wyne. 
 No shetes clene, to lye betwene, 
 
 Made of threde and twyne ; 
 None other house, but leves and bowes, 
 
 To cover your hed and mjTie. 
 O m}Tie harte swete, this evyll dyete 
 
 Sholde make you pale and wan ; 
 Wherfore I to the wode will go, 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 
 
 ' Amonge the wylde dere, such an archeres, 
 
 As men say that ye be, 
 Ne may not fayle of good \dtayle, 
 
 Where is so grete plente : 
 And water clere of the ryvere 
 
 Shall be full swete to me ; 
 With which in hele I shall ryght wele 
 
 Endure, as ye shall see ; 
 And, er we go, a bedde or two 
 
 I can provyde anone ; 
 For, in my m3Tide, of all mankynde 
 
 I love but you alone.' 
 
 ' Lo yet, before, ye must do more, 
 
 Yf ye wyll go with me : 
 As cut your here up by your ere ; 
 
 Your kyrtel by the knee ; 
 With bowe in hande, for to withstande 
 
 Your enemyes yf nede be : 
 And this same nyght before day-lyght, 
 
 To wode-warde wyll I tie. 
 Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill. 
 
 Do it shortely as ye can : 
 Els wyll I to the grene wode go. 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' ' 

 
 '-4«=5=^=«'^ 
 
 ^Ijc Xut--13iolun /llnijti. 
 
 * I sliall as nowe do more for you 
 
 Than longeth to womanhede ; 
 To short my here, a bowe to here, 
 
 To shote in tyme of nede. 
 O my sweet mother, before all other 
 
 Tor you I have most drede : 
 But nowe, adue ! I must ensue, 
 
 Wher fortune doth me lede. 
 All this make ye : now let us fle ; 
 
 The day eometh fast upon ; 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
 
 1 love but you alone.' 
 
 ' Nay, nay, not so ; ye shall not go, 
 
 And 1 shall tell ye why, — 
 Your appetyght is to be lyght 
 
 Of love, I wele espy : 
 For, lyke as ye have sayed to me. 
 
 In lyke wyse hardcly 
 Ye wolde answere whosoever it were. 
 
 In way of company. 
 It is sayd of olde, Sone bote, sone colde ; 
 
 And so is a woman. 
 Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 
 
 ' Yf ye take hede, yett is no nede 
 
 Such wordes to say by me ; 
 For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed, 
 
 Or I you loved, perde : 
 And though that I of auncestry 
 
 A barons daughter be, 
 Yet have you proved howe I you loved, 
 
 A squyer of lowe degre ; 
 And ever shall, whatso befall ; 
 
 To ye therfore anone ; 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
 
 I love but you alone.' 
 
 ■xTna. del at to.
 
 
 ' A barons chylde to be begylde ! 
 
 It were a cursed dede; 
 To be felawe with an outlawe ! 
 
 Almighty God forbede ! 
 Yet beter were, the pore squyere 
 
 Alone to forest yede, 
 Than ye sholde say another day, 
 
 That, by my wycked dede. 
 Ye were betrayd : wherfore, good mayd. 
 
 The best rede that I can, 
 Is, that I to the grene wode go. 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 
 
 ' Whatever befall, I never shall 
 
 Of this thyng you upbrayd : 
 But yf ye go, and leve me so, 
 
 Than have ye me betrayd. 
 Remember wele, howe that ye dele ; 
 
 For, yf ye, as ye sayd. 
 Be so unkynde, to leve behynde. 
 
 Your love, the Xut-brown Mayd, 
 Trust me truly, that I shall dy 
 
 Sone after ye be gone ; 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynd 
 
 I love but you alone.' 
 
 Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent ; 
 
 For in the forest nowe 
 I have purvayed me of a mayd, 
 
 Wliom I love more than you ; 
 Another fayrere, than ever ye were, 
 
 I dare it wele avowe ; 
 And of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe 
 
 With other, as 1 trowe : 
 It were myne ese, to lyve in pese ; 
 
 So wyll I, yf I can ; 
 Wlierfore I to the wode wyll go. 
 
 Alone, a banyshed man.' 

 
 ®l)E iaut=23rolDn itlaBlr. 
 
 ' Though in the wode I undyrstode 
 
 Ye had a paramour, 
 All this may nought remove my thought, 
 
 But that I wyll he your : 
 And she shall f jTide me soft, and kynde 
 
 And courteys every hour ; 
 Glad to fulfyll all that she wyU 
 
 Commaunde me to my povi^er : 
 For had ye, lo, an hundred mo. 
 
 Of tliem I vifolde he one ; 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
 
 I love hut you alone.' 
 
 ' Myne owne derc love, I se the prove 
 
 That ye be kynde and true ; 
 Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe, 
 
 The best that ever I knewe. 
 Be mery and glad, be no more sad, 
 
 The case is chaunged newe ; 
 For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe, 
 
 Ye sholde have cause to rewe. 
 Be not dismayed ; whatsoever I sayd 
 
 To you, whan I began ; 
 I wyll not to the grene wode go ; 
 
 I am no banyshed man.' 
 
 ' These tydings be more gladd to me. 
 
 Than to he made a qucne, 
 Yf I were sure they sholde endure : 
 
 But it is often sene 
 Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke 
 
 The wordes on the splene. 
 Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, 
 
 And stele from me, I wene : 
 Tlian were the case worse than it was. 
 
 And I more wo-begone : 
 For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 
 
 I love but you alone.' 
 
 48
 
 
 
 ■"v^ -"« i-U 
 
 V 
 
 S. Williams, del. et sc 
 
 * Ye shall not nede farther to drede ; 
 
 I wyll not dysparage 
 You, (God defend !) syth ye descend 
 
 Of so grete a lynage. 
 Nowe imdyrstande ; to Westmarlande, 
 
 AMiich is myne herytage, 
 I wyll yovi brynge ; and with a rynge 
 
 By way of maryage 
 I wyll you take, and lady make, 
 
 As shortely as I can : 
 Thus have you won an erlys son 
 
 And not a banyshed man.' 
 
 The reader may be interested in comparing some 
 readings of the old ballad, as printed in Arnold's Chro- 
 nicle, with those that occur in tlie "folio MS." of Dr. 
 Percy. In — 
 
 Line 9, Arnold's Chron., to them; Percy, do them. 
 
 ,, 28 they peyne; the payne. 
 
 ,, 50 moche; ....... grete. 
 
 ,, 79 ought! nought. 
 
 „ 81 loo; to. 
 
 ,1 98, whan; what. 
 
 ,, 126 to bere and; ready to. 
 
 „ 136, ye; I. 
 
 „ 137, and; in. 
 
 „ 159 ful; ryght. 
 
 ,» 158, ful; but. 
 
 „ 162 and; or. 
 
 These examples will suffice to shew that very few 
 changes were introduced in the "Reliques." The most 
 important occurs in lines 21 and 22, which Percy prints, — 
 
 Which, when her love came, her to prove, 
 To her to make his nioue. 
 
 We retain the reading as we find it in Arnold. In the 
 several editions of Arnold, there are also some variations, 
 but none of them are of much importance ; they are all 
 given in a small reprint of tlie ballad, published in 1S36, 
 by Mr. Pickering : from one of them, Percy appears to have 
 copied the two lines inserted above. In ihis reprint, the 
 text is copied from the earliest edition of Arnold, "sup- 
 posed" to have been printed about 1502; tlie variations 
 are, chiefly, from the edition of I5:'l. The ortliography 
 varies with the rarious editions ; we have, generally, fol- 
 lowed Percy. As an example, we may observe, that in 
 Arnold, the word which occurs so frequently is spelt 
 '* bannisshed." 
 
 49
 
 Here may ye se, tliat women be 
 
 In love, mcke, kyndc, and stable : 
 Late never man reprove them than, 
 
 Or call them variable ; 
 But, rather, pray God that we may 
 
 To them be comfortable ; 
 Which sometyme proveth such as loveth, 
 
 Yf they be charytable. 
 For syth men wolde that women sliolde 
 
 Be mcke to them each one, 
 Mocho more ought they to God obey, 
 
 And serve but hym alone. 
 
 l?tK!»WCl{ Ae\ 
 
 r K, 
 
 J WiT'-ims «c
 
 EMPION. ^Ve copy this ballad from the " Minstrelsy of the 
 Scottish Border;" where it is given "chiefly" from " Mrs. 
 Brown's MS." with " corrections from a recited fragment." 
 Sir Walter Scott, in some prefatory remarks, refers to 
 several traditionary anecdotes, still current in Scotland and 
 on the borders, concerning huge and poisonous snakes, or 
 " worms," destroyed by gallant knights in the olden time. 
 The manor of Sockburne, in the bishopric of Durham, is 
 held of the bishop by the service of presenting to bim, 
 on his first entrance into his diocese, an antique sword or 
 falchion, to commemorate the slaying of a monstrous crea- 
 ture that devoured men, women, and children, — by Sir John Conyers, who 
 received the manor as a reward for his bravery. Pollard's lands, near Bishop- 
 i*^ Auckland, are held by a similar tenure ; and the founder of the noble family of 
 c|j ) Somerville is said to have performed a deed as wonderful — by thrusting down the 
 tliroat of the snake a burning peat, " bedabbed with pitch, rosett, and brimstone." 
 A rude sculpture carved above the entrance to the ancient church at Linton in Rox- 
 burghshire, is said to represent this exploit ; of which "the vulgar tell us," — 
 
 Tlie wode Laird of Lariestoun 
 
 Slew the wode worm of Worniiestoune, 
 
 Aud wan all Lintoun parochiiie. 
 
 The story of the " Lambton worm," as recorded in Surtees' " History of Durham," 
 is still more remarkable. The heir of Lambton profanely fishing on a sabbath-day, 
 hooked a small worm or elf, which he carelessly threw into a well ; in process of time 
 it grew to a huge size, and made prey of the whole country, levying a contribution 
 daily of " nine cows' milk," and, in default of payment, devouring man and beast 
 The heir, who had wrought the mischief, returning from the crusades, determined to 
 destroy it ; and, by the advice of a witch, or wise woman, elad himself in a coat of 
 mail studded with razor blades ; selecting as the scene of battle the middle of a river, 
 so that as fast as the worm was cut to pieces the stream carried away the dissevered 
 parts, and thus prevented their subsequent adhesion. The knight had promised, 
 however, that he would slay the first living thing that met him after his victory ; this 
 chanced to be his father, and, as he refused to keep his vow, it was decreed that no 
 chief of his family should die in his bed for nine generations. Popular tradition con- 
 tinues, to point out the scene of the encounter. Stories of men and women trans- 
 formed into monsters are sufficiently numerous, and have been found among every 
 people. Many such exist in England, in Scotland, and in Ireland ; in the latter 
 country they are invariably supposed to occupy lakes of unfathomed depth, out of 
 which they occasionally arise and make excursions among adjacent mountains, 
 bearing with them to their " palaces " beneath the waters, the cattle of some unhappy 
 " neighbour," and not unfrequently the neighbour himself. The origin of the super- 
 stition is believed to have been Danish. The traditions of Denmark are full of such 
 romances ; and it is more than probable, that it may have been introduced, by its 
 sea-kings, into these islands. 
 
 " The ballad of Kempion," writes Sir Walter Scott, "seems, from the names of 
 the personages and the nature of the adventure, to have been an old metrical romance
 
 H/ 
 
 degraded into a ballad by tbe lapse of time and tbe corruption of reciters." The 
 
 allusion to the "arblast bow" would seem 
 to affix the composition to a remote date.* 
 Two ballads which relate to a similar in- 
 cident have been preserved ; one entitled 
 " Kemp OwjTie," by Mr. Motherwell, and 
 another "The Laidly Worm of Spindle- 
 ston-Heugh," affirmed to have been com- 
 posed, in 1270, by Duncan Frazier, " living 
 
 on Cheviot," but supposed to have been, at least re-written, by Mr. Robert Lambe, 
 
 vicar of Korham. In " Kemp Owyne," ' dove Isabel,' is transformed into a monster 
 
 by her step-mother, and doomed to retain her savage form — 
 
 Till Kemp Owyne come ower the sea 
 And borrow her with kisses tliree. 
 
 The three kisses are of course given ; when, instead of the beast ** whose breath was 
 Strang, whose hair was lang," — 
 
 Her breath was sweet, hor hair grew short. 
 
 And twisted nane about the tree; 
 And, smilingly, she came about, 
 
 As fiiir a woman as fair could be. 
 
 The ballad of the " Laidley (loathsome) Worm," was no doubt greatly altered by 
 
 Mr. Lambe, but there is evidence that the story was *' generally known in Northumber- 
 land " long before he printed the version attributed to Duncan Frazier ; and it is to be 
 regretted that he did not communicate it as he received it — stript of its " amendments 
 and enlargements." In this ballad, the daughter of tbe King of Bamborough is 
 metamorphosed by her step-mother, and restored to her natural shape by her brother 
 '* Childy Wynd," who avenges the wrong done to his sister by converting the foul 
 witch into a toad. As in " Kempion," and " Kemp Owyne," the restoration to 
 humanity is effected by *' kisses three : " — 
 
 * O, quit thy sword and bend thy bow, 
 And give me kisses three; 
 
 For though I am a poisonous worm, 
 No hurt 1 '11 do to thee. 
 
 O, quit thy sword and bond thy bow, 
 
 And give me kisses three ; 
 If I 'm not won, ere the sun goes down. 
 
 Won I shall never be.' 
 
 He quitted his sword and bent his bow, 
 
 And gave her kisses three; 
 She crept into a hole a worm. 
 
 But out stept a lady. 
 
 Percy prints the ballad of the "Witch of Wokey," written in 1748, by the 
 ingenious Dr. Harrington of Bath. She "blasted every plant around;" and was 
 encountered, not by a knight, but by a " lerned wighl," who having chauntede 
 out a goodiie booke, and sprinkled, plentifully, holy water, — 
 
 ho, where stood a hag before. 
 Now stood a ghastly stone ! 
 
 * The arbalast and arrow here engraved, are copied from specimens of the time of Elizabeth, 
 in the possession of Sir Samuol Meyrick, at Goodrich Court, and have been engraved in Skcltoii's 
 " Illustrations of Ancient Arms and Armour." The string of the arbalast, or arbalist, was drawn 
 to the notch in the ceoue by means of a wheel, which was ui>ually hung to the girdle of the archer. 
 
 
 M 
 w
 
 ^■ 
 
 =-^: 
 
 i\ \«,4V 
 
 KEMPION. 
 
 j « W U[l • Cum heir, cum heir, ye freely fee'd, 
 ^|\l| fly The hea\iest weird I will you read, 
 
 ■^ IK L/ )W^7 '^^^ J ^ "leikle dolour sail ye dree, 
 
 •*^ ■ ,iP^ l\Wir',. (t^.:' 'J-" 1 And aye the salt seas o'er ye '; 
 
 
 aye tne salt seas o er ye se swim ; 
 And far mair dolour sail ye dree 
 
 On Estmere crags, when ye them climb. 
 
 i). 
 
 g?^ 
 
 Lintoo.sc. d — ^ ^ ^~S
 
 1 weird j-e to a fiery beast, 
 
 And relieved sail ye never be, 
 
 Till Kempion, the kingis son, 
 
 Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss thee.' — 
 
 O meikle dolour did she dree, 
 
 And aye the salt seas o'er she swam ; 
 
 And far mair dolour did she dree 
 
 On Estmere crags, when she them clamb : 
 
 And aye she cried for Kempion, 
 i Gin he would but come to her hand. 
 
 Now word has gane to Kempion, 
 
 That sicken a beast was in his land. 
 
 ' Now, by my sooth,' said Kempion, 
 
 ' This fiery beast I '11 gang and see.' — 
 
 ' And by my sooth,' said Segramour, 
 ' My ae brother, I '11 gang \vi' thee.' 
 
 Then bigged hae they a bonny boat, 
 And they hae set her to the sea ; 
 
 But a mile before they reached the shore. 
 Around them she gared the red fire flee. 
 
 ' O Segramour, keep the boat afloat. 
 And let her na the land o'er near ; 
 
 For this wicked beast will sure gae mad. 
 And set fire to a' the land and mair.' — 
 
 Syne has he bent an arblast bow. 
 And aimed an arrow at her head ; 
 
 And swore if she didna quit the land, 
 AVi' that same shaft to shoot her dead. 
 
 ' O out of my stythe I winna rise, 
 (And it is not for the awe o' thee,) 
 
 Till Kempion, the kingis son. 
 
 Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me.' — 
 
 3
 
 W"- 
 
 ^-1 
 
 Hcmpton. 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 He has louted him o'er the dizzy crag, 
 And gien the monster kisses ane ; 
 
 Awa she gaed, and again she cam, 
 
 The fierj-est beast that ever was seen. 
 
 ' O out o' my stythe I winna rise, 
 (And not for a' thy bow nor thee,) 
 
 Till Kempion, the kingis son, 
 
 Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me.' — 
 
 He 's louted him o'er the Estmere crag. 
 And he has gi'en her kisses twa : 
 
 Awa she gaed, and again she cam, 
 
 The fieryest beast that ever you saw. 
 
 ' O out of my den I winna rise, 
 Nor flee it for the fear o' thee. 
 
 Till Kempion, that courteous knight. 
 
 Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me.' — 
 
 He 's louted him o'er the lofty crag. 
 And he has gi'en her kisses three : 
 
 Awa she gaed, and again she cam. 
 The loveliest ladye e'er could be ! 
 
 ' And by my sooth,' says Kempion, 
 ' My ain true love, (for this is she.) 
 
 They surely had a heart o' stane. 
 Could put thee to such misery. 
 
 O was it warwolf * in the wood ? 
 
 Or was it mermaid in the sea ? 
 Or was it man or vile woman. 
 
 My ain true love, that mis-shaped thee V — 
 
 * Warwolf signifies a magician, possessing the power of 
 transforming himself into a wolf, for the purpose of ravage 
 and destruction. 
 
 35 

 
 Y 
 
 i!= 
 
 -.7 
 
 Hcmpion. 
 
 i? 
 
 ' It wasna warwolf in the wood, 
 Nor was it mermaid in the sea ; 
 
 But it was my wicked step-mother, 
 And wae and weary may she be !' — 
 
 ' O, a heavier weird shall light her on, 
 Than ever fell on vile woman ; 
 
 Her hair shall grow rough. 
 And her teeth grow lang, 
 And on her four feet shall she gang. 
 
 Xone shall take pity her upon ; 
 
 In Wormeswood she aye shall wan 
 And relieved shall she never be, 
 
 Till St. Mungo come over the sea.'- 
 And sighing, said that weary wight, 
 
 ' I doubt that day I '11 never see!'
 
 ballad was originally published by Dr. Percy in the 
 " Reliques of Ancient English Poetry." He describes 
 it as "given from a fragment" in his folio manuscript; 
 where, although " extremely defective and mutilated, it 
 appeared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong 
 desire to attempt a completion of the story." The ac- 
 complished editor adds, that " the reader will easily dis- 
 «-^ -1,^ ^' ^V'""^^/ cover the supplemental stanzas by their inferiority, and, 
 i^<:^^^,^'^ ^v^Ct^f^ at the same time, be inclined to pardon it, when he con- 
 W siders how difficult it must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless 
 beauty of the original." He supplies us with no farther information on 
 the subject— except that the term "Child" was a title sometimes given to 
 a knight, and that the word " kirke," which occurs towards the close of the 
 ballad, is not sufficient to justify us in describing it as " Scottish, which it hath been 
 thought to be," —inasmuch as it was "among his own additions;" and, moreover, 
 that "in the northern counties of England, kirk is used in the common dialect 
 for church, as well as beyond the Tweed." The extent of the "emendations" we 
 can therefore only guess at ; but there is little doubt that they were large and 
 numerous; probably the "manuscript" furnished him with but a mere outline of 
 the story; and that the ballad may, in reality, be considered as the composition of 
 Dr. Percy.* A less questionable proof of its Scottish origin is, however, derived 
 from the fact that many poems, unquestionably Scotch, relate a similar incident— 
 although in most of them "the course of true love" is made to run less smooth, 
 ending in the deaths of the hapless lovers. Thus, in "The Douglas Tragedy,"— of 
 which there exist two versions, one given by Sir Walter Scott, the other by Mr. 
 Motherwell, and of which "many corrupted copies are current among the vulgar."— 
 The following stanzas are from the ballad as given by Sir "Walter Scott :— 
 
 ' Light down, light down, Lady Margret,' he 
 said, 
 
 'And hold my steed in your hand, 
 Until that against your seven brethren bold 
 
 And your father I make a stand.' 
 
 She held his steed in her milk-white hand, 
 
 And never shed one tear. 
 Until that she saw her seven brethren fa' 
 
 And her father hard fighting who loved 
 her so dear. 
 
 ' Oh, hold your hand, Lord William,' she said, 
 
 'For your strokes they are wondrous s air : 
 
 True lovers I can get many a ane, 
 
 But a father I can never get mair.' 
 
 • " In the fourth edition of Percy's Reliques," says Sir Walter Scott (Introductory Remarks 
 
 on Popular Poetry), " there is given a copy of that elegant metrical tale, ' The Child of Elle," as it 
 
 exists in the folio manuscript, which goes far to shew it has derived all its beauties from Di. Percy's 
 
 poetical powers." In this, however, there must be some mistake, as uoaUng of the kind appears 
 
 in the fourth, or in any other editiou, of the *' Reliques." 
 
 O she 's ta'en out her handkerchief, 
 
 It was o' the holland sae fine. 
 And aye she dighted her father's bloody 
 wounds, 
 
 That were redder than tlie wine. 
 
 ' O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret,' he said, 
 ' O, whetlier will ye gang or bide?' — 
 
 * I '11 gang, I 'U gang. Lord William,' she said, 
 ' For you have left me no other guide.' 
 
 He "s lifted her on a milk-white steed. 
 And himself on a dapple gray, 
 
 With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 
 And slowly they baiih rode away.
 
 Lord William was dead King ere midnight, 
 
 Lady Marg'rct lang ere the day, 
 And all true lovers that go together 
 
 May they have mair luck than they ! 
 
 The scene of this tragedy is pointCl^ out in the traditions of tlie peasantry. 
 From the ancient tower of •' Blackhousc, in Selkirkshire," Lady Margaret is said to 
 have been carried ; seven large stones, upon the neiglihouring height, are shewn as 
 " marking the place where the seven brothers were slain i" an adjoining burn is 
 averred to have been the stream " at which the lovers stopped to drink," — 
 
 The spring that ran so clear ; 
 
 And the chapel of St. Mary, referred to in the ballad, is believed to have been 
 actually the burial place of Lord AVilliani and fair Margaret ; — " so minute is tra- 
 dition in ascertaining the scene of a tragical tale, which, considering the rude state 
 of former times, had, probably, foundation in some real event." Sir Walter Scott 
 has supplied the air to which this old ballad was sung: — 
 
 The ballad, as obtained by Mr. Motherwell, supplies a few " unimportant varia- 
 tions," which are not improvements, — such as this : 
 
 ' O hold my horse, Lady Marg'rct,' he said, 
 ' O hold my horse by the bonny bridle rein ; 
 
 Till I fight your father aiirl seven bold brethren, 
 As they come riding down the glen.' 
 
 The " bugelct horn" is referred to in these ballads ; our readers may be interested 
 in seeing a copy of one of the use- 
 ful and ornamental accessaries of the 
 chieftains in old times ; we have 
 therefore engraved an example ; and 
 preferred to others, this, — which was 
 for so long a period a cherished trea- 
 sure of Strawberry Hill. There is, 
 however, no authentic history attached 
 
 to it, although, from its remarkable beauty, it must have been the property of some 
 important personage, and have been considered a rare acquisition. 
 
 *^^&^^
 
 f rauitiiD.det. 
 
 1 Wi'ljams sc.
 
 5202£- 
 
 ^fic €m of i;Ilc. 
 
 The Child of EUe he hyed him thence, 
 
 Y-wis he stoode not stille, 
 And soone he niotte faire Emmelines page 
 
 Come climbing up the hille. 
 
 ' Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, 
 Nowe Christe thee save and see ! 
 
 Oh, tell me how does thy ladye gaye. 
 And what may thy tydinges bee V 
 
 ' My lady she is all woe-begone. 
 
 And the teares they falle from her eyne ; 
 And aye she laments the deadlye feude 
 
 Betweene her house and thine. 
 
 And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe 
 
 Bedewde with many a teare. 
 And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, 
 
 Who loved thee so deare. 
 
 And here she sends thee a ring of golde 
 The last boone thou mayst have, 
 
 And biddes thee weare it for her sake. 
 Whan she is layd in grave. 
 
 For, ah ! her gentle heart is broke. 
 And in grave soone must shee bee. 
 
 Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, 
 And forbidde her to think of thee. 
 
 Her father hath brought her a carlish knighte. 
 Sir John of the north countraj'e, 
 
 And within three dayes shee must liim wedde. 
 Or he vowes he will her slaye.' 
 
 ' Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, 
 And greet thy ladye from mee, 
 
 And tell her that I, her owne true love 
 Will dye, or sette her free. 
 
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 Fmniclia. del. 
 
 T Wilhatns. K- 
 
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 bO
 
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 Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot- page, 
 
 And let thy fair ladye know 
 This night will I bee at her bowre windowe, 
 
 Betide me weale or woe.' 
 
 The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, 
 
 He neither stint ne stayd 
 Until he came to fair Emmelines bowre, 
 
 Wlian kneeling downe he sayd, 
 
 ' O ladye, I 've been with thy own true love, 
 And he greets thee well by mee ; 
 
 This night wOl he be at thy bowre-windowe. 
 And dye or sette thee free.' 
 
 Nowe day was gone and night was come. 
 
 And all were fast asleepe. 
 All save the ladye Emmeline, 
 
 AMio sate in her bowre to weepe : 
 
 And soone shee heard her tnie loves voice 
 Lowe whispering at the walle, 
 
 ' Awake, awake, my deare ladye, 
 Tis I th)' true love call. 
 
 Awake, awake, my ladye deare, 
 Come, moimt this faire palfraye 
 
 This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, 
 He carrye thee hence awaye.' 
 
 ' Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knighte, 
 
 Nowe nay, this may not bee ; 
 For aye should I tint my maiden fame. 
 
 If alone I should wend with thee.' 
 
 ' O ladye, thou with a knighte so true 
 
 Mayst safelj-e wend alone. 
 To my ladye mother I will thee briiige. 
 
 Where marriage shall make us one.' 
 
 P> 
 
 Frankhn, del. 
 
 T, Williams. 9C. 
 
 ^^i^ii 
 
 01
 
 CTjr iCm of Cllr. 
 
 ' My father lie is a baron bolde, 
 
 Of lyiKige proude and hye ; 
 And what would he saye if his daughter 
 
 Awaye with a knighte should fly ? 
 
 Ah ! well I wot, he never would rest, 
 
 Nor his nieate should do him no goode, 
 
 Until he had slain thee, Child of Elle, 
 And seene thy deare hearts bloode.' 
 
 ' O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, 
 
 And a little space him fro, 
 I would not care for thy cruel father. 
 
 Nor the worst that he could doe. 
 
 ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, 
 
 And once without this walle, 
 
 1 would not care for thy cruel father. 
 
 Nor the worst that might befalle.' 
 
 Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, 
 
 And aye her heart was woe : 
 At length he seized her lilly-white hand. 
 
 And downe the ladder he drewe : 
 
 And thrice he clasped her to his breste, 
 
 And kist her tenderlie : 
 The teares that fell from her fair eyes 
 
 Ranne like the fountayne free. 
 
 Hee mounted himselfe on his stede so talle, 
 
 And her on a fair palfraye. 
 And slung his bugle about his necke, 
 
 And roundlye they rode awaye. 
 
 All this bcheard her owne damselle. 
 
 In her bed whereas shee ley. 
 Quoth shee, ' My lord shall knowe of this, 
 
 Soe I shall have golde and fee. 
 
 ^ 
 
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 Wtlliams.sc. t^/aJLSJ^<^ 
 
 62
 
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 ma crjbtiif of siic. 
 
 Awake, awake, thou baron bolde ! 
 
 Awake, my noble dame ! 
 Your daughter is fledde with the Child of EUe 
 
 To doe the deede of shame.' 
 
 The baron he woke, the baron he rose. 
 And called his merrye men all : 
 
 ' And come thou forth. Sir John the knighte, 
 Thy ladye is carried to thrall.' 
 
 Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile 
 
 A mile forth of the towne, 
 Wlien she was aware of her fathers men 
 
 Come galloping over the downe : 
 
 And formost came the carhsh knighte, 
 Sir John of the north countraye : 
 
 ' Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure, 
 Nor carry that ladye awaye. 
 
 For she is come of hye hneage. 
 
 And was of a ladye born. 
 And ill it beseems thee — a false churls sonne 
 
 To carry her hence to scorne.' 
 
 ' Nowe loud thou lyest. Sir John the knighte, 
 
 Nowe thou doest lye of mee ; 
 A knighte me bred, and a ladye me bore, 
 
 Soe never did none by thee. 
 
 But light nowe downe, my ladye faire. 
 Light downe, and hold my steed : 
 
 While I and this discourteous knighte 
 Doe try this arduous deede. 
 
 But light nowe downe, my deare ladye, 
 Light downe, and hold my horse ; 
 
 While I and this discourteous knighte 
 Doe trye our valours force.' 
 
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 Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, 
 
 And aye her heart was woe, 
 Wliile twixt her love and the cariisli knighte 
 
 Past many a baneful blowe. 
 
 The Child of Elle hee fought soc well, 
 As liis weapon he waved amaine, 
 
 That soono he had slaine the carlish knighte, 
 And layd him upon the plaine. 
 
 And nowe the baron and all his men 
 
 Full fast approached nye : 
 Ah, what may ladye Emmeline doe ! 
 
 Twere nowe no boote to flye. 
 
 Her lover he put his home to his mouth, 
 And blew both loud and shrill. 
 
 And soone he saw his owne merry men 
 Come ryding over the hill. 
 
 ' Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, 
 
 I pray thee hold thy hand. 
 Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts 
 
 Fast knit in true loves band. 
 
 Thy daughter I have dearly loved 
 
 Full long and many a day ; 
 But with such love as holy kirke 
 
 Hath freelye said wee may. 
 
 O give consent, shee may be mine, 
 
 And bless a faithfull pairo : 
 My lands and livings are not small. 
 
 My house and lineage faire : 
 
 My mother she was an earls daughter, 
 And a noble knighte my sire :' — 
 
 The baron he frowned and turn'd away 
 ^^"ith mickle dole and ire. 
 
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 me GTfiiHi of lElIc. 
 
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 Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, 
 
 And did all trembliiige stand : 
 At length she sprang upon her knee, 
 And held his lifted hand. 
 
 ' Pardon, my lorde and father deare, 
 This faire younge knighte and mee : 
 
 Trust me, but for the carlish knighte, 
 I never had fled from thee. 
 
 Oft have you called your Emmeline 
 
 Your darling and your joye ; 
 O ! let not then your harsh resolves 
 
 Your Emmeline destroye.' 
 
 The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke. 
 
 And turned his heade asyde 
 To wipe awaye the starting teare 
 
 He proudly strave to hyde. 
 
 In deepe revolving thought he stoode, 
 
 And mused a little space : 
 Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounds, 
 
 With many a fond embrace. 
 
 • In the Scottish ballads, as we have intimated, the 
 affair has a far less happy termination ; the lover dying of his 
 wounds, and the Lady Margaret of a broken heart :— 
 
 Lord William was buried in St. Maries kirk. 
 
 Lady Marg'ret in Maries quire; 
 Out of the l.idys grave grew a bonny red rose. 
 
 And out of the knights a brier. 
 
 And they twa met, and they twa plat. 
 
 And fain they wad be near: 
 And a" the warld might ken right wccl. 
 
 They were twa lovers dear. 
 
 But bye and radc the Black Douglas, 
 
 And wow but he was rough ! 
 For he pulled up the bonny brier. 
 
 And flang'd in St. Maries loch. 
 
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 FraokliQ. del. 
 
 T A'Ultams dC 
 
 
 
 (5.)
 
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 mt CTfjtlb of 1311c. 
 
 Here take licr, Child of Elle,' — he sayd, 
 And gave lier lillye white hand ; — 
 ' Here take my deare and only child, 
 And with her half my land : 
 
 Tliy father once mine honour wronged 
 
 In days of youthful pride — 
 Do thou the injuryc repayre 
 
 In fondness for thy bride ; 
 
 And as thou love her, and hold her deare. 
 Heaven prosper thee and thine ! 
 
 And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, 
 My lovelye Emmeline I ' 
 
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 FrauAUu. del 
 
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 \:^^ru 
 
 "Motherwell's Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern." He 
 inclines to trace its origin to a melancholy event that 
 happened in the family of the Somervilles, which is 
 thus recorded: — "This year, 1589, in the moneth of 
 July, ther falls out a sad accident, as a further warning 
 that God was displeased with the familie. • • • • • 
 The servant, with his two sones, William, Master of 
 Somervil, and John, his brother, went with the liorses 
 to ane shott of land, called the prety sholt, directly 
 opposite the front of the house, where there was some meadow ground for grassing 
 the horses, and willowes to shaddow themselves from the heat. They had not long 
 continued in this place, when the Master of Somervil, after some litle rest awakeing 
 from his sleep, and finding his pistolles, that lay hard by him, wett with the dew, 
 he began to rub and dry them, when, unhappily, one of them went off the ratch, 
 being lying upon his knee, and the muzel turned side-ways, the ball strucke his 
 brother John directly in the head and killed him outright, soe that his sorrowful 
 brother never had one word from him, albeit he begged it with many teares." 
 
 In this, or some such unhappy incident, no doubt the ballad originated. A 
 copy, different from tliat preserved hy Mr. Motherwell, was published in the 
 " Popular Ballads and Songs" collected by Jamieson, who states that he "took it 
 down from the recitation of Mrs. Arrott ;" but finding the third stanza imperfect, 
 he added to it four lines, which give a reading to the story, out of harmony with 
 truth. His added lines are — 
 
 And nane was near to part the strife 
 
 That rai^e atween them tway, 
 Till out and Willie 's drawn the sword, 
 
 And did his brother slay. 
 
 In Jamieson's version, it is not the mother who discovers the blood of the dead 
 upon the brow of the living brother, but a '* true love," who exclaims— 
 
 ' When every lady looks for her love, 
 I ne'er need look for mine.' 
 
 And in this ballad the dying youth thus addresses his unhappy brother, who had 
 been vainly striving to " stop his bluidy wounds :" — 
 
 Ye '11 lift me up upon your back, 
 
 Tiik me to Kirkland fair; 
 Ye'l) mak my greaf baith braid and lang. 
 
 And lay my body there. 
 
 Ye '11 lay my arrows at my head, 
 
 My bent bow at my feet ; 
 My sword and buckler at my side. 
 
 As I was wont to sleep. 
 
 When ye gae hame to your father. 
 
 He'll speer for his son John ; — 
 Say, ye left him unto Kirkland fair, 
 
 Learning the school alone. 
 
 Wlien ye gae hame to my sister. 
 
 She "U speer for her brother John ; 
 Ye '11 say ye left him in Kirkland fair, 
 
 The green grass growing abtion.
 
 The version furnished by Mr. Motherwell is far more touching and more true; and 
 preserves the ballad from injury in its most prominent and impressive features :— the 
 sorrow and remorse of the wretched survivor, and the generous and forgiving spirit 
 of the youth who, in his dying agony, thinks only of screening the reputation of his 
 brother. In the " Reliques of Ancient English Poetry," there occurs a ballad, 
 entitled " Edward," which contains the same general characteristics, — here, how- 
 ever, when the mother eiuiuires of the son — 
 
 " Quhy dois zour brand sae drap wi' bluid f" 
 
 She receives for answer, as in the ballad of the "Twa Brothers," that the stain is 
 from the blood of his "hauke sae guid," and from his "reid-roan steid;" but, sub- 
 sequently, the confession that he had " killed his fadir deir." The following verse 
 concludes the ballad, and explains the catastrophe: 
 
 •And guhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir. 
 
 My deir son. now tell me. 0?' 
 
 'The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, 
 
 Mither. mither! 
 
 The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir. 
 
 Sic eounzeits ze gave to me, O!' 
 
 It would appear, from a note in the seventh edition of the "Reliques," that this 
 "curious song" was transmitted, in M.S., to Dr. Percy, by Sir David Dalrymple, 
 Bart., late Lord Ilailes. In Herd's collection of "Ancient and Modern Scottish 
 Songs and Heroic Ballads," 17(i9 — the ballad is reprinted, but without any remark. 
 He prints also another ballad (but neither in this case does he supply us with any 
 information concerning it), — in which a lady, about to marry without the consent of 
 her brother, is murdered by him with " a little penknife." 
 
 Motherwell prints also a ballad, entitled " Son Davie, Son Davie," which some- 
 what resembles that of the "Twa Brothers," but more closely that of Dr. Percy. 
 We extract the concluding verse : — 
 
 ' What wilt thou leave to thy mother dear, 
 
 Son Davie, sou Davie?' 
 ' A fire o' coals to burn her wi' hearty cheer, 
 
 And she'll never get mair o' me, O!' 
 
 This engraving of the ancient Scottish dirk is copied from one in Logan's " Scot- 
 tish Gael," there stated to be in the pos- 
 session of the author. The handle is 
 elaliorately carved with an interlaced 
 
 pattern, after the style of the ancient " Runic Knot" The sheath contains pouches 
 
 to hold two smaller knives. 
 
 ^>^M!gt-ift.Git:' 
 
 t
 
 THE TWA BEOTHEKS. 
 
 There were twa brothers at tlie sculc. 
 
 And when they got awa" — 
 It 's ' Will ye play at the stane-chucking, 
 
 Or will ye play at tlie ba', 
 Or will ye gae up to yon hill head ? 
 
 And there we '11 warsell a la'.' 
 
 ' I winna play at the stane-chucking, 
 
 Nor will 1 play at the ba', 
 But I '11 gae up to yon bonnie green hill, 
 
 And there we "11 warsell a fa'.'
 
 
 They warsled up, they warsled down, 
 Till John fell to the ground ; 
 
 A dirk fell out of Williams ])ouch, 
 And cave John a deadly wound. 
 
 ' lift me up upon your back, 
 
 Tak me to yon well fair ; 
 And wash my bliudy wounds o'er and o'er, 
 
 And they '11 ne'er bleed nae mair.' 
 
 He 's lifted his brother upon his back, 
 
 Ta'en him to yon well fair ; 
 He 's washed his bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, 
 
 But thev bleed av mair and mair. 
 
 ' Tak ye affmy Holland sark, 
 
 And rive it gair by gair. 
 And row it in my bluidy wounds. 
 
 And they '11 ne'er bleed nae mair.' 
 
 He's taken affhis Holland sark. 
 And torn it gair by gair ; 
 
 He 's row it in his bluidy wounds, 
 But thev bleed ay mair and mair. 
 
 ' Tak now aff my green sleiding. 
 
 And row me saftly in ; 
 And tak me up to yon kirk style, 
 
 Whare the grass grows fair and green. 
 
 He 's taken aff the green sleiding. 
 
 And rowed him softly in ; 
 He 's laid him down by yon kirk style, 
 
 Whare the grass grows fair and green.
 
 ■K- 
 
 ^ 
 
 =;^==f_'> 
 
 'S'fic ^toa 13rot!jcrs. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ' Wliat will ye say to your father dear, 
 Wien ye gae hame at e'en V 
 
 ' I 'II say ye 're lying at yon kirk style, 
 Whare the grass grows fair and green. 
 
 ' O no, O no, my brother dear, 
 
 O you must not say so ; 
 But say, that I 'm gane to a foreign land, 
 
 Whare nae man does me know.' 
 
 When he sat in his fathers chair 
 He grew baith pale and wan. 
 
 ' O what blude 's that upon your brow ? 
 O dear son, tell to me.' 
 
 ' It is the blude o' my gude gray steed- 
 
 H« wadna ride wi' me.' 
 ' O thy steeds blude was ne'er sae red, 
 
 Nor e'er sae dear to me. 
 
 O what blude 's that upon your cheek .' 
 
 O dear son, tell to me.' 
 ' It is the blude of my greyhound. 
 
 He wadna hunt for me.' 
 
 ' O thy hounds blude was ne'er sae red. 
 
 Nor e'er sae dear to me ; 
 O what blude 's this upon your hand .' 
 
 O dear son, tell to me.' 
 
 ' It is the blude of my gay goss hawk 
 
 He wadna flee for me.' 
 ■ O thy liawks blude was ne'er sae red, 
 
 Nor e'er sae dear to me ; 
 
 i 
 
 I I
 
 O what blude 's this upon your dirk ? 
 
 Dear Willie, tell to me.' 
 ' It is the blude of my ae brother, 
 
 O, dale and wae is me I' 
 
 ■ O what \rill ye say to your father ? 
 
 Dear Willie, tell to me.' 
 ' I '11 saddle my steed, and awa I '11 ride. 
 
 To dwell in some far countrie.' 
 
 ' O when will ye come hame again ? 
 
 Dear Willie, tell to me.' 
 ' When sun and mune leap on yon hiU, 
 
 And that will never be.' 
 
 She turned hersel" right round about. 
 And her heart burst into three : 
 
 ' My ae best son is deid and gane, 
 And my tother ane I '11 ne'er see.'
 
 HE BEGGARS DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN. 
 
 We take this fine and touching old ballad from the 
 
 " Reliques" of Dr. Percy, although a black-letter 
 
 copy of it is preserved in the folio collection at 
 
 the British Museum ; retaining it chiefly because 
 
 the Doctor has added, at the close, several stanzas 
 
 in lieu of those which are found in the early edition; 
 
 admitting, therefore, the cogency of his reasons for the 
 
 change he has introduced. He does not give these stanzas 
 
 as genuine, but " as a modern attempt to remove the 
 
 absurdities and inconsistencies which so remarkably prevailed" in the 
 
 ancient version of the story — thus "rendering it much more affecting," and 
 
 "reconciling it to probability and true history." The verses displaced by 
 
 ^^ Percy we also insert. "We find, however, many differences between the two 
 
 '' -i copies ; although none of them, except the extensive one referred to, are very 
 
 essential. As that in the British Museum contains several passages which 
 
 Percy may have altered, but which we do not think he has improved, we have 
 
 restored them in the majority of cases in which they occur.* 
 
 * When first our King his fame did advance, 
 And fought for his title in delicate France, 
 In many places great peril past he; 
 But tlieu was not born my pretty Bessee. 
 
 And in those wars went over to fight 
 
 Many a brave duke, a lord, and a kniglite; 
 
 And with them young Montford of courage so free; 
 
 But then was not born ray pretty Bessee. 
 
 And there did young Montford, with a blow o' the face, 
 
 Lose both liis eyes in a very short space ; 
 
 His life also had been gone with his sight, 
 
 Had not a young woman come forth i' the night. 
 
 Amongst the slaine men her fancy did move, 
 
 To search and to seek out her owne true love ; 
 
 "Who seeing young Montford there gasping to lie, 
 
 She saved his life through her charitie. 
 
 And then all our victuals in beggars attire, 
 
 At the hands of good people we there did require; 
 
 At last into England, as now it is seene. 
 
 We came and remained at Bednal Green. 
 
 And thus have we lived in fortunes despight, 
 
 Though poore, yet contented, with humble delight; 
 
 And in my old age, a comfurt to be, 
 
 God sent me a ddughter called pretty Bessee. 
 
 • A few of these alterations it may be desirable to note. We liave no means of ascertaining 
 whether the Black-letter copy in the British Museum was, or was not, one of " the two ancient 
 copies" consulted by Percy. It will be seen, howev'er, that the reprint of I't-rcy very clost-Iy re- 
 sembles it ; for the following are tlie principal changes which occur in his version of the 
 ballad. In the 7th verse, Percy has the word *■ enamoured" instead of "in love with;" in verse 
 13, " That soon 1 shall dye for pictty Bessee," instead of " Then grant me thy favour, my pretty 
 Bessee;" in verse 14, " as fine as a ladye," instead of " in silks and in velvets:" in verse 31, " the 
 pearlie drops standing within her faire eyes," instead of "with the fa ire water all in her bright eyes."
 
 <^^:^m. 
 
 X£'>"^<J^- 
 
 
 
 And thus, you nobles, my song I do end, 
 Hoping the tinmc no man doth otFend; 
 Full forty long winters thus have I been 
 A silly blind beggwr of UcUiial green. 
 
 Now when the company had every one, 
 Heard the strange talc in song he had shown, 
 They were all amazed, as well they might be, 
 Both at the blind beggar and pretty Bessec. 
 
 The ballad in the British Museum is thus entitled — *'The Rarest IJalhul tliat 
 ever was seen of the Blind Beggar's daughter of Bednal Green. Printed by and 
 for W. Onley ; and are to he sold by C. Bates at the sign of the sun and bible 
 in Pye corner." The Pepysinn Library does not contain a copy ; but Dr. Percy 
 found one in his " folio MS.," which he " compared with two ancient printed 
 
 copies." He considers it to have been written in 
 the reign of Elizabeth ; on the ground that, in verse 
 the twenty-third, the arms of England are called 
 "the Uueenes armes;"* and, also, because of the 
 "tune's being quoted in other old pieces written 
 in her time;*' History informs us that at the de- 
 cisive battle of Evesham (fought August -l-, 1265), 
 when Simon de Monlfort, the great Earl of Leicester, 
 was slain at tlie licad of the barons, his eldest son, 
 Henry, fell by his side, and, in consequence of that 
 defeat, his whole family sunk for ever, the King bestowing their great honours 
 and possessions on his second son, Edmund, Earl of Lancaster. ^Ve have, however, 
 no data from whence to determine whether the story of the Blind Beggar is pure 
 fiction or founded on fact. It is by no means improbable that some such incident 
 did actually occur, of which the poet took advantage, availing himself of the usual, 
 and justifiable, licence. During the civil wars, events of this kind must have 
 been frequent. 
 
 The "AngcU," more than once alluded to in the ballad, was a gold coin, value 
 ahout ten shillings; so called from having on one 
 side a figure of St, Michael killing the dragon. 
 They were first coined by Edward the Fourth, in 
 14(i(), and continued to be struck until the reign of 
 Charles the First The reverse exhibits a ship bear- 
 ing the arms of England. 
 
 • Tlie Arms of Elizabeth differ from the Royal Arms, as now borne, in many particulars. 
 France and England only appear in the tiuarterings of the shield. The removal of ilie French 
 Coat did not indeed take place till late in the reign of George UI., altliougli, centuries before, 
 we had lost every foot of our French territories, — so long retained and so obsiinaicly fought for 
 by our earlier sovereigns. The Red Dragon and Lion are tlie supjiorters. The Dragon being the 
 distinctive badge of the Tudor family, it was introduced by the victorious Henry of Uicli- 
 mond, on his accession to the throne, alter the battle ot Boswortli. lUehard IH. had two Boars 
 as his supporters ; hence the allusion, in Shakspcre, to " Richard, that bloody and revengeful 
 boar." From tlie accession of Henry VH. until the death of Elizabeth, the Arms of England 
 remained the same. It was James 1. who introduced the Unicorn, the badge of hia liouse, wliieh 
 has ever since retained its place with llie Lion, as the sujipoiiers of the Ko^al Arms. 
 
 4?^^ 
 
 i^^Ji
 
 ^ {m.f-"nT-:: 
 
 ■1?,' 
 
 1 
 
 '■• '-'^ssm'^'^ 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 W/aRRSAGE. 
 
 \1 
 
 ■'^>— ^s~5j^ 
 
 ■«fe<«®;^ 
 
 (S^ 
 
 ml ^ il^/Zf^x' 
 
 ^^% >M'F' ™C BEGGAE'S DAUGHTEE OF BEDX.VLL GEEEN. 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 PART THE FIRST, 
 
 Itt was a blind beggar, had long- lost his sight, 
 He had a (aire daughter most pleasant and brin-ht • 
 And many a gallant brave suitor had shee, 
 For none was see comelye as pretty Bessee. 
 
 And tlunigh shee was of favor most foire, 
 Yett seeing she was but a poor beggars heyre 
 Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, 
 Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee. 
 
 ^! 
 
 >^W 
 
 Gilbert, del, 
 
 Vizetelly.sc. v^'-
 
 ^^'herefore in great sorrow faire Bessee did say, 
 ' Good father, and motlier, let me goc away 
 To seeke out my fortune, whereever itt bee.' 
 Tlie suite then they granted to pretty Bessee. 
 
 Tlien Bessee, that was of bcwtye soe bright, 
 All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night, 
 From father and mother alone parted shee ; 
 ^Vho sighed and sobbed for pretty Bessee. 
 
 ' Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow ; 
 Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe ; 
 With teares shee lamented her hard destinie, 
 So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee. 
 
 Shee kept on her journey untill it was day. 
 And went unto Runiford along the hye way ; 
 Where at the Glueenes armes entertained was shee : 
 So faire and wcl favoured was pretty Bessee. 
 
 Shee had not been there one month to an end. 
 But master and mistress and all was her friend : 
 And every brave gallant, that once did her see. 
 Was strait-way in love with pretty Bessee. 
 
 Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, 
 And in their songs daylye her love was extold ; 
 Her bewtye was blazed in every degree ; 
 Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee. 
 
 The younge men of Rumford in her had their joy ; 
 Shee shew'd herself curteous, but never too coye ; 
 And at their commandment still wold she bee ; 
 Soe fayre and soe eomlye was pretty Bessee. 
 
 Foure suitors att once unto lier did goe ; 
 They craved her favor, but still she sayd ' Noe ; 
 1 would not wish gentles to marry with mee.' 
 Yett ever they honored pretty Bessee. 
 
 1 
 
 VizeteUy, k:
 
 ^Se 33cggar's Baugljtcr of -IjrUnnll C5rtcn. 
 
 The first of them was a gallant young knight, 
 And he came unto her disguisde in the night : 
 The second a gentleman of good degree, 
 Who wooed and sued for pretty Bessee. 
 
 small. 
 
 A merchant of London, whose wealth was not 
 Was then the third suitor, and proper withall : 
 Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, 
 AMio swore he would dye for pretty Bessee. 
 
 ' And, if thou wilt marry with mee,' quoth the knight, 
 ' He make thee a lady with joy and delight ; 
 My heart's so inthralled by thy faire bewtie. 
 Then grant me thy favour, my pretty Bessee.' 
 
 The gentleman sayd, ' Come, marry with mee. 
 In silks and in velvets my Bessee shall bee : 
 My heart lives distressed : O heare me,' quoth hee ; 
 ' And grant me thy love, my pretty Bessee.' 
 
 ' Let me be thy husband,' the merchant did say, 
 ' Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay ; 
 My shippes shall bring home rych jewels for thee. 
 And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.' 
 
 Then Bessee shee sighed, and thus shea did say, 
 ' My father and mother I meane to obey : 
 First gett theyr good will, and be faithfull to mee, 
 And you shall enjoye your pretty Bessee.' 
 
 To every one this answer shee made ; 
 
 Wherefore unto her they joyfullve sayd, 
 
 ' This thina; to fulfill wco all doe airree ; 
 
 But where dwells thy father, my pretty Bessee ?' 
 
 ' My father,' quoth shee, ' is plaine to be scene : 
 The silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene, 
 That daylye sits begging for charitie, 
 He is the good father of pretty Bessee. 
 
 Vizetelly, 8C.
 
 I I- 
 
 Z\)t Umm's Daimljtcv of Ucljnall Circrn. 
 
 J— ^1 
 
 
 His markes and liis tokens are known lull well ; 
 He ahvayes is led with a dog<i and a bell : 
 A silly olde man, God knoweth, is lice, 
 Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.' 
 
 ' Nay then,' quo' the merchant, ' tho\i art not for niee :' 
 ' Xor,' quo' the innholder, ' my wift'e shalt not bee:' 
 ' I lothe,' sayd the gentle, ' a bepgars degree, 
 And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee !' 
 
 ■ \Vliy then,' quoth the knight, ' hap better or worse, 
 1 waighe not true love by tlie waight of the pursse, 
 And bewtye is bewtye in every degree ; 
 Then welcome to me, my pretty Bessee. 
 
 With thee to thy father forthwith will I goe.' 
 ' Nay soft,' quoth his kinsmen, ' it must not be soe ; 
 A ])oor beggars daughter noe ladye shall bee, 
 Then take thy adewe of pretty Bessee.' 
 
 Hut soone after this, by break of the day. 
 The knight had from Rumford stole Bessee away. 
 The younge men of Rumford, so sicke as may be, 
 Rode after to fetche againe pretty Bessee. 
 
 As swifte as the winde to ride they were scene, 
 Untill they came neare unto Bednall-grcene ; 
 And as the knight lighted most courteouslie 
 'I'hey all fought against him for pretty Bessee. 
 
 But rescew came presentlye over the plaine. 
 
 Or else the knight there for his love had been slaine. 
 
 This fray being ended, then strait he did see 
 
 His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee. 
 
 Then spake the blind beggar, ' Although I bee poore, 
 Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore : 
 Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, 
 Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle. 
 
 78
 
 '^^^2?^ 
 
 Vliit i3cggav's Baugfticr of i3rtinall Gitrn. 
 
 Tr' 
 
 And then, if my gold will better her birthe, 
 And equall the gold that you lay on the earth, 
 Then neyther rayle nor grndge you to see 
 The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. 
 
 Butt first I will heare, and have it well knowne, 
 The gold that you drop shall be all your owne.' 
 With that they replyed, ' Contented wee bee.' 
 ' Then here 's,' quoth the beggar, ' for pretty Bessee. 
 
 
 
 With that an angell he cast on the ground, 
 
 And dropped in angells full three thousand pound ; 
 
 And oftentimes itt was proved most plaine, 
 
 For the gentlemans one tlie beggar dropt twayne : 
 
 So as the place, wherein they did sitt, 
 
 With gold it was covered every whitt ; 
 
 The gentleman then having dropt all his store, 
 
 Sayd, ' Now, beggar, liold, for I have noe more. 
 
 Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright.' 
 ' Then marry,' quoth he, ' my girle to the knight ; 
 And heere,' quoth he,' I will now throwe you downe 
 A hundred pounds more to buj' her a gowne.' 
 
 The gentlemen all, that this treasure had scene. 
 Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene : 
 And those that were her suitors before, 
 Their fleshe for very anger they tore. 
 
 Thus was their Bessee matched to a knight. 
 
 And made a ladye in others despite : 
 
 A fairer ladye there never was scene, 
 
 Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene. 
 
 But of her smnptuous marriage and feast, 
 What brave lords and knights thither were prest. 
 The second fitt shall set forth to your sight 
 With marvellous pleasure and wished delight. 
 
 V:ze*-el"y sc
 
 If 
 
 ^ 
 
 Z\)t 3t3cggnr's Bnugljtrr of 13cl)nall Green. 
 
 'S^ 
 
 
 FITT THE SECOM). 
 
 Off a blind beggars daughter most fair and bright, 
 Tliat late was betrothed unto a younge knight ; 
 All the discourse tliereof you may see ; 
 But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee. 
 
 Within a gallant palace most brave, 
 Adorned with all the cost they could have, 
 This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie, 
 And all for the love of pretty Bessee. 
 
 All kind of dainties, and delicates swccte 
 Were brought to their banquet, as it was thought nieete ; 
 Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, 
 Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee. 
 
 This wedding thro' England was spread, by report, 
 So that a great number did thither resort 
 Of nobles and gentles in every degree ; 
 And all for the fame of pretty Bessee. 
 
 To church then went this gallant younge knight ; 
 His bride followed after, a ladye most bright, 
 With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene 
 As went with sweete Bessee of Bednall-greene. 
 
 This marryage being solemnized then. 
 
 With musicke performed by the skilfidlest men, 
 The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, 
 Each one beholding the beautiful brydc. 
 
 But, after the sumptuous dinner was done. 
 
 To talke, and to reason a number begunn : 
 
 To talke of the blind beggars daughter most bright. 
 
 And what with his daughter he gave to the knight. 
 
 Vizetelly, K 
 
 80 Q^
 
 ®jie JSeggar's iBaugfitcr of 23cUnan &xun. 
 
 Then spake the nobles, ' Much marveil have wee, 
 The jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see.' 
 ' My lords,' quoth the bride, ' my father 's so base, 
 Hee is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.' 
 
 ' The prayse of a woman in questyon to bringe 
 Before her own face were a flattering tliinge ; 
 Yett wee thinke thy fathers baseness,' quoth they, 
 ' Might by thy bewtye bee cleane put away.' 
 
 They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke. 
 But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke : 
 A faire velvet capp, and a father had hee ; 
 And nowe a musicyan forsooth he would bee. 
 
 Hee had a daintye lute under his arme, 
 Hee touched the strings, which made such a charme, 
 Sayd, ' Please you to heare any musicke of mee, 
 A song I \vill sing you of pretty Bessee.' 
 
 With that his lute hee twanged straitway, 
 And thereon begann most sweetlye to play ; 
 And after that lessons were playd two or three, 
 Hee straynd out this song most delicatelie. 
 
 ' A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, 
 Wlio for her bewtye might well bee a queene : 
 A blithe bonny lasse, and daintye was shee, 
 And many one called her pretty Bessee. 
 
 Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe lands. 
 But begged for a penny all day with his hands ; 
 And yett for her marriage hee gave thousands three. 
 And still hee hath somewhat for pretty Bessee. 
 
 And if any one her birth doe disdaine, 
 Her father is ready, with might and with maine, 
 To proove shee is come of a noble degree : 
 Therefore let none floute att my prettye Bessee.' 
 
 Vizetelly, sc
 
 t;tea 
 
 JM^ 
 
 With that the lords and compan3e round 
 With liearty laughter were readye to swound : 
 Att last said the lords, ' Full well wee may see, 
 The bride and the beggar's bchouldeii to thee.' 
 
 With that the bride all blushing; did rise, 
 
 With the faire water all in her brighte eyes : 
 
 ' Pardon my father, grave nobles," quoth shee, 
 
 ' That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.' 
 
 ' If this bee thy father,' the nobles did say, 
 ' Well may hee bee proud of this happy day ; 
 Yett by his countenance well may wee see, 
 His birth with his fortune did never agree ; 
 
 And therefore, blind beggar, wee pray thee bewray, 
 (And looke that the truth to us thou doe say) 
 Thy birth and thy parentage, what itt may bee. 
 For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.' 
 
 ' Then give mee leave, nobles and gentles, each one, 
 A song more to sing, and then I '11 begone, 
 And if that I do not winn your good report, 
 Then doe not give me a groat for my sport. 
 
 Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shall bee : 
 Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, 
 Yett fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, 
 Nowe loste and forgotten are hee and his race. 
 
 AVTien the barons in amies did King Ilenrye oppose, 
 Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose : 
 A leader of courage undaunted was hee. 
 And oft-times hee made their enemyes flee. 
 
 At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine 
 
 The barons were routed, and Montfort was slaine : 
 
 Most fatall that battel did prove unto thee. 
 
 Though thou wast not borne then, my pretty Bessee! 
 
 Vi<et«lly . 9C 

 
 Along with the nobles, that feU at that tj'de, 
 His eldest sonne Henrye, who fought by his side, 
 Was felde by a blowe, hee receivde in the fight : 
 A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. 
 
 Among the dead bodyes all lifelesse hee laye. 
 Till evening drewe on of the following daye, 
 Wien by a yomige ladye discovered was hee ; — 
 And this was thy mother, my pretty Bessee. 
 
 A barons faire daughter stept forth in the night. 
 To search for her father, who fell in the fight. 
 And seeing younge Montfort, where gasping hee laye. 
 Was moved with pit3'e, and brought him awaye. 
 
 In secrette shee nurst him, and swaged his paine. 
 While hee through the realme was beleevd to be slaine : 
 At length his faire bride shee consented to bee. 
 And made him glad father of pretty Bessee. 
 
 And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, 
 Wee clothed ourselves in beggars arraye : 
 Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee : 
 All our comfort and care was our pretty Bessee. 
 
 And here have wee lived in fortunes despite. 
 Though poore, yett contented with humble delighte : 
 Full forty winters thus have I beene 
 A silly blind beggar of BednaU-greene. 
 
 And here, noble lordes, is ended the song 
 Of one, that once to your ovn\ ranke did belong ; 
 And thus have you learned a secrette from mee, 
 That ne'er had been knowne, but for pretty Bessee.' 
 
 Nowe when the faire companye everye one. 
 Had heard the strange tale in the song hee had showne, 
 They all were amazed, as well they might bee. 
 Both at the blinde beggar, and the pretty Bessee. 
 
 VtzeteUy. ac
 
 ^f)c Urngar's Daugijtrr of Uctmall Cavcm. 
 
 iJ^ 
 
 With tliat the fairc bride they all did embrace, 
 Saying, ' Sure thou art come of an honourable race, 
 Thy lather likewise is of noble degree. 
 And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.' 
 
 Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, 
 A brldegroome most happy was the yoiuige knight, 
 In joy and felicitie long lived hee, 
 All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee. 
 
 fS^ 
 
 Vlzetelly. ac 
 
 'W^
 
 OBIN GOODFELLOW. This " very curious and excellent 
 old ballad" we print from a black letter copy in the 
 folio collection at the British Museum, where it is 
 entitled, "The merry pranks of Robin Goodfellow, to 
 the tune of Dulcina, &c. ;" and where it is illustrated 
 by a rude portraiture* of the merriest and most mis- 
 chievous of the whole race of fairy land ; who, although 
 delighting in all manner of wild and reckless humour, 
 was able to 
 
 Put a girdle round about the earth 
 In forty minutes. 
 
 Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, was a "shrewd and knavish sprite." His 
 peculiar characteristics, and his especial duties, are described by many 
 of the old poets. Ben Jonson, in his masque of " Love Restored," speaks 
 of " Robin Goodfellow, he that sweeps the hearth and the house clean, riddles for 
 the country maids, and does all their other drudgery, while they are at hot cockles." 
 Drayton, in the " Polyolbion," pictures him as one who, bolting out of a bush — 
 
 Makes us to stray 
 Long winter nights out of the way, 
 And when we stick in mire and clay. 
 He doth with laughter leave us. 
 
 Milton alludes to him as the "delusive light" that 
 
 Misleads the amazed night wanderer from his way, 
 To bogs and mires, and oft through pond and pool. 
 
 And by Shakespeare, in the " Midsunmier Night's Dream," he is characterised as 
 chief of the sprites 
 
 That fright the maidens of the villagery ; 
 
 Skim milk ; and sometimes labour in the quern, 
 
 And bootless make the breathless housewife ehurn : 
 
 And sometime make the drink to bear ne barm ; 
 
 Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm. 
 
 Indeed, he had been a favourite with the mass of the people from a very early 
 period. He has been traced back to the 13th century, by writers of fairy mythology, 
 and he may have existed in popular tales at an earlier period. He is repeatedly 
 alluded to by the authors of the Elizabethan era. In " Tarleton's Newes out of 
 Purgatorie," published immediately after his death in 1588, as the title-page asserts, 
 " by an old Companion of his, Robin Goodfellow,"— Robin is declared to be " famozed 
 in every old wives chronicle for his mad merrye prankes." There is a curious wood- 
 cut representation of him on the title-page to an unique tract in the library of Lord 
 Francis Egerton, entitled " Robin Goodfellow his mad Prankes and merry Jests ; 
 
 • Ritson says that the cuts— for there are two of them— which illustrate the ballad, in the 
 British Museum, instead of, as Dr. Percy considered, " representing the dresses in which this 
 whimsical character was formerly exhibited upon the stage," were printed from the " identical 
 blocks made use of by Bulwer, in his ' Artificial Changeling,' published in 1G15, the flist being 
 intended for one of the black and while gallants of Seale-bay, adorned with the moon, stars, &€. 
 and the other a hairy savage." Ritson makes this error the ground of a most fierce and bitter 
 attack upon the prelate's character; yet it is here shewn, by an authority of which Ritson was 
 not cognizant, that the veritable Robin Goodfellow did actually resemble a "hairy savage."
 
 full of honest merth, and is a fit medicine for melancholy." 1628. It shews us 
 
 Robin in form of a horned satyr, carrying a 
 liroom on his shoulder, and a torch in his hand. 
 He is dancing in a ring of pigmies, one of whom 
 is seated, and furnishing the dancers with 
 their music trom his pipe. A black cat sits 
 opposite, and a jug occupies the foreground. 
 The cut (which we have here copied) is curious, 
 and will at once remind the reader of Shakes- 
 peare's " Midsummer Night's Dream," where 
 Robin figures under the name of I'uck ; and is 
 
 Sent with broom before 
 
 To sweei> tlle dust behind the door. 
 
 But none of the old writers represent him as a malicious spirit. His name, indeed, 
 denotes the opposite character. He leads benighted victims into, but also through, 
 bogs and quagmires ; never leaving them to perish, altliough plunging them, now and 
 then, up to the ears in mud ; and that he is always generous to those who please 
 him, we have the assurance of very old and high authorities. 
 
 The Puck, or Phooka, of Ireland, is a far more evil-minded spirit than his English 
 namesake. The form in which he most conmionly appears is that of a horse, and 
 his great object is to seduce some unwary wayfarer into becoming his rider. The 
 victim once mounted, away they go. Headlong dashes the Phooka through brake 
 and briar; through flood and fell; over mountain, valley, moor, or river; up or 
 down precipices ; between narrow gorges ; in all dangerous places : utterly reckless 
 of the agony of the unhappy wight who bestrides him. Of his merciless cruelties 
 and malicious pranks many amusing stories are related by the peasantry ; several of 
 them are told by Mrs. S. C. Hall, in her " Sketches of Irish character." 
 
 The ballad of Robin Goodfellow is attributed by the antiquarian Peck (by whom 
 
 it was originally published) to Ben Jonson, but not, it would seem, upon sufficient 
 
 authority. It does not occur in his works. There is little doubt of its having been 
 
 written for some Masque, in which tlie character of Robin Goodfellow was sustained 
 
 by one of the actors, who, in addressing the audience, describes himself as being 
 
 sent by Oberou 
 
 • to see the niglit sports liere.' 
 
 The tune to which " Robin Goodfellow was sung," we copy from Ritson : — 
 
 pm^-fTjnr^'^rnrT^'ffjtHTJ 
 
 frP fr^iiltrH^iH-^4+ffI^f S %piia
 
 1"^ 
 
 Froji Oberon in fairye land, '. 
 
 The kin<r of ghosts and shadowes there, 
 Mad Robin I, at his command, 
 
 Am sent to viewe the night-sports here. 
 What revell rout 
 Is kept about, 
 In every corner wliere I go, 
 
 I will o'ersee, and merry bee, 
 And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho 
 
 More swift than lightening can I flye 
 
 About this aery welkin soone, 
 And, in a minutes space, descrye 
 
 Each thing that 's done belowe the moonc, 
 There 's not a hag 
 Or ghost shall wag. 
 Or cry, ware Goblins ! where I go ; 
 
 But Robin I their fcatcs will spy. 
 And send them home, with ho, ho, ho !
 
 IKobin €ioolj=jpcllolu. 
 
 Mliene'er such wanderers I meete, 
 
 As from tlieir iiiglit-sports they trudge home ; 
 With counti'rf'fiting voice I greete, 
 
 And call them on, with me to roame 
 Thro' woods, thro' lakes. 
 Thro' bogs, thro' brakes ; 
 Or else, unseene, with them I go. 
 
 All in the nicke to play some tricke 
 And Irolicke it, with ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Sometimes I meete them like a man ; 
 
 Sometimes, an ox, sometimes, a hound ; 
 And to a horse I turn me can ; 
 
 To trip and trot about them round. 
 lUit if, to ride. 
 My backo they stride, 
 More swift than winde away I go. 
 
 Ore hedge and lands, thro' pools and ponds 
 1 whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 'Wlien lads and lasses merry be, 
 
 With possets and with juncates fine, 
 Unseene of all the company, 
 
 1 eat their cakes and sip their wine ; 
 And to make sport, 
 I snore and snort ; 
 And out the candles I do blow : 
 
 The maids I kiss ; they shrieke — Who's this ? 
 I answer naught, but ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Yet now and then, the maids to please, 
 At midnight I card up their wooll ; 
 And while they sleepe and take their ease. 
 With wheel, to threads, their flax I pull. 
 I grind at mill 
 Their malt up still ; 
 I dress their hemp, I spin their tow : 
 If any 'wake, and would me take, 
 I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 88
 
 aaobm ffiootr-jPcUotD. 
 
 When house or harth doth sluttish lye, 
 
 I pinch the maidens black and blue ; 
 The bed-clothes from the bedd pull I 
 And lay them naked all to view. 
 ' Twixt sleepe and wake, 
 I do them take, 
 And on the key-cold floor them throw. 
 
 If out they cry, then forth I fly, 
 And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 When any need to borrowe aught, 
 
 We lend them what they do require : 
 And for the use demand we nought : 
 Our owne is all we do desire. 
 If to repay. 
 They do delay. 
 Abroad amongst them then I go, 
 
 And night by night, I them affright 
 With pincliings, dreames, and ho, ho, ho 1 
 
 Wien lazie queans have nought to do. 
 
 But study how to cog and lye ; 
 To make debate and miscliief too, 
 'Twixt one another secretlye : 
 I marke their gloze, 
 And it disclose. 
 To them whom they have wronged so ; 
 Wien I have done, I get me gone, 
 And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 When men do traps and engins set 
 
 In loope holes were the vennine creepe, 
 Wio from their foldes and houses, get 
 
 Their duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe : 
 I spy the gin, 
 And enter in, 
 And seeme a vermine taken so ; 
 
 But when they there approach me neare, 
 I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho! 
 
 1
 
 llobin GootJ-jprllofa). 
 
 By wells and rills, in meadowes greene, 
 
 Wo nif^litly dance our hey-daj' guise ; 
 And to our fairye king and queene 
 
 We chant our moon-light minstrelsies. 
 When larks gin sing, 
 Away Wf fling, 
 And babes new borne stcale as we go, 
 
 And elfe in bed we leave instead, 
 And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! 
 
 From hag-bred Merlin's time have I 
 Thus nightly revelled to and fro ; 
 And for my pranks men call me by 
 The name of Robin Good-fellow. 
 Fiends, ghosts, and sprites, 
 Who haunt the nights. 
 The hags and goblins do me know ; 
 
 And beldames old my feates have told ; 
 So Vale, Fate ; ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 :^VJ.
 
 IR PATRICK SPENS. This ballad lays claim to "a high 
 and remote antiquity." It was originally published by 
 Dr. Percy "from two MS. copies .transmitted from Scot- 
 land;" but the copy in the "Reliques" consists of only 
 eleven stanzas. In its enlarged and more complete 
 form, it was printed in the " Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
 Border," and also by Mr. Motherwell, from whose work 
 lii^^^^^'S^'/'^/^^^/ ^*^ hnve extracted it; although it there differs very little 
 from the copy given by Sir Walter Scott "from two MS. 
 copies collated with several verses recited by his friend, 
 Robert Hamilton, Esq., — being the sixteenth and the four 
 which follow." Sir Walter, however, considers it to be still a frag- 
 ment. That the ballad was founded upon an actual bccurrence there can be little 
 doubt, although the earlier annotators were unable to establish the fact, and both 
 Percy and Ritson concluded that "no memorial of the subject exists in History." 
 
 Mr. Mothcnvell, however, considers that it records the melancholy and disastrous 
 fate of the gallant band which followed in the suite of Margaret, daughter of Alex- 
 ander III., when she was espoused to Eric of Norway. According to Fordun — in his 
 History of Scotland — in this expedition many distinguished nobles accompanied her 
 to Norway to grace her nuptials, several of whom perished in a storm, while on their 
 return to Scotland. On the other hand. Sir Walter Scott surmises that the expe- 
 dition was despatched to Norway to bring home to Scotland the infant daughter of 
 Eric and Margaret, who had become legitimate heir to the Scottish crown, in con- 
 sequence of the death of Alexander III., without living issue. " The introduction of 
 the King into the Ballad," he adds, " seems a deviation from history, unless we 
 suppose that the aged monarch was desirous to see his grandchild before he died." 
 The objection of the "skeely skipper" to sail at "this time of the year," is thus 
 accounted for : — it was deemed not only imprudent, but impossible, to navigate a ship 
 during winter. In the reign of James III., two hundred years after the date assigned 
 to the composition, an Act of the Scottish Parliament prohibited all vessels from 
 being navigated, "frae the feast of St. Simon's day and Jude imto the feast of the 
 puriiication of Our Lady, called Candlemas." 
 
 Robert Chambers, in his edition of "Scottish Ballads" (Edinburgh, 1829), — has 
 given a version very different, from the one we have here inserted ; and Mr. Buchan, 
 in his "Ancient Ballads and Songs," publishes another, taken down from "the 
 recitation of a wandering minstrel, who learned it in his youth from a very old 
 person." A verse from each of these will probably satisfy the reader : — 
 
 »K 
 
 CHAMBERS. 
 
 Up Starlit the mermaid by the ship, 
 Wi' a glass and a kame in hei hand ; 
 
 Says ' Reek about, my merry men ; 
 Ye are nae far frae land.* 
 
 The King he wrote a braid letter, 
 And sealed it wi' his ring ; 
 
 Says, ' Ye '11 gie tliat to Patrick Spens, 
 See if ye can him find." 
 
 Mr. Buchan considers that he has obtained "the complete copy," but his version 
 is comparatively weak ; the grandeur of the composition being impaired by tHe 
 occurrence of several inferior and unpoetic stanzas. In Herd's collection it is taken 
 from Percy ; in Finlay's, it is published " with many curious illustrations." Jamieson 
 
 91
 
 e^-^5^ 
 
 has also given several variations; and Allan Cunningham has "enriched the old 
 and simple narrative with a number of the new verses." It may be a question, 
 however, whether the earlier fragment, preserved by Dr. Percy, has been improved 
 by any of the modern additions. 
 
 Some dilTerence of opinion has existed as to whether the catastrophe occurred 
 "forty miles off Aberdeen," or " half owre to Aberdour." On this point, Mr. Cham- 
 bers " thinks it probable that Sir Patrick Spens lived near the little port of Aberdour, 
 on the north side of the Frith of Forth; which port, though now of trifling mag- 
 nitude, might then have been in use as a sort of haven to the town of Dumfcrmline, 
 from which it is not far distant ; and it is a likely circumstance that the ship was 
 destined to the same port from which she had set ouL" He supports tliis reasoning 
 by some facts. The Scottish monarchs chiefly resided in their palace of Dumferm- 
 line, from the time of Malcolm Canmore to that of Alexander the Third. Spens is, 
 to this day, almost an exclusively Fife name. To the east of Aberdeen there is an 
 extremely fine tract of hard, white sand — "altogether a local wonder" — upon which 
 Mr. Chambers assumes the skijjper to have been walking when he received the 
 royal order for his embarkation. These facts are of value, as contributing to prove 
 the actual occurrence of the event commemorated in the ballad. 
 
 The ancient ships of the English and Scottish navy were similar in their build, 
 
 and singularly high, narrow, and unwieldy. 
 The most ancient specimen we have selected for 
 engraving, is copied from John Rouse's " His- 
 tory of the Life and Adventures of Richard 
 Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. Cotton MSS., 
 Julius, E. 4." It gives us a correct idea of the 
 form and appearance of a vessel in the fifteenth 
 century, when the original drawing was exe- 
 cuted. No improvement in build seems to 
 have occurred during the next century ; indeed 
 the vessels were generally more elevated from 
 the surface of the water than before. From 
 Ortelius's map of Scotland (1595), we copy the annexed representation, which gives 
 as fair a sample of these ships, as can be obtained. The 
 large lower sails, the long streamers that reach nearly to 
 the deck, and the high narrow hull, are conspicuous fea- 
 tures. They were exceedingly liable to accidents. Sir 
 Walter Raleigh informs us that " the ' Mary Rose,' a 
 goodly ship of the largest size, by a little sway of the ship 
 in casting about, her ports being within sixteen inches of 
 the water, was overset and sunk." This happened at 
 Spithead, and most of the officers and sailors were 
 drowned. Tlie expense of the clumsy structures was 
 1 normous. The " Great Harry," the famous vessel of 
 King Henry VIII., eostjC15,000. It was similar in con- 
 struction and appearance, to that engraved above ; indeed 
 it was not until the reign of William III., that any con- 
 siderable improvement in ship-building took place, and then it proceeded very slowly. 

 
 xS 
 
 The king sits in Dunfermline town, 
 Drinking the blude-red wine : 
 
 ' O where will I get a skeely skipper 
 To sail this new ship of mine ? ' 
 
 O up and spake an eldern knight, 
 Sat at the kings right knee : 
 
 ' Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
 That ever sailed the sea.' 
 
 Our king has written a braid letter. 
 And sealed it with his hand, 
 
 And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 
 Was walking on the strand. 
 
 Fi-inkliu. drl 
 
 r ArmsU-oug. ac
 
 ' To Noroway, to Noroway, 
 
 To Noroway o'er the facm ; 
 The kings daughter of Noroway, 
 
 'T is 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 blindit his e'e. 
 
 ' O wha is this has done this deed, 
 
 And taiild the king o' me, 
 To send us out at this time o' 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 kings daughter ol' Noroway 
 
 'T is 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 t\i'ae, 
 When that the lords o' Noroway 
 
 Began aloud to say : 
 
 ' Ye Scottishmen spend a' our kings gowd 
 
 And a' our queenis fee.' — 
 ' Ye lie, ye lie ye liars loud ! 
 
 Fu' loud 1 hear ye lie ! 
 
 For I hae brought as much white raonie 
 
 As gane my men and me, 
 And I hae brought a half-fou o' gude red gowd 
 
 Out owre the sea wi' me. 
 
 Make ready, make ready my merrymen a' ! 
 Our gude ship sails the mom.' — 
 
 to 
 
 I Axi&SUOUiJ, t>c 
 
 94
 
 ' 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 '11 come to harm.' 
 
 They hadna sailed 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 topmasts lap, 
 
 It was sic a deadly storm ; 
 And the waves came 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 topmast 
 
 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 topmast — 
 But I fear you 'U ne'er spy land.' 
 
 He hadna gane a step, a step, 
 
 A step, but barely ane, 
 ^^^^en a boult flew out of our goodly ship. 
 
 And the salt sea it came in. 
 
 ' Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, 
 
 Another o' the twine, 
 And wap them into our ships side. 
 
 And letna the sea come in.' 
 
 They fetched a web o' the sOken claith, 
 
 Another o' the twine, 
 And they wapped them romi' that gude ships side ; 
 
 But stQl the sea came in. 
 
 J^ — ^ FramOin, del 
 
 r. Aiznatrong. sc 
 
 95 
 
 ^^^
 
 O laith kith were our gude Scots lords 
 To weet tlieir cork-heeled shoon, 
 
 But lang or a' the play was played 
 They wat their hats aboon ! 
 
 And mony was the feather bed 
 That floated on the faem ; 
 
 And mony was the gude lords son 
 That never mair came hame ! 
 
 The ladyes wrang their fingers white — 
 The maidens tore their hair ; 
 
 A' for the sake of their true loves — 
 For them they '11 see na mair. 
 
 O lang lang may the ladyes sit, 
 \\i' their fans into their hand, 
 
 Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
 Come sailing to the strand I 
 
 And lang lang may the maidens sit, 
 Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, 
 
 A' waiting for their ain dear loves — 
 For them they '11 see na mair ! 
 
 O forty miles off Aberdeen 
 ^ 'T is fifty fathoms deep. 
 
 And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 
 Wi' the Scots lords at his feet !
 
 IL MORRICE. We retain the old title of this ballad, 
 although modern annotators consider it to be that which 
 Percy surmised it to have been, — a corruption of " Child 
 Maurice :" — a name restored to it in the Collections of 
 Pinkerton and Jamieson, but given as "Child Noryce" 
 by Motherwell, who assumes it to he, in each instance, 
 only an alteration of the word " Norice, a nurseling or 
 foster." Before Dr. Percy introduced it into the Re- 
 liques, it had " run through two editions in Scotland, the 
 second having been printed at Glasgow in 1755 :" — to 
 both of them an advertisement was prefi.xed, setting forth 
 that it had been communicated to the printers by a lady, by whom it had been 
 collected from " the mouths of old women and nurses," and suggesting, that if 
 any reader " could render it more correct or complete" he might " oblige the 
 public" by so doing. The consequence of so seductive an invitation was the 
 prompt supply of sixteen additional lines : they were first handed about in manu- 
 script; subsequently printed by Mr. Herd in his "Ancient and Modem Scottish 
 Songs," (Edinburgh, 1777); and afterwards by Dr. Percy, who, however, warns 
 the reader against considering them in any other light than that of an " ingenious 
 interpolation." An interpolation they are, tmdoubtedly ; yet scarcely an ingenious 
 one ; for occurring as they do, after the simple and affecting verse which prepares 
 the reader for the coming tragedy, they are rightly characterised by Sir AValter Scott 
 as the " quintessence of afiectation." We shall omit them from our copy of the 
 ballad, but insert them in a note. 
 
 Although there can be no doubt that the poem is of high antiquity. Dr. Percy 
 considers it to have undergone many "modern improvements;" and he grounds his 
 opinion chiefly on the fact, that his own " folio M.S." contained a very imperfect copy 
 of the same ballad; "wherein, though the leading features of the story are the same, 
 yet the colouring is so much improved and heightened, and so many additional 
 strokes are thrown in, that it is evident the whole has undergone a revisal." The 
 " imperfect copy" to which Dr. Percy refers, has been printed by Jamieson in his 
 " Popular Ballads and Songs," as he states " with most minute and scrupulous 
 exactness." An example may satisfy the curiosity of the reader; it describes the 
 catastrophe : — 
 
 andsayes 'dost tliou know Child Maurice head 
 
 iff that thou dost itt see 
 and chip itt soft and kisse itt offl 
 
 (For thou lovedst him better than mee' 
 
 but when shee looked on Child Maurice head 
 shec never spake words but three 
 
 ' I never beare noe child but one 
 and you have slaine him trulye' 
 
 sayes ' wicked be my merry men all 
 I gave raeate drinke and clothe 
 
 but cold they not have holden mee 
 when I was in all that wrath 
 
 ffor I have slaine the courteousest knighte 
 
 that ever bestrode a sleed 
 soe have I done one of the fairest ladyes 
 
 tliat ever ware womans weede ' 
 
 y^ !
 
 paraphrastic additions, the most scrupulows inquirer into the authenticity of ancient 
 song, can have no hesitation in admitting, that many of its verses, even as they now 
 stand, are purely traditionary, and fair and genuine parcels of antiquity, unalloyed 
 with any base admixture of modern invention, and in no wise altered, save in those 
 changes of language to which all oral poetry is unavoidably subjected in its progress 
 from one age to another." Mr. Motherwell proceeds to support his opinion by 
 printing, ** for the first time," a ballad entitled " Childe Noryce,'* which he gives 
 " verbatim as it was taken down from the singing of the Widow M'Corniick, who was 
 at that date, January, 1825, residing in Westbrae Street, Paisley." This ballad he 
 considers the " prime root from which all the variations heretofore known have origi- 
 nated;" contending that " its clear, straight-forward, rapid, and succinct narrative — 
 its extreme simplicity of style and utter destitution of all ornament, argue power- 
 fully in behalf of the primitiveness and authenticity of its text" It consists of no 
 more than eighteen verses. Some of them we here copy : — 
 
 Child Norj'ce is a clever young man, 
 
 He wavers wi' the wind : 
 His horse was silver shod before, 
 
 With the beaten gold behind. 
 
 He called to his little man John, 
 
 Saying, * You do n't see what I see ; 
 For, Oh! yonder I see the very first woman 
 
 That ever loved me.' 
 
 • • « • 
 
 O when he came to Lord Barnard's castcl, 
 
 lie tingled at the ring : 
 Who was as ready as Lord Barnard himself 
 
 To let this little boy in? 
 
 Lord Barnard he had a little small sword, 
 That hung low down on his knee: 
 
 He cut the head off Child Noryce, 
 And put the body on a tree. 
 
 And when he came to his castel. 
 
 And to his lady's hall. 
 He threw the head into her lap, 
 
 Saying, ' Lady, there is a ball 1' 
 
 She turned up the bloody head ; 
 
 She kissed it frae cheek to chin : 
 ' Far better do I love this bloody head 
 
 Than all my royal kin.' 
 
 ' Oh, wae be to thee, Lady Margaret !' he said. 
 
 ' And an ill death may you die; 
 For, if yi)u had told me he was your son, 
 
 He had ne'er been slain by me.' 
 
 Mr. Motherwell asserts that the ballad is founded on facts which occurred at 
 some remote period of Scottish history ; and points 
 out the several localities to which reference is made. 
 The "siller cup and mazer dish," of this ballad, 
 have not been well explained by Percy. In a note, 
 he describes the mazer dish to be a drinking cup of 
 maple; it is far more likely to have been the dish 
 upon which tlie cup stood. A beautiful cup, with 
 its dish-shaped stand, still exists in Oriel College, 
 Oxford, presented by Bishop Staplcton in 1470. The 
 stand, or dish, is of the cocoa-tree. We have selected, 
 as an illustration of the passage, a beautiful speci- 
 men of a richly ornamented cup and dish, from an 
 engraving by the celebrated Hans Burgmair, dated ]iil7. 
 
 98
 
 
 
 !i^-^ IL MoRRiCE was an erles son, 
 'm^^O H'^ name it waxed wide ; 
 
 "^illVsw ^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^°'^ ^^^ parentage, 
 ■'*' Nor yet liis meikle pride, 
 
 Bot for his dame, a lady gay, 
 Wlia livd on Carrons side. 
 
 m:;
 
 ^v 
 
 -^^ 
 
 Gil iilorricc 
 
 i^^. 
 
 
 ' Whar sail I get a bonny boy, 
 That will win hose and shoen, 
 
 That will gae to Lord Harnards ha', 
 And bid his lady come ? 
 
 And ye maun rin my errand, WDlie, 
 And ye maun rin wi' speid ; 
 
 When ither boys gang on their feet, 
 Ye sail ha' prancing steid.' 
 
 ' O, no! O, no! my master deir, 
 
 1 dar na for my life ; 
 I '11 no gae to the bauld barons, 
 
 For to triest furth his wife.' 
 
 ' My bird Willie, my boy Willie, • 
 My deir Willie ! ' he said, 
 
 ' How can ye strive against the streim ? 
 For I sail be obeyd.' 
 
 ' Bot O my master deir,' he cryd, 
 ' In grene wode ye 're your lane ; 
 
 Gi' owr sic thochts I wold ye red. 
 For feir ye sold be tane.' 
 
 ' Haste ! haste ! I say, gae to the ha'. 
 Bid her come here wi' speid : 
 
 If ye refuse my hie command, 
 I '11 gar your body bleid. 
 
 Gae bid her tak this gay mantel, 
 'T is a' gowd but the hem ; 
 
 Bid her come to the gude grene wode, 
 Ein by hersel alane ; 
 
 And there it is, a silken sarke, 
 Her ain hand sewd the sleeve ; 
 
 And bid her come to Gil Morrice, 
 Speir nae bauld barons leive.' 
 
 rf^ 
 
 ii»adu'w*. dol.
 
 ' Yes ! I will gae your black errand, 
 
 Thoch it be to your cost : 
 Sen ye by me will nae be wamd, 
 
 In it ye sail find frost. 
 
 The baron he is a man o' micht, 
 He neir cold bide to taunt ; 
 
 And ye will see, before its nicht, 
 Sma' cause ye ha' to vaunt. 
 
 And sen I maun your errand rin, 
 
 Sae sair against mj' will, 
 I 'se mak a vow, and keep it trow, 
 
 It sail be done for iU ! ' 
 
 When he cam to the broken brig, 
 He bent his bow and swam ; 
 
 And when he cam to grass growing. 
 Set down his feet and ran. 
 
 And when he cam to Barnards yeat, 
 Wold neither chap nor ca', 
 
 Bot set his bent bow to his breist. 
 And hchtly lap the wa'. 
 
 He wold na tell the man his errand, 
 Thoch he stude at the yeat ; 
 
 Bot streight into the ha' he cam, 
 Wiar the}' were set at meat. 
 
 ' Hail ! hail ! my gentle sire and dame ! 
 
 My message winna wait,- — 
 Dame, ye maun to the grene wode gae. 
 
 Afore that it be late. 
 
 Ye 're bidden tak this gay mantel, 
 'T is a' gowd bot the hem ; 
 Ye maun haste to the gude grene wode 
 Ein by yoursell alane. 
 
 rm 
 
 Meadows, del.
 
 Gil itlorrice. 
 
 And there it is, a silken sark, 
 
 Your ain hand scwd the »leivc : 
 
 Ye maun gae spcik to (Jil Morrice, 
 Speir nae bauld barons leivc' 
 
 The lady stamped wi' her foot, 
 
 And winked wi' her cie ; 
 Bot a' that shoe cold say or do, 
 
 Forbidden he wold nae be. 
 
 ' It 'a surely to my bower-woman, 
 It neir cold be to me.' — 
 
 I brocht it to Lord Barnard* lady, 
 I trow that ye be shee.' 
 
 Then up and spak the wylie nurse 
 (llie bairn upon her knee), 
 
 ' If it be come from Gil Morrice, 
 It's deir welcum to me.' 
 
 ' Ye lie, ye lie, ye filthy nurse. 
 
 Sac loud I heir ye lie ; 
 I brocht it to Lord Bamards lady, 
 
 I trow ye be nae shee.' 
 
 Then up and spake the bauld baron, 
 
 An anjjry man was he : 
 He lia.1 tanc the table wi' his foot, 
 
 Sae has he wi' his knee. 
 Till siller cup and mazer dish 
 
 In flinders he gard flic. 
 
 ' Gae bring a robe of your cleiding, 
 
 \Vi a' the haste ye can ; 
 And I '11 g!ie to the gude green wode. 
 
 And spcik wi your lemman.' 
 
 ' O bide at hamc now. Lord Barnard 1 
 I warde ye bide at hame ; 
 
 Neir wyte a man for violence, 
 Wha neir wyte yc wi' nane ! '
 
 'Caf^ 
 
 1 
 
 'ti 
 
 €ril iHlorrtcc. 
 
 r 
 
 V) 
 
 Gil Morrice sat in the grene wode, 
 He whistled and he sang : 
 
 * O, what nieins a' the folk coming? 
 
 My mother tarries long."* 
 
 The baron to the grene wode cam, 
 
 Wi' meikle dule and care ; 
 And there he first spyed Gil Morrice 
 
 Kaming his yellow hair. 
 
 * Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gil Morrice, 
 
 My lady loes thee weil ; 
 
 The fairest part of my body 
 
 Is blacker than thy heil. 
 
 Yet neir the less now, Gil Morrice, 
 
 For a' thy great bewtie, 
 Ye '11 rew the day ye eir was born ; 
 
 That heid shall gae wi' me ! ' 
 
 • The following are the stanzas alluded to in the 
 Introductory Remarks. They are, obviously, emen- 
 dations by "a modern hand:" — 
 
 H is hair was like the threeds of gold. 
 Drawn frae Minervas loome : 
 
 His lippes like loses dropping dew; 
 His breath was a' perfume. 
 
 His brow was like the mountain snae 
 
 Gilt by the morning beam : 
 His cheeks like living loses glow : 
 
 His een like azure stream. 
 
 The boy was clad in robes of grene. 
 
 Sweete as the infant spring ; 
 And like the mavis on the bush. 
 
 He gart the vallies ring. 
 
 The following verse occurs after the line " Kaming 
 vpllow hair :" — 
 
 his yellow hair:" — 
 
 That sweetly wavd around his face, 
 That face beyond compare : 
 
 He sang sae sweet it might dispel 
 A* rage but fell despair. 
 
 Meadows . del. 
 
 103
 
 ou. 
 
 <Si\ illorricc. 
 
 
 Now he has drawn his trusty brand, 
 And slaided owr the strae ; 
 
 And throuch Gil Morrice fair body 
 He gard the cauld iron gae. 
 
 And lie has tane Gil Morrice heid, 
 
 And set it on a speir ; 
 The meinest man in a' his train, 
 
 Has gotten that heid to beir. 
 
 And he has tane Gil Morrice up, 
 Laid him across liis steid ; 
 
 The meinest man in a' his train, 
 Has gotten that steid to lede. 
 
 The lady on the castle wa' 
 
 Beheld baith dale and down ; 
 
 And there she saw Gil Morrice heid 
 Cum trailing to the toun. 
 
 ' Better I Ice that bluidy heid, 
 Bot and that yellow hair, 
 
 Than Lord Barnard and a' his lands. 
 As they lie here and there.' 
 
 And she has tane her Gil Morrice, 
 And kissed baith cheik and chin ; 
 
 ' I was ance as fou o' Gil Morrice, 
 As the hip is o' the stane. 
 
 J 
 
 Meadows. deL 
 
 I bore ye in my fathers house, 
 Wi' meikle sin and shame ; 
 
 1 brocht ye up in the grene wode. 
 Under the heavy rain. 
 
 Oft have I by thy craddle sitten, 
 And fondly seen thee sleip ; 
 
 But now I maun gae 'bout thy grave 
 A mothers teirs to weep !' 
 
 104
 
 Gil ittorritc. 
 
 ^vvJ-^'^Afr- 
 
 
 Again she Idssd his bluidy cheik, 
 
 Again his bluidy chin ; 
 ' O better I load my son Morrice, 
 
 Than a' my kyth and kin !' 
 
 ' Awa, awa, ye ill woman, 
 
 An Ul dethe may ye die ! 
 Gin I had kend he was your son, 
 
 He had neir been slayne by me!' 
 
 ' Obraid me not, my lord Barnard, 
 Obraid me not for shame ! 
 
 Wi' that same speir, O perce my heart, 
 And save me frae my pain ! 
 
 ' Since naething but Gil Morrice head 
 Thy jealous rage cold quell. 
 
 Let that same hand now tak her Ij'fe, 
 That neir to thee did ill. 
 
 To me nae after days nor nichts 
 
 WiU eir be saft or kind ; 
 1 '11 fill the air wi' lieavy sichs, 
 
 And greit till I be blind.' 
 
 ' Eneuch of bluid by me "s been spilt, 
 Seek not your dethe frae me ; 
 
 I "d rather far it had been mysel. 
 Than either him or thee. 
 
 ' Wi' hopeless wae I hear j'our plaint, 
 Sair, sair, I rue the deed — 
 
 That eir this cursed hand of mine 
 Sold gar his body bleid ! 
 
 Dry up your teirs, my winsome dame. 
 They neir can heal the wound ; 
 
 Ye see his held upon the spier. 
 
 His hearts bluid on the ground. 
 
 ^i 
 
 105 
 
 ~d^
 
 -v=-i'' ' I curse the hand that did tlic dcid, 
 
 '""' ' ~ The heart tliat thocht the ill, 
 
 The feet that bare nie \vi" sic speid, 
 /.. The comlie youth to kill. 
 
 ' 1 "11 aye lament for Gil Morrice, 
 As gin he was iny ain ; 
 
 I "11 neir forget the dreiry day 
 
 On which the youth was slain.' 
 
 .'•.v.'! 
 
 ^^MmW^:, 
 
 Meadowi deL
 
 IR ALDINGAR. This ballad we copy from the "Reliques" 
 of Dr. Percy : the only information he affords in reference 
 to it, is, that " the old fabulous legend is given from his 
 J folio MS.; with conjectural emendations, and the inser- 
 tion of some additional stanzas to supply and complete 
 the story." He adds, indeed, " it has been suggested, 
 that the author of the poem seems to have had in his eye 
 the story of Gunhilda, who is sometimes called Eleanor, 
 and was married to the Emperor (here called K.iiig) 
 Henry;" — but he leaves us in utter ignorance as to the 
 extent of his additions, and the nature of his improve- 
 ments. The only light that has been thrown upon the subject was by Sir Walter 
 Scott, who has published a ballad, entitled "Sir Hugh le Blond," in which the 
 incidents are nearly similar to those contained in Sir Aldingar ; except that in the 
 former, the calumniated Queen is rescued from the fire by a mortal champion instead 
 of a "tinye boy." The composition, as printed in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
 Border," was given to the accomplished editor by K. Williamson Burnet, of Mon- 
 boddo, Esq., "who wrote it down from the recitation of an old woman, long in the 
 service of the Arbuthnot family," — a founder of that family havhig been the hero of 
 the story. The diction is " very much humbled," and it has, in all probability, under- 
 gone many corruptions; but "its antiquity is indubitable." 
 
 "The tradition upon which it is founded is," adds Sir Walter Scott, "uni- 
 versally current among the Mearns;" and he was informed, that "until very lately, 
 the sword with which Sir Hugh le Blond was believed to have defended the honour of 
 the Queen, was carefully preserved by his descendants, the Viscounts of Arbuthuot." 
 This Sir Hugh lived in the thirteenth century ; but there is no instance in history, in 
 which the good name of a Queen of Scotland was conmiitted to the chance of a duel. 
 Such occurrences are, however, common in old romance ; and are often noted in 
 genuine history. "The most solemn part of a knight's oath was, to defend all 
 widows, oqihelines, and maidens of good fame;" and such an oath is still taken by 
 the knights of the Bath. In the days of chivalry, when trial by battle was generally 
 preferred to trial by law, it was customary for ladies to seek their defence in the 
 strong arm of one of those heroes whose motto was, usually, " Loyaulte aux 
 Dames." No true knight could resist the appeal. By the rules of the order of 
 " The Band," a society of knights, founded by Alphonsus XL, King of Spain in 
 1330, and so called from the red band, or scarf, they wore across their breasts to 
 distinguish them from others ; it was ordained, that if any knight happened to meet 
 a lady, it was his duty to alight, and tender his services, upon pam of losing a 
 month's wages, and the favour of all dames and damsels ; and that if he refused 
 to perform any service a fair lady commanded, he should be branded with the 
 title of " .he discourteous knight." While refusals are unrecorded, we have many 
 instances of the most ardent devotion to the cause of the ladies : a chevalier, called 
 the " Knight of the Swan," re-instated a lady, in the possessions of which the 
 Duke of Saxony had deprived her, because he felt indignant that the throne, and 
 not chivalry, should be regarded as the fountain of justice. Knights frequently 
 formed themselves into associations for the express purpose of defending the rights 
 of all ladies who required their aid. 
 
 107
 
 W2 
 
 So late as 1425, when the title to certain counties in Hainault were contested 
 between the English Duke of Gloucester and John of Brabant, on behalf of the lady 
 Jacqueline, Monstrclet tells us, that these gallant cavaliers, St Pol and Andrf de 
 Humiures, arranged themselves for the journey, and appeared together at Hesden, 
 with silver rings upon their right arms, as badges by which themselves and their 
 cause might be distinguished, and openly proclaimed themselves the champions of 
 Jacqueline, boldly asserting her superior title to the lands in debate. It was an 
 argument seriously urged by Sir John of Heinault, for making war upon Edward 
 II., in behalf of his banished wife, Isabella, that "knights were bound to aid, to 
 their utmost power, all distressed damsels living without counsel or comfort." 
 
 To figlit for a lady ! a bonedicite ! 
 
 It were a lusty sight for to see. 
 
 The very old, but now happily exploded, custom of burning at the stake, is too 
 well known to require any comment here. Treason was thus punished; and tlic 
 unfaithfulness of a (|ueen consort would have been thus visited. The nuirder of 
 
 a husband, considered by the law as petty treason, 
 ^.> '; - jl always was so. We engrave an ancient and curious 
 
 ^ representation of a lady, bound and brought to 
 
 the .stake by two executioners; it occurs in the 
 Harleian collection of manuscripts, in the British 
 Museum, No. 4+11, and from the costume of the 
 figures, and general appearance of the book, it 
 was probably written, and the drawings were made, 
 in the reign of King Richard II. Representations 
 of this punishment, cf so ancient a date, are very rarely to be met with. 
 
 The queen's dream of the "grype," or griffin, who, after depriving her of her 
 crown, and all her " faire head geare," was about to carry her as a prey to his nest, 
 was only an imaginary realization of a popular belief concerning this fabulous 
 creature. An old traveller to the East, Sir John Mandeville, who returned from 
 thence about A.D. ISoH, particularly describes these creatures as inhabiting that 
 quarter of the globe. He says, that the upper parts of their bodies were like eagles, 
 and the lower part like lions, but that one griffin is greater and stronger than eight 
 lions, or one hundred eagles; "for one grilfoun there wil bere, fieynge to his nest, 
 a great horse, or two oxen yoked togidere, as thei gon to the plowghe." In an 
 illuminated copy of these travels — in the British Museum, Harleian MSS. No. 39.34 — 
 is a very curious drawing, representing a knight and his horse carried by a griffin 
 ^ ,__ to his nest as food for its young, much in the 
 same way that the queen, in the ballad, ima- 
 gined herself to be carried. We copy the singular 
 subject, which would appear to be a favourite way 
 of shewing the power of the creature ; fur a bas- 
 relief upon the front of the Hotel de Bourgthe- 
 rolde, at Rouen, erected in the time of Francis 1., 
 exhibits a similar scene, with this difli;rence only, 
 that the knight, in full armour, is carried away 
 by a griffin, while his horse and attendant squire 
 are allowed to remain in amazement below. 
 
 a
 
 i 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Q3W 
 
 • SUi ALDINOAE. 
 
 Our king hee kept a false stewarde, 
 
 Sir Aldingar tlicy him call : 
 A falser stewarde then hee was one, 
 
 Servde not in bower nor hall. 
 
 Hee wolde have layne by our comelj'e queene, 
 Her deere worshippe to betraye : 
 
 Our queene shee was a good woman, 
 And evermore said him naye. 
 
 Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind, 
 With her hee was never content, 
 
 Till traiterous meanes hee colde devyse. 
 In a fyer to have her brent. 
 
 "J. 
 
 ch^^ 
 
 — =• ^^i-\
 
 f<h 
 
 ^ix .^Itiinanr. 
 
 There came a lazar to the Kings gate, 
 
 A lazar both blinde and hmie : 
 Hee tooke tlie lazar upon his backe, 
 
 Him on the Queenes bedd has lajrne. 
 
 ' Lye still, lazar, wheras thou lyest, 
 Looke tliou goe not hence away ; 
 
 He make thee a whole man and a sound 
 Jn two bowers of the day.' 
 
 Then went him f'orthe Sir Aldingar, 
 
 And hyed him to our king : — 
 ' If I might have grace, as I have space. 
 
 Sad tydings I could bring.' 
 
 ' Say on, say on. Sir Aldingar, 
 Say on the soothe to mee.' 
 ' Our queene hath chosen a newe, newe love. 
 
 And slice v^ll have none of thee ! 
 
 If shee had chosen a right good knight. 
 The lesse had beene her shame ; 
 
 But shee hath chose her a lazar man, 
 A lazar both blinde and lame." 
 
 ' li'this bee true, thou Aldingar, 
 
 The tyding thou tellest to mee, 
 Then will I make thee a rich rich knight, 
 
 Rich both of golde and fee. 
 
 But if it be false. Sir Aldingar, 
 
 As God nowe grant it bee ! 
 Thy bodj', I sweare by the holye rood, 
 
 Shall hang on the gallowes tree.' 
 
 Hee brought our king to the Queenes chamber. 
 
 And opend to him the dore. 
 ' A lordlye love,' King Harry says, 
 
 ' For our queene dame EUnore ! 
 
 i<^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 j-^ 
 
 1 Gilbert dc.
 
 
 «^>^- 
 
 ^tr aitfingar. 
 
 
 
 If thou were a man, as thou art none, 
 Heere on my sword thou 'st dye ; 
 
 But a payre of new gallowes shall bee built, 
 And there shalt thou hang on hye.' 
 
 Forthe then hyed our king, I wysse, 
 
 And an angry man was hee ; 
 And soon hee found Queene Elinore, 
 
 That bride so bright of blee. 
 
 ' Nowe God you save, our queene, madame. 
 
 And Christ you save and see ! 
 Heere you have chosen a newe newe love, 
 
 And you will have none of mee ! 
 
 If you had chosen a right good knight, 
 The lesse had been your shame ; 
 
 But yovi have chose you a lazar man, 
 A lazar both blinde and lame ; 
 
 Therfore a fyer there shall bee built. 
 
 And brent all shalt thou bee ! ' 
 ' Nowe out alacke ! sayd our comelye queene, 
 
 Sir Aldingar 's false to mee. 
 
 Now out alacke ! ' sayd our comelye queene, 
 ' ;\Iy hart with griefe will brast : 
 
 I had thought swevens had never been true ; 
 I have proved them true at last. 
 
 I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve, 
 
 In my bed wheras I laye. 
 I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast 
 
 Had carryed my crowne awaye : 
 
 My gorgett and my kirtle of golde. 
 
 And all my faire head geere ; 
 And hee wolde worrye me with his tush 
 
 And to his nest y-beare. 
 
 r>-^ 
 
 Gilbeit. del 
 
 111 
 
 .fr 
 
 «^i— ^
 
 JS 
 
 .^hi' 
 
 ;^ir :^Hiinnar. 
 
 ■ ^{ 
 
 
 SN 
 
 fl 
 
 Saving there came a little gray hawke, 
 
 A merlin him they call 
 Whicli untill the grounde did strike the grype, 
 
 That dead hee downe did lull. 
 
 Giffe I were a man, as nowe I am none, 
 
 A battel! wolde I prove, 
 To fight with that traitor Aldingar ; 
 
 Att him I cast my glove. 
 
 Bot seeing Ime able noe battell to make, 
 
 My liege, grant mee a knight 
 To fighte with that traitor Sir Aldingar, 
 
 To maintaine mee in my riglite.' 
 
 ' Nowe forty dayes I will give thee. 
 
 To seeko thee a knight tlierin : 
 If thou finde not a knight in forty dayes 
 
 Thy bodye it must brenn." 
 
 Then shee sent east, and shee sent west. 
 
 By north and south bedeene ; 
 Bot never a champion colde shee finde, 
 
 "Wolde fighte with that knight soe keene. 
 
 Nowe twenty dayes were spent and gone, 
 Noe helpe there might bee had : 
 
 Many a teare shed our comelye queene 
 And aye her hart was sad. 
 
 Then came one of the Queenes damselles. 
 
 And knelt upon her knee ; — 
 ' Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, 
 
 I trust yet helpe may bee : 
 
 And heere I will make mine avowe, 
 And with the same mcc binde ; 
 
 That never will 1 return to thee. 
 Till I some helpe may finde ! ' 
 
 J-^ -'---' 
 
 112 
 
 fr 
 
 ^^-^.
 
 M~ 
 
 ^t'r ailjingar. 
 
 ■.J\ -^j).^S^ 'j^J 
 
 Then forthe she rode on a faire palfraye 
 
 O'er hill and dale about ; 
 Bot never a champion colde shee finde, 
 
 Wolde fighte with that knight so stout. 
 
 And nowe the daye drewe on apace, 
 \ATien our good queene must dye : 
 
 All woe-begone was that faire damselle, 
 Wlien shee found no helpe was nye. 
 
 AU woe-begone was that faire damselle, 
 And the salt teares fell from her eye ; 
 
 Wlien lo ! as shee rode by a rivers side, 
 Shee mette with a tinye boye. 
 
 A tinye boye shee mette, God wot, 
 
 All clad in mantle of golde : 
 Hee seemed noe more in mans likenesse. 
 
 Then a childe of four yeere old. 
 
 ' Wliy grieve you, damselle faire,' hee sayd, 
 ' And what doth cause you moane V 
 
 The damselle scant wolde deigne a looke, 
 Bot fast shee pricked on. 
 
 ' Yet turn againe, thou faire damselle, 
 And greete thy queene from mee : 
 
 When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest, 
 Nowe helpe enoughe may bee. 
 
 Bid her remember what shee dreamt 
 In her bedd, wheras shee lay ; 
 
 How when the grype and the grimlie beast 
 Wolde have carryed her crowne awaye, 
 
 Even then there came a little gray hawke. 
 And saved her from his clawes ; 
 
 Then bidd the Queene be merry at hart. 
 For heaven will fende her cause.' 
 
 —ic^ 
 
 113 ^ (;^
 
 "hit^ 
 
 3}— 
 
 Sbir l3ltiinanr. 
 
 Back then rode that faire damselle, 
 
 And her hart it lept for glee ; 
 And wlien shee told her gracious dame 
 
 A gladd woman then was shee. 
 
 Bot when the appointed daye was come, 
 
 No helpe appeared nye ; 
 Then woeful, woeful was her hart, 
 
 And the teares stood in her eye. 
 
 And nowe a fyer was built of wood ; 
 
 And a stake was made of tree ; 
 And nowe Queene Elinore forthe was led, 
 
 A sorrowful sight to see. 
 
 Three times the heravdt he waved his hand. 
 
 And three times spake on hye : 
 ' Giife any good knight will fende this dame, 
 
 Come ibrthe, or shee must dye.' 
 
 No knight stood forthe, no knight there came, 
 
 No helpe appeared nye ; 
 And nowe the fyer was lighted up, 
 
 Queene Elinore shee must dye. 
 
 And nowe the fyer was lighted up. 
 
 As hot as hot might be ; 
 \\'hen riding upon a little white steed. 
 
 The tinye boy they see. 
 
 ' Away with that stake ! away with those brands ! 
 
 And loose our comel}'e queene : 
 I am come to fighte with Sir Aldingar, 
 
 And prove him a traitor keene ! ' 
 
 Forthe then stoode Sir Aldingar, 
 
 Bot when hee saw the chylde, 
 Ilee laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe. 
 
 And weened hee had been beguylde. 
 
 is" 
 
 O ^l' 
 
 114' 
 
 f-
 
 V=6i. 
 
 ■^?h-^ 
 
 ^ir aiiftnctar. 
 
 
 ^-~~ 
 
 ' Nowe tume, nowe turne thee, Aldingar, 
 
 And eyther fighte or flee : 
 I trust tliat I shall avenge the wronge, 
 
 Though I am so small to see.' 
 
 The boye pulld forthe a well good sworde 
 
 So gilt it dazzled the ee : — 
 The first stroke stricken at Aldingar 
 
 Smote off his leggs by the knee. 
 
 ' Stand up ! stand up ! thou false traitor, 
 
 And fighte upon thy feete, 
 For and thou thrive, as thou beginst, 
 
 Of height wee shall be meete ! ' 
 
 ' A priest ! a priest ! ' sayes Aldingar, 
 
 ' Wliile I am a man alive, — 
 A priest, a priest,' sayes Aldingar, 
 
 ' Me for to houzle and shrive ! 
 
 I wolde have layne by our comelye queene, 
 Bot shee wolde never consent ; 
 
 Then I thought to betraye her unto our king, 
 In a fyer to have her brent. 
 
 There came a lazar to the Kings gates, 
 
 A lazar both blinde and lame ; 
 I tooke the lazar upon my backe, 
 
 And on her bedd had him layne. 
 
 Then ranne I to our comelye king. 
 
 These tidings sore to tell. 
 Bot ever alacke ! ' sayes Aldingar, 
 
 ' Falsing never doth well : — 
 
 Forgive! forgive mee, Queene, madame, 
 
 The short time I must live ! ' 
 ' Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, 
 
 As freely I forgive ! ' 
 
 J--^ 
 
 Folkai'd, sc 
 
 ns ^ — l;^
 
 =f^ 
 
 e^h- 
 
 S'ir aiiJingar. 
 
 
 ' Here take thy queene, our King Harrye, 
 
 And love lier as tliy lite, 
 For never had a king in Christentye, 
 
 A truer and fairer wife.' 
 
 King Henrye ran to clasp his queene, 
 
 And loosed her full sone ; 
 Then turnd to look for the tinye boye ; 
 — The boye was vanisht and gone! 
 
 But first hee had touchd the lazar man, 
 And stroakt hira with his hand : 
 
 The lazar under the gallowes tree 
 All whole and sounde did stand. 
 
 The lazar under the gallowes tree 
 Was comelye, straight and tall ; 
 
 King Henrye made him his head stewarde 
 To wayte within his hall. 
 
 c}-i^ 
 
 Giloert, dcL
 
 IR LANCELOT DU LAKE. We print this ballad from a 
 black letter copy in the folio collection at the British Mu- 
 seum, where it is entitled, " The Noble Acts Newly Found 
 Of Arthur of the Table Round. To the tune of Flying 
 Fame. Printed by and for Alex. Melbourn, in Green 
 Arches Court, in the Little Old Bailey." Dr. Percy 
 published it " from a printed copy, corrected in part by a 
 fragment in his folio MS." The copy in the British Mu- 
 seum, the learned editor could not have seen; for it is 
 much purer than the one that occurs in the " Reliques." 
 It is, however, mainly indebted for its celebrity, to the fact 
 i quoted by Shakespeare, in the second part of " Henry IV." 
 The authorship is attributed by Ritson to Thomas Deloney. Of its remote anti- 
 quity there can be no doubt. The subject is taken from the ancient romance of 
 " King Arthur" (commonly called "Morte d' Arthur")," being a poetical translation 
 of chapters cviii., cix., ex., in Part I., as they stand in Edition l(i.!4, quarto." 
 
 Sir Lancelot was high in fame among the knights of King Arthur's Round 
 Table. To this "Round Table" were attached twenty-four knights, — the chosen 
 few of King Arthur's forces. It appears to have originated with Uther Pendragon, 
 the father of the great monarch of romance, " for whom it had been made by the 
 sorcerer Merlin, in token of the roundness of the world." Every knight had his 
 appointed seat, upon which his name was inscribed in letters of gold. One of these 
 was " the seige perillous," reserved for the most famous champion of the invincible 
 band. High birth, great strength, activity and skill, fearless valour, and firm fidelity 
 to their suzerain, were indispensably requisite for admission into this order. We 
 quote from Mr. Ellis — ("Specimens of early English Metrical Romances"): — "They 
 were bound by oath to assist each other, at the hazard of their own lives ; to attempt 
 singly the most perilous adventures ; to lead, when necessary, a life of monastic soli- 
 tude: to fly to arms at the first summons; and never to retire from battle till they 
 had defeated the enemy, unless, when night intervened and separated the combatants." 
 The mirror of them all was, of course, King Arthur himself; but his knights were 
 equally renowned for courtesy and indomitable courage: each of them was "a hero," 
 the perfection of chivalry, the love of ladies, and the terror of evil doers — especially 
 giants Of one giant it is particularly recorded that he wore a cloak of fur — the fur 
 being composed of the beards of slaughtered kings ; but as there was still a little 
 space left unoccupied, he desired to fill it by a contribution from the chin of King 
 Arthur, and transmitted a fitting messenger with an order that it should be for- 
 warded forthwith, "or els he wolde enter his landes and brenn and slay."— "Well," 
 said King Arthur, "thou hast said thy message, which is the most villanous and 
 lewdest message that ever man heard sent to a King!" 
 
 The history of Sir Lancelot is the very perfection of romance. He was the son 
 of " King Ban," who, having been attacked by his inveterate enemy, King Claudas, 
 escaped with his queen and cliild, to solicit the aid of King Arthur, but died of grief 
 on the way. His unhappy lady abandoned, for a moment, the care of her infant, to 
 attend her dying husband, and, on seeking to resume her charge, found him in the 
 arms of a nymph, who, on the mother's approach, suddenly sprang with the little
 
 
 £ 
 
 u 
 
 Lancelot into an adjoining lake, and instantly disappeared. This nymph was the 
 beautiful Vivian, the mistress of the enchanter Merlin. In her home beneath the 
 waters, the future hero was educated — hence he was afterwards distinguished by the 
 name of Lancelot du Lac. When he had attained the age of eighteen, she con- 
 veyed her pupil to the court of King Arthur, demanding his admission to the honour 
 of knighthood, which he, of course, obtained. Through all his after life, this Lady of 
 the Lake continued to be his guardian. And this life was full of adventure ; "cleaving 
 down numberless giants ;" giving freedom to hosts of prisoners ; restoring, by force 
 of arms, the reputations of bevies of fair ladies ; — in short, rendering himself worthy 
 the eloquent eulogy of bis brave companion in arms, Sir Bobort, as recorded in 
 one of the many romances to which bis career has given birth ; — "And now I dare 
 say that, — Sir Lancelot, — ther thou lyist, — thou were never matched of none earthly 
 knighte's hands. And thou were the curteist knighte that ever bare shielde. And 
 thou were the truest freende to thy lover that ever bestrode horse. And thou were 
 the truest lover, of a synful man, that ever loved woman. And thou were the kindest 
 man that ever stroke with sworde. And thou were the goodliest person that ever 
 came among presse of knightes. And thou were the meekest man, and the gentillest, 
 that ever eate in hal, among ladies. And thou were the sternest knighte to thy mortall 
 foe that ever put spere in the rest !" 
 
 In the chapel of Winchester Castle is preserved what is alTirmed to be " King 
 Arthur's Round Table." It consists of a stout oak board, perforated by many 
 bullets, supposed to have been fired at it by Crom- 
 well's soldiers, who used it for a target. Upon it, is 
 painted a royal figure seated beneath a canopy, in- 
 tended to represent King Arthur. In the centre is 
 painted a large rose, and around it are the words, 
 "Thys is the rounde table of King Arthur, and of 
 his valyant knyghtes." From the centre, radiate 
 twenty-four spaces, each one appropriated to a knight, 
 who seated himself in front of the one that had his 
 name painted on it. This table was, at one time, 
 believed to have been made and placed here by Ar- 
 thur himself; it is, however, now, considered to be no 
 older than, though quite as old as, the lime of Stephen, in whose reign, and during 
 the twelfth century, kniglits usually assembled iit a table of this kind, to avoid dis- 
 putes about precedency. From this usage the tournaments themselves obtained the 
 name of the "Round Table," and are so called in the records of old times. 
 
 The earliest mention of this table is to be found in " the Prologue" to Caxton's 
 " 13ooke of the Noble Historyes of Kynge Arthur, and of Certeyn of his Knyghtes" 
 (11-85), in which he declares, that "in the castle of Dover ye may see Sir Gawaine's 
 skull, and Cradoke's mantle; at Winchester^ the Round Table; in other places, 
 Sir Launcelot's sword, and many other things." When the Emperor Charles V. 
 was in England, it was exhibited to him as the veritable table of King Arthur, by 
 Henry VIIL Paulus Jovius, who relates this visit, declares that many marks of its 
 antiquity had been destroyed ; that the names of the knights were then just written 
 afresh ; and the table with its ornaments newly repaired. 
 
 Ml 
 
 
 118
 
 Ed. Corbould. del.
 
 ^ir ILniuclot tiu ILaiu. 
 
 And many justs and turnaments, 
 
 Before liim there were prest, 
 Wherein these knights did then cxcell 
 
 And far surmount the rest ; 
 
 But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, 
 
 \\'ho was approved well, 
 Hee, in his fights and deeds of armes, 
 
 All others did excell. 
 
 When hee had rested him a while, 
 
 To play, and game, and sport ; 
 Hee thought hee wold approve himselfe 
 
 III some adventurous sort. 
 
 Hee armed rode in forrest wide. 
 
 And met a damsell faire, 
 Who told liim of adventures great, 
 
 Wherto hee gave good eare. 
 
 'Such wold 1 find,' quoth Lancelot: 
 ' For that cause came I hither.' 
 
 'Thou seenist, quoth shee,' 'a knight full good, 
 And I will bring thee thither, 
 
 Whereas a mighty knight doth dwell. 
 
 That now is of great fame ; 
 Therfore tell me what knight thou art. 
 
 And what may bee thy name.' 
 
 ' My name is Lancelot du Lake.' 
 Quoth shee, ' it likes me, then ; 
 
 Here dwelles a knight who never was 
 O'er-matcht of any man : 
 
 Who hath in prison threescore knights 
 And four, that hee hath bound ; 
 
 Knights of King Arthurs court they bee. 
 And of the Table llouiid. 
 
 Ed.Corboulct. del. 
 
 120 
 
 +-
 
 gbir Unncclot in Unfee. 
 
 Shee brought him to a river then, 
 
 And also to a tree 
 Whereon a copper bason hung, 
 
 His fellows shields to see. 
 
 Hee struck soe hard, the bason broke : — 
 Wlien Tarquine heard the sound, 
 
 Hee drove a horse before him straight, 
 Whereon a knight was bound. 
 
 ' Sir knight,' then sayd Sir Lancelot, 
 ' Bring me that horse-load hither, 
 
 And lay him do^vTle, and let him rest ; 
 We '11 try our force together ; 
 
 For, as I understand, thou hast, 
 
 As far as thou art able, 
 Done great despite and shame unto 
 
 The knights of the Round Table.' 
 
 ' If thou art of the Table Round, 
 
 Quoth Tarquine speedilye. 
 Both thee and all thy fellowship 
 
 I utterly defye.' 
 
 'That's over much,' quoth Lancelot tho, 
 
 ' Defend thee by and by ! ' 
 They sett their spurs unto their steeds, 
 
 And each at other Hie. 
 
 They coucht their speares, (their horses ran, 
 As though there had been thunder) 
 
 And each struck then upon their shields, 
 ^\^lerewith they brake asunder. 
 
 Their horses backes brake under them ; 
 
 The knights they were astound : 
 To avoyd their horses they made haste 
 
 To fight upon the ground. 
 
 Ed.Corbould.del
 
 :ir Haiudot liu Hafjc. 
 
 ^51'"--^ 
 
 They tooke them to their shields full fast, 
 Their swords they drew out then ; 
 
 Wyth mighty strokes most eagerlye 
 One at the other ran. 
 
 They wounded were, and bled full sore. 
 For breath they both did stand ; 
 
 And leaning on their swords awhile, 
 Quoth Tarquine, ' Hold thy hand, 
 
 And tell to me what I shall aske.' — 
 ' Say on,' — quoth Lancelot tho : 
 
 'Thou art,' quoth Tarquine, 'the best knight 
 That ever I did know ; 
 
 And like a knight that I did hate : 
 
 Soe that thou bee not hee, 
 I will deliver all the rest. 
 
 And eke accord wyth thee.' 
 
 'That is well said,' quoth Lancelot; 
 
 15ut sith it soe must bee. 
 What knight is that thou hatest soe ? 
 
 1 pray thee show to me.' 
 
 'Ilis name's Sir Lancelot du Lake, 
 
 Ilea slew my brother deere ; 
 llim I stispect of all the rest : 
 
 I wold 1 had him here.' 
 
 ' Thy wish thou hast, but now unknownc ; 
 
 I am Lancelot du Lake, 
 Now of King Arthurs Table Hound ; 
 
 Kinjr Hands son of Benwake : 
 
 And 1 defj'e thee; — do thy worst.' 
 ' Ha, ha ! ' quoth Tarquine tho, 
 
 ' One of us two shall end our lives 
 Before that we do go. 
 
 122 
 
 + 
 
 sfesnJl?*
 
 ^ix Hancclot tiu Hafef. 
 
 ■Ed. Cortoold.dfll 
 
 If thou bee Lancelot du Lake, 
 Then welcome shalt thou bee : 
 
 AVlierfore see thou thyself defend, 
 For now defye I thee.' 
 
 They buckled then together so, 
 Like unto wild boares rashing ; 
 
 And wyth theire swords and shields they ran 
 At one another slashing : 
 
 The ground besprinkled was wyth blood : 
 
 Tarquine began to faint ; 
 For hee had backt and bore his shield 
 
 So low, hee did repent.* 
 
 • Several of the ancient ballads record similar figlits be 
 tween giants and the knights of King Arthur's Round Table. 
 An "Ancient English Metrical Romance," jirinted by Kitson, 
 entitled " Sir Ywaine and Sir Gawin," describes an encoun- 
 ter which led to a like result, — the delivering from prison 
 sundry " fellowes" who, by tiie gallantry of their brotlier-in- 
 arms, were "out of bales bro^ut." We copy a few passages ; — 
 
 Syr Ywaine rade into the playne, 
 
 And the geant cum hym ogayne : — 
 
 His levore was ful grete and larig, 
 
 And hinij^elf iu\ mekyl and Strang. 
 
 He said, *What devil made the so balde 
 
 For to cum heder out of tlii halde ? 
 
 Who-so-ever the heder send 
 
 Lufed the litel, so God nie mend I 
 
 Of the he wald be wroken layn.' 
 
 ' Do forth thi best!' said Sir Ywaine. 
 
 Sir Ywaine left his sper of hand, 
 And strake obout him with his brand; 
 And the geant, mekil of main, 
 Strake ful fast to him ogayn. 
 
 Seihen ^ith a stroke to him lie start, 
 And smate the geant unto the hert; 
 Ther was none other tale to tell, 
 Bot fast unto the earth he fell, 
 Als it had bene a hevy tre. 
 Tlien might men in the kastel se 
 Ful mekil mirth on ilka side, 
 The yates kest thai open wyde. 
 
 123
 
 ^ING ARTHUR and the Knights of his Round Table are familiar 
 to all lovers of old romance. But to the chroniclers in 
 rhyme, who made their own '* Histories," he is indebted not 
 only for his fame, but, probably, for his existence ; although 
 Ritsou is bitterly wrath with a "mendacious" scribbler, 
 who presumed to doubt the actual being of this '* Kyng 
 of Englonde." The fabulous "History" of Geoffrey of 
 Monmouth, published about the middle of the twelfth cen- 
 tury, is the undoubted source upon which the minstrels of 
 after ages drew so largely. If there were " romances and 
 ballads on the same subject" anterior to his time, they have 
 descended to us ; and there is no evidence to support his assertion that 
 ^j/ the story was translated by him from a very ancient book. The general 
 impression is that it was a pure invention of the " historian." It is, however, 
 romantic, exciting, and interesting to the highest degree ; and amply merits its 
 renown, whether " founded on fact," or a mere fiction. Arthur was the son of 
 Uther Pendragon, King of Britain ; and the mystery of his life commenced with his 
 birth, his father having been introduced to his mother by the interposition of the 
 famous enchanter, Merlin, in the semblance of one whose form it was criminal to 
 have assumed. The royal birth of the boy was kept a profound secret from 
 himself and all others ; he was reared in comparative obscurity, and it was not 
 until after the death of Uther, and consequent disputes concerning a successor to 
 the Crown, under a belief of " his line" being extinct, that Merlin thought fit to 
 produce the legal and rightful heir to the vacant throne. The mode he selected, 
 was in itself a boon of magnitude to after Romancers. He advised the rival candi- 
 dates to postpone the contest until some especial manifestation of Omnipotent Will 
 should determine their decree. The proposal having been agreed to, almost imme- 
 diately a huge stone was discovered, into which was firmly fixed a naked sword — 
 the far-famed Excalibar — indicating that whoever should draw it forth should be 
 elected sovereign of the Britons by the imiversal voice. The feat was, of course, 
 performed by young Arthur, who was crowned " in Cardvile that noble town." 
 
 Thenceforward, his career was one of entire conquest, either upon a huge 
 scale, or in single combats : nothing earthly could withstand the prowess of his 
 stalwart arm ; and against the powers of darkness he was fully armed and accoutred 
 by his friend and counsellor, Merlin. He proceeds from victory to victory; con- 
 quering kingdom after kingdom ; slaying giants innumerable ; rescuing distressed 
 damsels ; destroying " wicked witches ;" cutting ofi' whole armies of Paynims and 
 Saracens, and making no more of dragons than greyhounds do of hares ; — some- 
 times killing wholesale when alone and unsupported, but, more usually, in company 
 with the Knights of his Hound Table. The death of Arthur was mysterious as his 
 birth, and marvellous as his life. The particulars are fully recorded in the 
 appended ballad. Long after his passage from earth his return to it was looked 
 for. It is " believed by the vulgar that he still lives, and is to come hereafter to 
 restore the dispersed and exiled Britons to their own;" agreeably to a prophecy 
 of Merlin — who " sayd that his death shall be doubteous ; and sayd soth, for men 
 therof yet have double, and shalle for ever more; for men wyt not whether that 
 
 n 
 
 KV5. 
 
 125
 
 he lyveth or is dede." Witness, also, this epitaph in the " monasterial church of 
 Glasinberi:" — 
 
 '* Hie jacet Arthurus, rex quondam atque futurus." 
 
 Selden, in his Illustrations to Drayton's " Poly-Olbion," gives a very interesting 
 
 account of the discovery of Arthur's tomb. The exhumation took place in 1 189 ; and 
 
 ■'sjjii Giraldus aflimis, that the leg bone of Arthur was three fingers' length taller than 
 
 '^ that of the tallest man present at the opening of the sepulchre. This statement he 
 
 received from the abbot, who superintended the .search. An engraving of the cross 
 
 is to be seen in " Camden's Britannia :" upon it is inscribed : — 
 
 " Hie Jacet sepultus inclitus rex Arturius, in insula Avalonia." 
 
 It has also been engraved in Whitaker's " History of Manchester ;" a copy of which 
 work, formerly in the possession of Ritson, and filled with marginal remarks, has the 
 following on this subject by that pains-taking and accurate antiquary ; he says : *' to 
 humour Henry's attachment to the memory and character of Arthur, most of the 
 romances of the Round Table were written and composed during his reign, and at 
 his particular instance, and many Armorican lays, relating to him, translated. The 
 lying Bards too, set up a prophetic knowledge as to the site of his tomb, and the 
 crafty and politic monks of Glastonbury aided and completed the deception. As the 
 traditional actions of Arthur were of a gigantic nature, the popular opinion had made 
 a giant of his person, and therefore the crafty monks, to accredit the silly forgery, 
 
 made use of horses bones." The 
 skull reported to be Arthur's, he 
 also seems to think, was adapted 
 to the discovery. There were marks 
 of 10 wounds in the head, and one 
 mortal gash, intended, he says, " for 
 the identical gash or hole that was 
 made in it by his nephew, Mordred." 
 The skulls remained at Glaston- 
 bury until the Reformation. We 
 copy the wood-cut representation 
 of King Arthur and his Knights, 
 seated at their Round Table, from 
 their "most ancient and famous 
 History" (1534; a reprint of the 
 edition issued from the press of our first printer, Caxton, in 1485). It is curious as 
 displaying the idea formed by our ancestors of the Round Table, and the manner 
 in which Arthur and his Knights were seated at it. 
 
 The subjoined ballad is copied from Bishop Percy, who extracted it from his 
 " Manuscript folio ;" giving to it " some conjectural emendations, and even a 
 supplement of three or four stanzas, composed from the romance of Morte 
 d' Arthur," — the original MS. of which exists in the Harleian Library rn|the 
 British Museum. The substance of it is given by Mr. Ellis in his "Specimens of 
 Early Metrical Romances."
 
 £'raxiklin. d«l
 
 V-f^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 -?^- 
 
 Bing ^rtfiur's Bcatfi. 
 
 .x!h.,-. 
 
 ' Now, as you are mine unklc dear, 
 And as you prize your life, tliis day, 
 
 O meet not with your foe in figlit ; 
 Put oif the battayle, if ye may ; 
 
 For Sir Launcelot is now in Fraunce, 
 And witli him many an hardy knight, 
 
 Who will within this moneth be back, 
 And wUl assist ye in the fight.' 
 
 The king then called his nobles all. 
 Before the breaking of the da}- ; 
 
 And told them how Sir Gawaine came, 
 And there to him these wordes did say. 
 
 His nobles all this counsayle gave, 
 That earlye in the morning, he 
 
 Shold send away an herauld at armes, 
 To ask a parley fair and free. 
 
 Then twelve good knightes King Arthur chose. 
 The best of all that with him were, 
 
 To parley with the foe in field, 
 
 And make with him agreement fair. 
 
 The king he charged all his host. 
 
 In readiness there for to be ; 
 But no man shold no weapon sturre. 
 
 Unless a sword drawn they shold see. 
 
 And Mordred on the other part, 
 
 Twelve of his knights did likewise bring ; 
 The best of all his company. 
 
 To hold the parley with the king. 
 
 Sir Mordred also charged his host. 
 
 In readiness there for to be ; 
 But no man shold no weapon sturre, 
 
 But if a sword drawn tliey shold see. 
 
 ^ 
 
 r> 
 
 ^r^ttilLiiLi Uc. 
 
 128 ^ Iv,
 
 VHxS 
 
 '^rh-e 
 
 Utina glriljur's Bcatfi. 
 
 -« 
 
 c^-^ 
 
 Nicbolls, ac. 
 
 For he durst not liis unkle trust, 
 Nor he his nephew, sothe to tell : 
 
 Alack ! it was a woefull case, 
 As ere in Christentye befell ! 
 
 But when they were together met, 
 
 And both to fair accordance brought, 
 
 And a months league between them set 
 Before the battayle shold be fought. 
 
 An adder crept forth of a bush. 
 
 Stung one o' th' king's knights on the knee ; 
 Alack ! it was a woefull chance, 
 
 As ever was in Christentye ! 
 
 WTien the knight found him wounded sore, 
 And saw the wild-worm hanging there ; 
 
 His sword he from his scabberd drew : 
 A piteous case, as ye shall hear. 
 
 For when the two hostes saw the sword, 
 They joyned battayle instanlye ; 
 
 Till of so many noble knights, 
 
 On one side there were left but three ! 
 
 For all were slain that durst abide, 
 And but some few that fled away : 
 
 Ay me ! it was a bloody field 
 
 As ere was fought on summers day ! 
 
 Upon King Arthurs own partye, 
 
 Only himself escaped there, 
 And Lukyn Duke of Gloster free, 
 
 And the kings butler Bedevere. 
 
 And when the king beheld his knights. 
 All dead and scattered on the mold, 
 
 The teares fast trickled down his face ; 
 That manly face in fight so bold ! 
 
 129 
 
 ^ 
 
 «^iH^i
 
 v^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^- 
 
 Bi'ng :4tvt!)ur's Brntft. 
 
 ' Now rest ye all, brave knights,' lie said, 
 ' So true and faithful to your trust : 
 
 And must ye then, ye valiant hearts, 
 Be left to moulder into dust ! 
 
 Most loyal have ye been (o nic. 
 
 Most true and faithful unto dcalh : 
 
 And, oh ! to rayse ye uj) again, 
 
 How freely could I yield my breath! 
 
 But see, the traitor 's yet alive, 
 
 Lo where he stalks among the dead ! 
 
 Now bitterlye he shall abye ; 
 
 And vengeance fall upon his head.' 
 
 ' O stay, my liege,' then sayd the duke ; 
 
 ' O stay for love and charitie ; 
 Remember what the vision sjjake, 
 
 Nor meet your foe, if it may be.' 
 
 ' O stay me not, thou worthy wight. 
 This debt my loyal knights 1 owe : 
 
 Betide me life, betide me death, 
 I will avenge them of their foe.' 
 
 Then strait he grasped his trusty spear. 
 And on his horse then mounted he : 
 
 As his butler holpe him to his horse, 
 His bowels gushed to his knee. 
 
 'Alas !' then sayd the noble king, 
 
 'That I should live this sight to see! 
 
 To see this good knight here be slain. 
 All for his love in heljnng me !' 
 
 He put his spear into his rest, 
 
 And to Sir Mordred loud gan cry ; 
 
 ' Now set thyself upon thy guard, 
 For, traitor, now thy death is nye.' 
 
 ch-^ 
 
 riaukllo, del 
 
 T. ArmsLrong. r.c. 
 
 130 H^
 
 v-^ 
 
 ^tng glrtlbur's Bcntf). 
 
 Sir Mordred lifted up his sword, 
 
 And fierce to meet the king ran he ; 
 
 The king his spear he through him thrust ; 
 A fathom thorow his bodie. 
 
 WTien Mordred felt the stroke of death, 
 And found that he was wounded so. 
 
 He thrust himself upon the spear, 
 
 And struck the king a deadly blow. 
 
 Then grimly dyed Sir Mordred, 
 
 Presently upon that tree ; 
 And bloody streams ran from the king, 
 
 Ere to the duke returned he.* 
 
 Sir Lukyn then he thus bespake, 
 
 ' Sir knight thou hast been faithfuU tryde, 
 Now take my sword ExcaUbar, 
 
 That hangs so freely by my syde : 
 
 O take my sword Excalibar, 
 
 And there into the river throw ; 
 
 For here, henceforth, benethe this tree, 
 All use of weapons I forego. 
 
 • Percy has printed also a ballad, entitled " The Legend 
 of King Arthur," from his " ancient foUo manuscript," in 
 which the king relates his oira history, describes the battle 
 in which he fell, and mourns over his fate. Reference is 
 thus made to the contest with Sir Mordred :— 
 
 And still I him pursued with speed 
 
 Till at the last wee mett : 
 Whereby an appointed day of fight 
 
 Was there agreed and sett. 
 
 Where we did fight, of mortal life 
 
 Eche other to deprive, 
 Till of a hundred thousand men 
 
 Scarce one was left alive. 
 
 There all the noble chivalrye 
 
 Of Brittaine tooke their end. 
 O see how fickle is their state 
 
 That doe on feates depend '. 
 
 ^-r^ 
 
 Franklin, del. 
 
 T. Ann stro lift. 3c 
 
 131 -y
 
 V-f<* 
 
 i 
 
 ISting anljur's Bcntfj. 
 
 
 And faro thoo well, thou trusty sword, 
 A better near had valiant kniglit, 
 
 With thee full oft, and many a day, 
 Have I withstood my foe in fight. 
 
 Witli this good fauchion in my hand. 
 Oft liave I reapd the bloody feelde ; 
 
 But now the fatalle hour is come, 
 
 That never more I may thee weelde.' 
 
 The duke to the river side he went, 
 
 And there his own sword in threw he ; 
 
 Rut he kept back Excaliliar, 
 He kept it back in privitie. 
 
 For all of coleyne was the blade, 
 
 And all the hilt of precious stone : 
 
 ' And ever alack ! ' then sayd the knight, 
 ' Must such a sword away be thrown ? ' 
 
 Then back he came unto tlie king, 
 
 Who sayd, 'Sir Lukyn, what did ye see?' 
 
 ' Nothing, my liege, save that the wind 
 Blew o'er the waters fair and free.' 
 
 ' O go again,' then said the king, 
 ' O good Sir Lukyn, go again ; 
 
 Into the river throw my sword, 
 
 Nor keep me lingering here in pain.' 
 
 The duke then to the river went. 
 
 And the kings scabberd in threw he ; 
 
 But he kept back Excalibar, 
 And hid it underneth a tree. 
 
 Then back he came to tell the king, 
 
 Who sayd, ' Sir Lukyn, saw ye ought?'- 
 ' Nothing, my liege, save that the wind 
 Now with the angry waters fought.' 
 
 ^ 
 
 it 
 
 ^-t* 
 
 132 ^ ^
 
 Bing artjjur's iBcatfi. 
 
 ' O Lakyn, Lukyn ! ' said the king, 
 ' Twice hast thou dealt deceitfully : 
 
 Alack, whom may we ever trust, 
 
 When such a knight so false can be ? 
 
 Say, woiddst thou have thy master dead. 
 All for a sword that wins thine eye ? 
 
 Now go again, and throw it in. 
 
 Or here the one of us shall dye.' 
 
 The duke, all shent with this rebuke, 
 No aunswer made unto the king ; 
 
 But to the river took the sword. 
 
 And threw it far as he could fling. 
 
 A hand and arm did meet the sword, 
 And flourishd three times in the air ; 
 
 Then sunk benethe the renning streme, 
 And of the duke was seen no mair.* 
 
 • In the romance of " Morte D'Arthur," as given by Mr. 
 Ellis—" Specimens of Early English Metrical Komances"— 
 this incident is thus recorded ;— The knight having at length 
 thrown into tlie water the good sword Excalibar, — 
 
 There came an band, withouten rest, 
 Out of the water, and fair it hent, 
 
 And brandished as it should brast, 
 And sithe, as gleam away it went. 
 
 To the king again went he there, 
 And said, ' lief, sir, I saw a hand ; 
 
 Out of the water it came all bare. 
 
 And thrice brandished that rich brand." 
 
 ' Help me ! soon were I thore !' 
 He led his lord unto the strand ; 
 
 A rich ship with masts and oar. 
 Full of ladies there they fand. 
 
 The ladies that were fair and free, 
 Courteously the king gan they fong ; 
 
 And one that brightest was of blee, 
 Weeped sore and handes wrung. 
 
 ' Brother,' she said, 'woe is me. 
 
 From leeching hast thou been too long ; 
 
 I wot that greatly grieveth me, 
 For thy painis are full strong.' 
 
 ^-fi^ 
 
 FfOukUn del 
 
 WllIialllB 6C 
 
 133 

 
 3^- 
 
 Bing artfiur's Dcati). 
 
 All sore astonied stood the duke ; 
 
 He stood as still as still mote be ; 
 Then hastcnd back to tell the kinsr, 
 
 15ut he was gone from under the tree. 
 
 Rut to what place he cold not tell, 
 For never after he did him spy ; 
 
 But he saw a barge go from the land, 
 And he heard ladyes howl and cry. 
 
 And whether the king were there, or not. 
 He never knew, nor ever cold ; 
 
 But from that sad and direfuU day, 
 He never more was scene on mold. 
 
 rj^Jy 
 
 J-k^ - 
 
 \ui'<cliu, dtil 
 
 T. Armstrong, bc. 
 
 «*i-^
 
 HE HEIRE OF LINNE. This ballad we copy from 
 the " Reliques of Ancient Englisli Poetry." Dr. 
 Percy states that he "found it" in his folio MS.; 
 and that he had inserted " supplemental stanzas," 
 necessary in consequence of the "breaches and 
 j defects" which existed in his fragment, " These," he adds, 
 ' it is hoped the reader will pardon, as, indeed, the com- 
 pletion of tlie story was suggested by a modern ballad on 
 a similar subject." It is much to be lamented that the 
 ^ ^^J "■'^"^ "^ " modem ballad " has not been more distinctly pointed 
 
 out : it does not appear in any collection ; nor are we acquainted with the 
 copy to which reference is made.* Dr. Percy considers that, "from the Scot- 
 tisli phrases here and there, it would seem to have been originally composed 
 beyond the Tweed ;" and, he observes, " the Heir of Linne seems not to have 
 been a Lord of Parliament, but a laird, whose title went along with the estate." 
 Of the Scottish origin of the ballad, there can be little doubt. Mr. R. Cham- 
 bers, indeed, prints three stanzas of a homely version, still current in Scotland: — 
 
 O see where he stands, and see where he gangs, 
 
 The weary heir o' Linne ! 
 O see where he stands on the cauld causey, 
 
 Sume ane wuld taen him in. 
 
 The bonnie heir, the weel faured heir, 
 
 And the weary heir of Linne ; 
 
 Yonder he stands at his father's gate. 
 
 And naebody bids him come in : 
 
 But if he had been liis father's heir, 
 
 Or yet the heir o" Linne, 
 He wadna stand on the cauld causey. 
 Some ane wald taen him in. 
 
 • All readers of the "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry" will regret that the learned 
 " Editor "—for so he has chosen to call himself— left us in ignorance as to the extent of the altera- 
 tions to which he subjected the "fragments" he found in his "folio MS." The fault, however, 
 is not attributable to him ; for, when attacked by Ritson with a degree of bitterness that approached 
 ferocity, and when the existence of the original source was somewhat more than doubted, by less un- 
 generous commentators, the book was left " for a whole year" at the house of Mr. NichoUs, where 
 "it was examined, with more or less attention, by many gentlemen of eminence in literature." 
 In an advertisement to the fourth edition of the ' ' Reliques," Dr. Percy thus describes the volume :— 
 
 "The MS. is a long, narrow, folio volume, containing 195 Sonnets, Ballads. Historical Songs 
 and Metrical Romances, either in the whole or in part, for many of them are extremely mutilated 
 and imperfect. The first and last leaves are wanting; and of fifty-four pages near the beginning, 
 half of every leaf hath been torn away, and several others are injured towards the end; besides 
 that, through a great part of the volume, the top or bottom line, and sometimes both, have been cut 
 off in the binding. lu this state is the MS. itself: and even where the leaves have suffered no 
 injury, the transcripts, which seem to have been all made by one person {they are, at least, all in 
 the same kind of hand), are sometimes extremely incorrect and faulty, being in such instances 
 probably made from defective copies, or the imperfect recitation of illiterate singers ; so that a 
 considerable portion of the song or narrative is sometimes omitted ; and miserable trash or non- 
 sense not unfrequeutly introduced into pieces of considerable merit." 
 
 A reprint of this singular collection might be an invaluable gift to the public, from one of the 
 " Societies" — the object in forming which is, to extend the knowledge to he derived from "scarce 
 books," not sufficiently interesting to the "mass " to justify their republication through the ordinary 
 channels. And if, at the same time, a selection were given from the Pepysian collection, a vast 
 addition would be made to our national store of veritable ancient Ballads. The Pepysian volumes 
 —five in number— omitting those that are merely political, and such as ought not to be reprinted— 
 would, however, supply very few important additions to the wealth of which we are at present 
 possessed. 
 
 ]3d
 
 This fragment of the ancient ballad — probably the original out of which Tercy 
 formed his more complete work — is all that Mr. Chambers was able to obtain. But 
 Mr. Buchan — an indefatij^ablc collector of old ballads, from the lips of aged crones — 
 procured a much more perfect copy of the poem, of which Mr, Chambers has given a 
 fragment.* It consists of but fourteen stanzas ; and the incidents bear only a general 
 resemblance to those recorded by Dr. Percy ; the spendthrift youth asks and receives 
 bread and wine from a ** nourice," whom he promises to repay when he is Heir of 
 Linne ; and the straits to which he has been reduced, .ire indicated by his begging 
 charity from gentlemen at feasts, and fishermen at market. The cliange that takes 
 place in his fortune is thus described : — 
 
 ' Gie me twa sheaves o' your bread, Nourice, 
 And ae glass o' your wine; 
 And I will pay you them back again 
 The day I "m heir o" Linnc.' 
 
 ' Yc's get three sheaves o' my bread, Willie, 
 
 And twa glass o' my wine , 
 But I '11 be paid when the seas gang dry. 
 For ye '11 ne'er be beir o" Linne.' 
 
 * • * 9 
 
 As Willie was sitting ane day alane, 
 
 And nac body him wi'; 
 He minded on a little wee key 
 
 His mither to him did gie : 
 Bade him never open a lock wi' it 
 
 Ere tlie greatest strait he could see. 
 
 Then he did spy a little wee lock, 
 And the key gied linking in ; 
 
 And he got goiid and money therein 
 To pay the lands o' Liime. 
 
 As Willie he gied down the town, 
 His hose aboon his sheen ; 
 
 But, when that he came up again. 
 Was convoyed by lords fifteen. 
 
 AVhen Willie became to the ha', 
 There he cried wondcrous crousc ; 
 
 He call'd the May afore them a', 
 The Nourice o" the house. 
 
 'Come down, come down, Nourice,' be said, 
 
 * Ere I pay you your bread and wine ; 
 For ye will be paid ere the seas gang drj-, 
 For this day I 'm heir of Linnc' 
 
 In later editions of the " Reliques," Dr. Percy restored several " ancient readings 
 from the folio MS." In the absence of more satisfactory evidence, these cliangcs 
 are interesting, as affording, in some degree, the means of judging as to the nature 
 and extent of the "emendations" which occur, more or less, in every ballad printed 
 by the accomplished prelate. The curious in such matter will, therefore, perhaps, 
 not consider our space ill-occupied in noticing some of them. In the lirst edition of 
 the " Reliques," we read in line 59 of Part II, "stint ne stayed" for " ceasd ne 
 blanne ;" in line 63, " at the hordes end" for " upon a rowe ;" in lines 65, CG, 
 
 And then bespake the Heire of Linnc, 
 To John o' the Scales then louted he. 
 
 The last verse but two does not appear in the first edition,and the ballad, in that 
 
 edition, thus concludes :— 
 
 ' When next I want to sell my land, 
 Good John o' the Scales I'le come to thee.' 
 
 
 
 • Mr. Buchan's Ballad "The Weary Heir of Linne," is not yet published; it forms one of a large 
 and singular collection he has prepared fur the Press, and which we hope will be given to the 
 world at no very remote period. Of his printed collection — "Ancient Ballads and Songs of the 
 North of Scotland, hitherto unpublished" — Sir Walter Scott has spoken in the highest terms; de- 
 scribing it as " the most complete collection that has yet appeared ;" and characterising the collec- 
 tor as "a person of indefatigable research^' — "whose industry has been crowned with the most 
 successful results." 
 
 13G
 
 E M. Ward del. 
 
 K o-fau . 'C Q — -^^""^
 
 To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, 
 To ahvaye spend and never spare, 
 
 I wott, an' it were the king himsclfe, 
 Of golde and fee he mote be bare. 
 
 Soe fares the unthrifty Lord of IJnne 
 Till all his golde is gone and spent ; 
 
 And lie maun sell his landes so broad, 
 
 His house, and landes, and all his rent. 
 
 His father had a keen stewarde, 
 
 And John o' the Scales was called he ; 
 
 But John is become a gentel-man. 
 
 And John has gott both golde and fee. 
 
 Sayes, ' Welcome, welcome. Lord of Linne, 
 Let nought disturb thy merry chcare ; 
 
 If thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad. 
 
 Good store of golde lie give thee heere.' 
 
 ' My golde is gone, my money is spent ; 
 
 My lande nowe take it unto thee : 
 Give me the golde, good John o" the Scales, 
 
 And thine for aye my lande shall be.' 
 
 Then John he did him to record draw. 
 And John he cast him a gods-pennie ; 
 
 But for every pounde that John agreed. 
 The lande, I wis, was well worth three. 
 
 lice told him the golde upon the borde. 
 He was right glad his lande to winne : 
 
 ' The golde is thine, tRe lande is mine. 
 And nowe He be the Lord of Linne.' 
 
 Thus he hath sold his lande soe broad. 
 
 Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne. 
 
 All but a poorc and lonesome lodge, 
 That stood far off in a lonely glenne. 
 
 1S8 
 
 -h'd 
 
 ifo
 
 I 
 
 ®t)e T^tixt of Himt. 
 
 =^. 
 
 (fB 
 
 For soe he to his father hight. 
 
 ' My Sonne, when I am gonne,' sayd he, 
 ' Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, 
 
 And thou wilt spend thy golde so free ; 
 
 But sweare me nowe upon the roode, 
 
 That lonesome lodge thou 'It never spend ; 
 
 For when all the world doth frown on thee. 
 Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.' 
 
 The heire of Linne is full of golde ; 
 
 ' And come with me, my friends,' sayd he, 
 ' Let 's drinke, and rant, and merry make, 
 
 And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.' 
 
 They ranted, drank, and merry made. 
 Till all his golde it waxed thinne ; 
 
 And then his friendes they slunk away ; 
 They left the unthrifty heire of Lume. 
 
 He had never a penny left in his purse, 
 Never a penny left but three. 
 
 And one was brass, another was lead, 
 And another it was white money. 
 
 ' Nowe well-a-day,' sayd the heire of Linne, 
 ' Nowe well-a-day, and woe is me. 
 
 For when I was the Lord of Linne, 
 1 never wanted golde nor fee. 
 
 But many a trustye friend have I, 
 And why shold I feel dole or care ? 
 
 He borrow of them all by turnes, 
 Soe need I not be never bare.' 
 
 But one, I wis, was not at home ; 
 
 Another had payd his golde away ; 
 Another calld him thriftless loone, 
 
 And bade him sharpely wend his way. 
 
 pvHPT^ 
 
 139 
 
 "^A
 
 ' Nowe well-a-day,' sayd llie heire of Linne, 
 ' Nowe well-a-day, and woe is me ! 
 
 For when I had my laiides soo broad, 
 On nic tlu-y livd rij^lit niorrilce. 
 
 To beg my bread from door to door 
 I wis, it were a brenning shame ; 
 
 To rob and steal it were a sinne ; 
 
 To worke my limbs I cannot frame. 
 
 Nowe He away to lonesome lodge. 
 
 For there my father bade me wend ; 
 
 M'hcn all the world shold frown on me, 
 I there shold find a trusty friend.' 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 Away then hyed the heire of Linne 
 
 O'er hill and liolt, and moore and fenne, 
 
 Untill he came to lonesome lodge 
 
 That stood soe lowe in a lonely glenne. 
 
 Hee looked up, hee looked downe, 
 
 In Iiope some comfort lor to winne ; 
 
 But bare and lothly were the walles : 
 
 ' It 's sorry ehear,' quo' the heire of Linne. 
 
 Tlie little windowe dim and darke 
 
 Was hung with ivy. brere, and yewe ; 
 
 No shimmering sunne liecre ever shone ; 
 No halesome breeze heere ever blew. 
 
 No chair, ne table he mote spye. 
 
 No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed ; 
 
 Nought save a rope with renning noose, 
 That dangling hung up o'er his head. 
 
 And over it, in broad letters. 
 
 These words were written soe plain to see : 
 'Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all. 
 
 And brought thyself to penurie ? 
 
 ik 
 
 E. U Waid.del 
 
 HO 
 
 ^^A,
 
 '^ 
 
 VLiit l^cire of Hfnne. 
 
 # 
 
 
 &Kiii-K- 
 
 *" 
 
 -^'S 
 
 m 
 
 s^ 
 
 All this my boding mind misgave, 
 I therefore left this trustye friend : 
 
 Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, 
 
 And all thy shame and sorrowes end.' 
 
 Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, 
 
 Sorely shent was the heire of Linne ; 
 His heart, I wis, was near to brast 
 
 With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne. 
 
 Never a word spake the heire of Linne, 
 Never a word he spake but three : 
 
 ' This is a trustye friend indeed. 
 And is right welcome unto me.' 
 
 Then round his necke the corde he drewe. 
 And sprang aloft with his bodie ; 
 
 Wien lo ! the ceiling burst in twaine. 
 And to the ground came tumbling he. 
 
 Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, 
 
 Ne knewe if he were live or dead : 
 
 At length he looked, and sawe a bille, 
 And in it a key of golde so redd. 
 
 Hee took the bille, and lookt it on. 
 Strait good comfort found he there : 
 
 It told him of a hole in the wall, 
 
 In which there stood three chests in-fere. 
 
 Two were fuU of the beaten golde, 
 The third was fuU of white money , 
 
 And over them in broad letters 
 
 These words were written soe plaine to see : 
 
 ' Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere ; 
 
 Amend thy life and foUies past ; 
 For but thou amend thee of thy life, 
 
 That rope must be thy end at last.' 
 
 E. M. Ward. del. 
 
 141 
 
 ^.^ 
 
 m
 
 m 
 
 ^ 
 
 ' And let it be,' sayd the hcire of Linne, 
 ' And let it be, but if I amend ; 
 
 For heere I will make mine avow. 
 
 This reade shall guide me to the end.' 
 
 Away then went with a merry clieare, 
 Away then went the lieire of Linne ; 
 
 I wis he neither ceasd ne blanne 
 
 TiU John o' the Scales house he did winne. 
 
 And when he came to .lohn o' the Scales, 
 Up at the speere then looked he ; 
 
 There sate three lords upon a rowe 
 Were drinking of the wine soe free. 
 
 And John himself sate at the bord-head 
 Because nowe Lord of Linne was he. 
 
 'I pray thee,' he said, 'good John o' the Scales, 
 One forty pence for to lend me.' 
 
 ' Away, away, thou thriftless loone ! 
 
 Away, away, this may not be ; 
 For Christs curse on my head,' he sayd, 
 
 ' If ever I trust thee one pennie ! ' 
 
 Then bespake the heire of Linne, 
 
 To John o' the Scales wife then spake he : 
 
 ' Madame, some almes on me bestowe, 
 I pray for sweet Saint Charitie.' 
 
 ' Away, away, thou thriftless loone ! 
 
 I swear thou gettest no almes of me ; 
 For if we shold hang any losel heere, 
 
 The first we wold beginne with thee.' 
 
 Then bespake a good fellowe 
 
 Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord ; 
 Sayd, ' Turne againe, thou heire of Linne ; 
 
 Some time thou wast a well good lord : 
 
 jd 
 
 E. U Ward, del. 
 
 c:biUa.8C 
 
 142
 
 yvsi 
 
 ^ 
 
 <^- 
 
 ©fie I^Jtre of Hinne. 
 
 
 J 
 
 Some time a good fellowe thou hast been, 
 And sparedst not thy gokle and fee ; 
 
 Therefore He lend thee forty pence, 
 And other forty if need be. 
 
 And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, 
 To let him sit in thy companie ; 
 
 For well I wott thou hadst his lande, 
 And a good bargaine it was to thee.' 
 
 Up then spake liini John o' the Scales, 
 All wode he answerd him againe : 
 
 ' Nowe Christs curse on my head,' he sayd, 
 ' But I did lose by that bargaine ! 
 
 And heere I proffer thee, heire of Linne, 
 Before these lordes soe faire and free. 
 
 Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape 
 By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee. ' 
 
 ' I drawe you to record, lords ;' — he sayd. 
 
 With that he caste him a gods-pennie : 
 ' Nowe by my fay !' sayd the heire of Linne, 
 
 ' And heere, good John, is thy money.' 
 
 And he pulled forth tliree bagges of golde, 
 And layd them down upon the bord : 
 
 All woe begone was John o' the Scales, 
 Soe shent he cold say never a word. 
 
 He told him forth the good redd gold. 
 He told it forth wi' mickle dinne. 
 
 ' The golde is thine, the lande is mine. 
 And now Ime againe the Lord of Linne,' 
 
 Sayes, ' Have thou heere, thou good feUowe, 
 Forty pence thou didst lend me : 
 
 Nowe I am againe the Lord of Linne, 
 And forty poimds I will give thee. 
 
 MH? 
 
 G^. 
 
 £. M. Ward. dei. 
 
 f^ 
 
 iii 
 
 H3 ■ i^^
 
 ^fic IDcirc of Itinnc. 
 
 lie make thee keeper of my forrcst, 
 
 Both of the wild deere and the tame ; 
 
 For but I reward thy bounteous heart, 
 I wis, Mod fellowe, I were to blame.' 
 
 'Nowe well-a-day!' sayth Joan o' the Scales ; 
 
 ' Nowe well-a-day 1 and woe is my life ! 
 Yesterday I was Lady of Linne, 
 
 Nowe IniebutJohn o' the Scales his wife.' 
 
 'Nowe fare thee well,' saydthehcircof Liiine : 
 ' Farewell nowe, John o' the Scales,' sayd he: 
 
 ' Christs curse light on me, if ever again 
 I bring my landes in jeopardie ! ' 
 
 E U. Ward dd. 
 
 ^SAO,
 
 j ORD SOULIS. This ballad is the composition of John Ley- 
 den ; it was first published in the " Minstrelsy of the Scot- 
 tish Border," and, subsequently, in the collected works of 
 the estimable and accomplished writer. The hero of the 
 story is supposed to be William Lord Soulis, who was of 
 royal descent, and who entered, with several other nobles of 
 rank, into a conspiracy against Robert de Bruce, the object 
 of which was the elevation of Soulis to the Scottish throne.* 
 " Local tradition," writes Sir Walter Scott, "more faith- 
 ful to the popular sentiment than history, has recorded the 
 character of the chief, and attributed to him many actions 
 which seem to correspond with that character. His jiortrait is by no means 
 flattering ; uniting every quality which could render strength formidable, and cruelty 
 detestable. Combining prodigious bodily strength with cruelty, avarice, dissimu- 
 lation, and treachery, is it surprising that a people, who attributed every event of 
 life, in a great measure, to the interference of good or evil spirits, should have 
 added to such a character the mystical horrors of sorcery ? Thus, he is represented 
 as a cruel tyrant and sorcerer ; constantly employed in oppressing his vassals, harassing 
 his neighbours, and fortifying his Castle of Hermitage against the King of Scotland ; 
 for which purpose he employed all means, human and infernal ; invoking the fiends 
 by his incantations, and forcing his vassals to drag materials, like beasts of burden. 
 Tradition proceeds to relate, that the Scottish King, irritated by reiterated complaints 
 peevishly exclaimed to the petitioners, ' Boil him if you please, but let me hear no 
 more of him.' Satisfied with this answer, they proceeded with the utmost haste to 
 execute the commission ; which they accomplished by boiling him alive on the Nine- 
 stane Rig, in a cauldron, said to have been long preserved at Skelf-hill, a hamlet 
 betwixt Hawick and the Hermitage. Messengers, it is said, were immediately 
 despatched by the King, to prevent the effects of such a hasty declaration ; but they 
 only arrived in time to witness the conclusion of the ceremony. The Castle of Her- 
 mitage, unable to support the load of iniquity which had been long accumulating 
 within its walls, is supposed to have partly sunk beneath the ground ; and its ruins 
 are still regarded by the peasants with peculiar aversion and terror. The door of the 
 chamber, where Lord Soulis is said to have held his conferences with the evil spirits, 
 is supposed to be opened once in seven years, by tliat demon to which, when he left 
 the castle never to return, he committed the keys, by throwing them over his left 
 shoulder, and desiring it to keep them till his return. Into this chamber, which is 
 really the dungeon of the castle, the peasant is afraid to look ; for such is the active 
 
 * One of his accomplices, David de Brechin, was executed. He was nephew to the king, and 
 his only crime was his having concealed the treason in which he disdained to participate. "As 
 the people tlironyed to the execution of the gallant jouth, they were bitterly rebuked by Sir 
 Ingram de UmfrdViUe, an English or Norman kniglit, then a favourite follower of Robert Druce. 
 ' Why press you,' said lie, 'to see tlie dismal catastrophe of so generous a knight? I have seen ye 
 throng as eagerly around him to share his bounty, as now to behold his death.' AVith these words 
 he turned from the scene of blood, and, repairing to the king, craved leave to sell his Scottish 
 possessions, and to retire from the country. 'My heart,' said Umfraville, 'will not, for the wealth 
 of the world, permit me to dwell any longer, where 1 have seen such a knight die by the hands of 
 the executioner.' With the king's leave, he interred the body of David de Brechin, sold his lands, 
 and left Scotland for ever. The story is beautifully told by Barbour, Book lyth." 
 
 US
 
 1 
 
 malignity of its inmate, that a willow inserted at the chinks of the door, is found 
 peeled, or stripped of its bark, when drawn baek. The Nine-stane Rig, where Lord 
 Soulis was boiled, is a declivity, about one mile in breadth and four in length, de- 
 scending upon the Water of Hermitage, from the range of hills which separate Lid- 
 desdale and Tcviotdale. It derives its name from one of those circles of large stones 
 whicli are termed Druidical, nine of which remained to a late period. Five of these 
 stones are still visible j and two are particularly pointed out, as those which sup- 
 ported the iron bar, upon which the fatal cauldron was suspended." 
 
 The ruins of the Castle of Hermitage still exist ; and still, according to Stephen 
 Oliver — "Kaniblesin Northumberland, and on the Scottish Hordcr," — the neighbour- 
 ing peasantry whisper of the evil spirit believed to be confined there, and who, after 
 locking the door of the dungeon, had thrown the key over his shoulder into the 
 stream. The author also states that the cauldron, the muekle pot in which Soulis 
 was reported to have been boiled, is an old kail-pot, of no very extraordinary size, 
 which was purchased by some of the rebel army in 1715. The castle is now the 
 property of the Duke of Buceleugh. It was, in 15K), the residence of the Ear! of 
 Uothwell; and here Queen Mary is said to have visited him, riding from Jedburg 
 to Hermitage, and back again, in one day. The Karl was lying ill of a wound re- 
 ceived from John Elliot of the Park, a desperate freebooter, whom he had attempted 
 to apprehend. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott considers that the idea of Lord Soulis' familiar, was derived 
 from the curious story of the " Spirit Orthone and the Lord of Corasse," which he 
 prints in a note to the ballad, " in all its Gothic simplicity, as translated from Frois- 
 sart, by the Lord of Berners." Orthone enters the service of the knight :— 
 
 " So this spyrite Orthone loved so the knyglit, that oftentymes he would come and 
 vysyte him, while he lay in his bedde aslepe, and outlier pull him by the eare, or els 
 stryke at his chambre dore or windowe. And whan the knyght awoke, than he would 
 saye, ' Orthone lat me slepe.' ' Nay,' quod Orthone, ' that I will nat do, tyll I have 
 shewed thee such tydinges as are fallen a-late.' Tlie ladye, the knyghtes wyfe, wolde 
 be sore afraycd, that her heer wald stand up, and hyde herself under the clothes. 
 Than the knyght wolde saye, ' Why, what tidynges hast thou brought me ?' Quod 
 Orthone, 'I am come out of England, or out of Hungry, or some other place, and 
 yesterday I came hens, and such things are fallen, or such other.' " 
 
 The connection between them was broken by the knight unwisely desiring to 
 see the form of the spirit, with whose voice he had become familiar. Orthone 
 appeared before him in the semblance of " a leane and yvell favoured sow." The 
 knight set his hounds upon it, at which the spirit took ofTcnec, and never afterwards 
 came to the " bedde syde " of the lord. 
 
 " The formation of ropes of sand, according to popular tradition, was a work of 
 such difficulty, that it was assigned by Michael Seolt to a number of spirits, for 
 which it was necessary for him to find some interminable ein|)loyment Upon 
 discovering the futility of their attempts to accomplish tlie work assigned, they 
 petitioned their taskmaster to be allowed to mingle a few handfuls ol barley-chafl" 
 with the sand. On his refusal, they were forced to leave untwisted the ropes which 
 they had shaped. Such is the traditionary hj-pothesis of the vermicular ridges of the 
 sand on the shore of the sea."
 
 Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage Castle, 
 And beside him Old Redcap sly ; — 
 
 ' Now, tell me, thou sprite,who art meikle of might, 
 The death that I must die V — 
 
 ' While thou shalt bear a charmed life, 
 And hold that life of me, 
 PI 'Gainst lance and arrow, sword and knife, 
 
 
 ryS^P. B,M
 
 ^=^^^ 
 
 •>M 
 
 "'■^ 
 
 
 All 
 
 
 -Ti 
 
 Uorb poults. 
 
 Nor forged steel, nor hempen band, 
 
 Shall e'er thy limbs confine. 
 Till threefold ropes of sifted sand 
 
 Around thy body twine. 
 
 If danger press fast, knock thrice on the chest, 
 
 With rusty padlocks bound ; 
 Turn away your eyes, when the lid shall rise. 
 
 And listen to the sound.' 
 
 Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage Castle, 
 
 And Redcap was not by ; 
 And he called on a page, who was witty and sage, 
 
 To go to the barmkin high. 
 
 'And look thou east, and look thou west. 
 
 And quickly come tell to me, 
 AMiat troopers haste along the waste. 
 
 And what may their livery be.' 
 
 He looked over fell, and he looked o'er flat, 
 
 But nothing, I wist, he saw, 
 Save a pyot on a turret that sat 
 
 Beside a corby craw. 
 
 The page he looked at the skrieli of day, 
 
 But, nothing, I wist, he saw, 
 Till a horseman gray, in the royal array, 
 
 llode down the Hazel-shaw. 
 
 ' Say, why do you cross o'er moor and moss ?' 
 
 So loudly cried the page ; 
 ' I tidings bring, from Scotland's King, 
 
 To Soulis of Hermitage. 
 
 He bids me tell that bloody warden, 
 
 Oppressor of low and high, 
 If ever again his lieges complain, 
 
 The cruel Soulis shall die.' 
 
 I\f^^) K-R- II' Ian, del. 
 
 J 48 

 
 
 By traitorous sleiglit they seized the knight, 
 
 Before he rode or ran, 
 And through the key-stone of the vault 
 
 They plunged him, both horse and man. 
 » » • » , 
 
 O May she came, and May she gaed. 
 
 By Goranberry green ; 
 And May she was the fairest maid 
 
 That ever yet was seen. 
 
 O May she came, and May she gaed, 
 
 By Goranberry tower ; 
 And who was it but cruel Lord Soulis 
 
 That carried her from her bower ? 
 
 He brought her to his castle gray. 
 
 By Hermitage's side ; 
 Says — ' Be content, my lovely May, 
 
 For thou shalt be my bride.' 
 
 With her yellow hair, that glittered fair, 
 
 She dried the trickling tear ; 
 She sighed the name of Branxholm's heir, 
 
 The youth that loved her dear. 
 
 ' Now, be content, my bonny May, 
 
 And take it for your hame ; 
 Or ever and aye shall ye rue the day 
 
 You heard Young Branxholm's name. 
 
 O'er Branxliolm tower, ere the morning hour, 
 Wien the lift is Like lead sae blue. 
 
 The smoke shall roll white on the weary night. 
 And the flame shaU shine dimly through.' 
 
 Syne he's ca'd on him Ringan Red, 
 
 A sturdy kenip was lie ; 
 From friend, or foe, in Border feid. 
 
 Who never a foot would flee. 
 
 11. B. M Ian, del
 
 Red Rintjan sped, and the spearmen led 
 
 Up Goranberry slack ; 
 Ay, many a wight, unmatched in fight, 
 
 Who never more came back. 
 
 And bloody set the westering sun, 
 
 And bloody rose he up ; 
 But little thought young Branxliolm's heir 
 
 Where he that night should sup. 
 
 lie shot the roebuck on the lee. 
 
 The dun deer on the law ; 
 The glamour sure was in his ee 
 
 Wien Ringan nigh did draw. 
 
 O'er heathy edge, through rusthng sedge. 
 
 He sped till day was set ; 
 And he thought it was his merry-men true. 
 
 When he the spearmen met. 
 
 Far from relief, they seized the chief; 
 
 His men were far away ; 
 Through Hermitage slack they sent him back 
 
 To Soulis' castle gray ; 
 Syne onward fure for Branxholm tower 
 
 Where all his merry-men laj'. 
 
 ' Xow, welcome, noble Branxliolm's heir ! 
 
 Thrice welcome,' quoth Soulis, 'to me! 
 Say, dost thou repair to my castle fair, 
 
 My wedding guest to be ? 
 And lovely !May deserves, per fay, 
 
 A bride-man such as thee!' 
 
 And broad and bloody rose the sun, 
 
 And on the barmkin shone, 
 AVhcn the page was aware of Red Ringan there. 
 
 Who came riding all alone. 
 
 R R U' Ian. del
 
 
 Uotit Moults. 
 
 
 K R LlTan.dcl 
 
 To the gate of the tower Lord Soulis he speeds, 
 
 As he lighted at the wall, 
 Says — ' Wiere did ye stable my stalwart steeds, 
 And where do they tarry all V 
 
 ' We stabled them sure, on the Tarras Muir ; 
 
 We stabled them sure,' quoth he — 
 ' Before we could cross the quaking moss 
 
 They all were lost but me.' 
 
 He clenched his fist, and he knocked on the chest, 
 
 And he heard a stifled groan ; 
 And at the third knock each rusty lock 
 
 Did open one by one. 
 
 He turned away his eyes as the lid did rise, 
 
 And he listened silentUe ; 
 And he heard breathed slow, in murmurs low, 
 
 ' Beware of a coming tree !' 
 
 In muttering sound the rest was drowned. 
 
 No other word heard he ; 
 But slow as it rose, the lid did close 
 
 With the rusty padlocks three. 
 
 * * « » * 
 
 Now rose with Branxholm's ae brother 
 
 The Teviot, high and low; 
 Baidd Walter by name, of meikle fame, 
 
 For none coidd bend his bow. 
 
 O'er glen and glade, to Soulis there sped 
 
 The tame of his array. 
 And that Teviotdale would soon assail 
 
 His towers and castle gray. 
 
 With clenched fist, he knocked on the chest. 
 
 And again he heard a groan ; 
 And he raised his eyes as the lid did rise, 
 
 But answer heard he none. 
 
 151
 
 lo^^ 
 
 ^K 
 
 '.^;V^^i^^f^'^ 
 
 „^;i,;..iJS2i 
 
 
 The charm was broke, when the spirit spoke, 
 
 And it niurmurcd s\illenlie, — 
 ' Sliut fast the door, and lor evermore 
 
 Commit to mc the key. 
 
 Alas ! that ever thou raisedst thine eyes, 
 
 Thine eyes to look on me ! 
 Till seven years are o'er, return no more, 
 
 For here thou must not be.' 
 
 Think not but Soulis was wae to yield 
 
 His warlock chamber o'er ; 
 lie took the keys from the rusty lock, 
 
 That never were ta'en before. 
 
 lie threw them o'er his left shoulder, 
 
 With meikle care and pain ; 
 And he bade it keep them fathoms deep, 
 
 Till he returned again. 
 
 And still, when seven years are o'er, 
 
 Is heard the jarring sound ; 
 When slowly opes the charmed door 
 
 Of the chamber under ground. 
 
 And some within the chamber door 
 
 Have cast a curious eye ; 
 But none dare tell, for the spirits in hell. 
 
 The fearful sights they spy. 
 
 • * * • « 
 
 Wlicn Soulis thought on his merry-men now, 
 
 A woful wight was he ; 
 Says — ' Vengeance is mine, and I will not repine, 
 
 But Branxholm's heir shall die !' 
 
 Says — ' What would you do, young Branxholm, 
 Gin ye had me, as I have thee ?' — 
 
 ' I would take you to the good greenwood 
 And gar your ain hand wale the tree.' 
 
 a,B. M-Iaa.del. 
 
 152
 
 %oxii ^ouli's. 
 
 ' Now shall thine ain hand wale the tree, 
 For all thy mirth and meikle pride ; 
 
 And May shall choose, if my love she refuse, 
 A scrog bush thee beside.' 
 
 They carried him to the good greenwood 
 Where the green pines grew in a row ; 
 
 And they heard the cry, from the branches high. 
 Of the hungry carrion crow. 
 
 They carried him on from tree to tree. 
 
 The spiry boughs below ; 
 ' Say, shall it be thine, on the tapering pine 
 
 To feed the hooded crow ?' 
 
 ' The fir-tops fall by Branxliolm wall 
 When the night blast stirs the tree, 
 
 And it shall not be mine to die on the pine 
 I loved in infancie.' 
 
 Young Branxholm turned him and oft lookedback. 
 And aye he passed from tree to tree ; 
 
 Young Branxliolm peep'd, and puirly spake, 
 ' O sic a death is no for me !' 
 
 And next they passed the aspin gray, 
 Its leaves were rustling mournfullie ; 
 
 ' Now choose thee, choose thee, Branxholm gay ! 
 Say, wilt thou never choose the tree V — 
 
 ' More dear to me is the aspin gray. 
 More dear than any other tree ; 
 
 For, beneath the shade that its branches made. 
 Have pass'd the vows of my love and me.' 
 
 Young Branxholm peep'd, and puirly spake. 
 
 Until he did his ain men see, 
 With witches' hazel in each steel cap. 
 
 In scorn of Soulis' gramarye ; 
 Then shoulder-height for glee he lap, — 
 
 ' Methinks I spye a coming tree !' — 
 
 fj—^^i) R. K. MUn.del 
 
 153
 
 
 
 ' Ay, many may come, but few return :' 
 Quo' Soiilis, the lord of fjramarye ; 
 
 ' No warrior's hand in fair Scotland 
 Shall ever dint a wound on me !' — 
 
 ' Now, by my sooth,' quo' bold Walter, 
 ' If that be true we soon shall see.' — 
 
 His bent bow he drew, and his arrow was true, 
 Rut never a wound or scar had he. 
 
 Then up bespake him true Thomas, 
 
 He was the lord of Ersyltoun ; 
 ' The wizard's spell no steel can quell 
 
 Till once your lances bear him down.' — 
 
 They bore him down with lances bright, 
 But never a wound or sear had he ; 
 
 With hempen bands they bound him tight. 
 Both hands and feet, on the Nine-stane lee. 
 
 That wizard accurst, the bands lie burst : 
 They mouldered at his magic spell ; 
 
 And neck and heel, in the forged steel. 
 
 They bound him against the charms of hell. 
 
 That wizard accurst, the bands he burst : 
 No forged steel his charms could bide ; 
 
 Then up bespake him true Thomas, 
 
 ' We 'U bind him yet, whate'er betide.' 
 
 Tlie black spae-lxx)k from bis breast he took, 
 Impressed with many a warlock spell ; 
 
 And the book it was wrote by Michael Scott 
 \Mw held in awe the fiends of hell. 
 
 They buried it deep, where hii> bones they sleep, 
 'f hat mortal man might never it see ; 
 
 But Thomas did save it from the grave 
 AMien he returned from Faerie. 
 
 15+
 
 ■.7*<» 5:<. 
 
 '/^ 
 
 The black spae-book from his breast he took, 
 
 And turned the leaves with curious hand ; 
 No ropes, did he find, the wizard could bind 
 But threefold ropes of sifted sand. 
 
 They sifted the sand from the Nine-stane burn. 
 And shaped the ropes sae curiouslie ; 
 
 But tlie ropes would neither twist nor twine 
 For Thomas true and his gramarye. 
 
 The black spae-book from his breast he took. 
 And again he turn'd it with his hand ; 
 
 And he bade each lad of Teviot add 
 The barley chaff to the sifted sand. 
 
 The barley chaff to the sifted sand 
 They added still by handfuls nine : 
 
 But Redcap sly unseen was by, 
 
 And the ropes would neither twist nor twine. 
 
 And still beside the Nine-stane burn. 
 Ribbed like the sand at mark of sea, 
 
 The ropes that would not twist nor turn, 
 Shaped of the sifted sand you see. 
 
 The black spae-book true Thomas he took, 
 Again its magic leaves he spread ; 
 
 And he found that to quell the powerful spell, 
 The wizard must be boiled in lead.* 
 
 • "The tradition concerning the death of Lord Soulis," 
 writes Sir Walter Scott, "is not without a parallel in the real 
 history of Scotland." Melville, of Glenbure, Sheriff of the 
 Mearns, was detested by the barons of his country. Reiterated 
 complaints of his conduct having been made to James I., the 
 monarch answered, in a moment of unguarded impatience. 
 "Sorrow gin the sheriff were sodden, and supped in broo!" 
 The words were construed literally. The barons prepared a 
 fire and a boiling cauldron into which they plunged the un- 
 lucky sheritr. 
 
 j3^i^ R, K, M-Iaa del 
 
 155 
 
 ^^
 
 <5«e''"' 
 
 On a circle of stones they placed the pot, 
 On a circle of stones but barely nine ; 
 
 They heated it red and fiery hot, 
 
 Till the burnished brass did glimmer and 
 shine. 
 
 They roH'd him up in a sheet of lead, 
 A sheet of lead for a funeral pall ; 
 
 They plunged him in the cauldron red. 
 
 And melted him, lead, and bones, and all. 
 
 At the Skelf-hill, the cauldron still 
 The men of Liddesdale can show ; 
 
 And on the spot, where they boil'd the pot, 
 The spreat and the deer-hair ne'er shall grow. 
 
 
 Q^ RRUl 
 
 W^ 

 
 ORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNEX. This ballad was first 
 printed in the '* Reliques," where it is given "with some- 
 corrections from a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland." 
 " It seems to be composed," says Dr. Percy, " not without 
 improvements, out of two English ones, ' Lord Thomas and 
 Fair Ellinor,' and 'Fair Margaret and Sweet William.'" 
 The latter it does not very closely resemble ; but between 
 it and the former, there is certainly a general likeness ; 
 although, not sufficient to warrant the conclusion that the 
 one was even suggested by the other. Lord Thomas and 
 Fair Ellinor, is given "with corrections," from a blackletter 
 copy in the Pcpys Library, entitled "A Tragical Story on the unfortun;ite love of 
 Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor, together with the downfal of the Brown Girl." "In 
 the same collection," he adds, *' may be seen an attempt to modernise this old story 
 and reduce it to a different measure : a proof of its popularity." We print, from 
 the original, the full title to this ballad : — 
 
 " The unfortunate Forrester, or Fair Ellinor's Tragedy, shewing how Lord 
 Thomas, once a bold Forrester, fell in love with the Fair Lady Ellinor, but his mo- 
 ther would not suffer him to marry her, but told him of another, that was far richer- 
 Then, the Lord Thomas, not willing to be undutiful to his mother, appoints his wed- 
 ding day, and invites Fair Ellinor to come to his wedding ; who, contrary to her 
 mother's knowledge, came, and having seen his bride, she stabbed herself; which 
 Lord Thomas seeing, took the same dagger, and killed himself.— The Tune is 
 ' Chevy Chase.' " 
 
 From the black letter ballad we select a few stanzas, which the reader may com- 
 pare with the Scottish composition : — 
 
 Lord Thomas he was a bold forresi^rr, 
 And a eliaser of the king's deere; 
 
 Faire Ellinor was a fine wom^n, 
 
 And Lord Thomas he loved her deare. 
 
 ' Come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' he sayd, 
 
 ' And riddle us both as one ; 
 Whether I shall niarrye with faire Ellinor, 
 
 And lett the browne girl alone? ' 
 
 ' The browne girl she has got houses and lands, 
 
 Faire Ellinor she has got none, 
 An therefore I charge thee ou my blessing, 
 
 To bring me the browne girl home.' 
 
 And as it befelle on a high holidaye. 
 
 As many tliere are beside, 
 Lord Thomas he went to faire Ellinor 
 
 That should have been his bride. 
 
 And when he came to faJre Ellinor's bower, 
 
 He knocked there at the ring, 
 And who was so ready as faire Ellinor, 
 
 To lett Lord Thomas withinn. 
 
 ' What neweSjWhat newes.LordThomas.'she sayd? 
 
 'What newes dost thou bring to mee.'' — 
 ' I 'm come to bid thee to my wedding, 
 
 And that is bad newes for thee.' 
 
 But when she came to Lord Thomas his gate, 
 
 She knocked there at the ring; 
 And who was so readye as Lord Thomas, 
 
 To lett faire Ellinor in. 
 
 ' Is this your bride,' faire Ellinor sayd? 
 
 'Methinks she looks wonderous browne ; 
 Thou mightest have had as faire a woman, 
 
 As ever trod on the grounde.' 
 
 This browne bride bad a little penknife 
 That was both long and sharpe, 
 
 And betwixt the short ribs and the long, 
 She prick'd faire Ellinor's harte !
 
 Lord Thomas he had a sword by bis side, 
 
 As he walked about the halle; 
 He cut olf his briiJc's head frotn her should^, 
 
 And threw it against the walle! 
 
 He set the hiltc against the grounde, 
 And the point against his harte. — 
 
 There never three lovers together did meete. 
 That sooner againe did parte ! 
 
 The Other ballad to wliicli reference is made by Dr. Percy, " Fair Margaret and 
 Sweet William," we shall, hereafter, introduce into this collection. The ballad of 
 " Lord Thomas and Fair Annet," is printed by Jamieson, but with considerable 
 variations ; also by Chambers, varied again ; and by both under the title of *' Sweet 
 Willie and Fair Annie." Mr. Jamieson is of opinion tJiat Percy's copy had been 
 " adjusted, previous to its leaving Scotland, by some one who was more of a scholar 
 than reciters generally are ;" and considers, that in attempting to give it an antiijuc 
 cast, " it has been deprived of somewhat of that easy facility which is the distinguished 
 characteristic of the traditionary ballad narrative." He accordingly prints a version, 
 where, he contends, "no such experiment has been made;" and which he gives 
 "pure and entire," as taken down by him from the recitation of a lady — Mrs. W. Arrott, 
 This ballad is exceedingly simple and affecting ; and contains some exquisite beau- 
 ties of which that of Dr. Percy has been deprived, altliough, as a whole, less smooth 
 and graceful. We select a few of the stanzas: — 
 
 Sweet Willie said a word in haste, 
 
 And Annie took it ill ; 
 ' I winna wed a tocherless maid 
 
 Against ray parents' will,' 
 
 ' There is twa maidens in a bower, 
 Which o' them sail I bring hame ? 
 
 The nut-browne maid has sheep and cows, 
 And Fair Annie has nane.' 
 
 ' It's an ye wed the nut-browne maid» 
 
 I '11 heap gold wi' my hand ; 
 But an ye wed her Fair Annie, 
 
 I 'II straik it wi' a wand.* 
 
 And when she came to Mary's Kirk, 
 
 And sate down in the deas, 
 The light, that came fra Fair Annie, 
 Enlightened a' the place- 
 
 But up and stands the nut-browne-bride, 
 
 Just at her father's knee; 
 ' O wha is this my father dear, 
 
 That blinks in Willie's e"e ?' 
 ' O this is Willie's first true love, 
 
 Before he loved thee.' 
 
 ' O whare got ye that water, Annie, 
 That washes you sac white?' — 
 
 ' I got it in my mither's warabe 
 Where ye '11 ne'er get tlie like. 
 
 For ye've been wash'd in Dunn/s well, 
 And dried on Dunny's dyke; 
 
 And a' the water in tlie sea 
 Will never wash ye white.' 
 
 Willie 's taen a rose o' his hat, 
 Laid it on Annie's lap,— 
 
 ' The bonniest to the bonniest fa's, 
 Hae, wear it for my sake.' 
 
 * Take up and wear your rose, Willie, 
 
 As long as it will last ; 
 For, like your love, its sweetness a' 
 
 Will soon be gone and past.' 
 
 The catastrophe does not resemble that which occurs in the ballad of " Lord 
 Thomas and Fair Annet," but more nearly that which is recorded in the ballad of 
 " Fair Margaret and Sweet William." 
 
 ^
 
 H J Icw-siad
 
 ILorlj S&omns anH jfait ^nnet. 
 
 , 
 
 ' Gif ye wuU nevir wed a wife, 
 
 A wife wull neir wed ye.' 
 Sae he is hame to tell his mither, 
 
 And knelt upon his knee : 
 
 ' O rede, O rede, mither, he says, 
 
 A glide rede gie to me : 
 O sail I tak the nut-browne bride, 
 
 And let faire Annet be ? ' 
 
 ' The nut-browne bride has gowd and gear. 
 Fair Annet she has gat naue ; 
 
 And the little beauty fair Annet has, 
 O it wiUl soon be ganc !' 
 
 And he has tifl his brother gane : 
 
 ' Now, brother, rede ye me ; 
 A' sail I marrie the nut-browne bride. 
 
 And let lair Annet be V 
 
 - ' The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother, 
 The nut-browne bride has kye ; 
 I I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride, J| 
 And cast fair Annet bye.' 
 
 ' Her oxen may dye i' the house, Billie, 
 
 And her kye into the byre ; 
 And I sail hae nothing to my sell, 
 
 Bot a fat fadge bye the fyre.' 
 
 And he has till his sister gane : 
 
 ' Now, sister, rede ye me ; 
 O sail I marrie the nut-browne bride. 
 
 And set fair Annet free ? ' 
 
 ' Ise rede ye tak fair Annet, Thomas, 
 And let the browne bride alane ; 
 
 Lest you should sigh, and say, Alace ! 
 AVhat is this we brought hame ?' 
 
 E. J. Towanenii.del
 
 
 + 
 
 Hori 'STiiomas antr jpair ^nntt. 
 
 ' No, I will tak my mithers counsel, 
 And marrie me owt o' hand ; 
 
 And I vfiW tak the nut-browne bride : 
 Fair Annet may leive the land.' 
 
 Up then rose fair Annets father 
 Twa hours or it wer day. 
 
 And he is gane into the bower, 
 Wherein fair Annet lay. 
 
 ' Rise up, rise up, fair Annet,' he says, 
 ' Put on your silken sheene ; 
 
 Let us gae to St. ]\Iaries kirke. 
 And see that rich weddeen.' — 
 
 ' jMy maides gae to my dressing-roome. 
 And dress to me my hair ; 
 
 Whair-eir ye laid a plait before, 
 See ye lay ten times mair. 
 
 Jly maids, gae to my dressing-room. 
 And dress to me my smock; 
 
 The one half is o' the holland fine. 
 The other o' needle-work.' 
 
 The horse fair Annet rade upon 
 He ambUt like the wind, 
 
 Wi' sUler he was shod before, 
 Wi' burning gowd behind. 
 
 Four and twantye sUler bells 
 Wer a' tyed till his mane. 
 
 And j'ae lift o' the norland wind. 
 They tinkled ane by ane. 
 
 Four and twantye gay gude knichts 
 Rade by fair Annets side, 
 
 And four and twanty fair ladies. 
 As gin she had bin a bride.
 
 sse^ 
 
 Hoxti tTfjomns anti Jfair ;4lnnct. 
 
 H.J. Townaend. del 
 
 BraQstoo.M. 
 
 And whan slie cam to Maries kirk, 
 
 She sat on Maries stean : 
 The clcading that fair Annet had on 
 
 It skinkk'd in their een. 
 
 And wlian she cam into the kirk, 
 She shimmerd like the sun ; 
 
 The helt that was about her waist, 
 Was a' \vi' pearles bedone. 
 
 She sat her by the nut-browne bride. 
 And lier een they wer sae clear, 
 
 Lord Thomas he clean format the bride, 
 When fair Annet she drew near. 
 
 He had a rose into his hand. 
 And he gave it kisses three. 
 
 And reaching by the nut-browne bride, 
 Laid it on fair Annets knee. 
 
 Up than spak the nut-browne bride. 
 
 She spak wi' meikle spite ; 
 ' And whair gat ye that rose-water. 
 
 That does mak ye sae white ? ' 
 
 ' O I did get the rose-water 
 Whair ye wull neir get nane, 
 
 For I did get that very rose-water 
 Into my mithers warae.' 
 
 The bride she drew a long bodkin, 
 Frae out her gay head-gear. 
 
 And strake fair Annet unto the heart. 
 That word she nevir spak mair. 
 
 Lord Thomas he saw fair Annet wex pale, 
 And marvelit what mote be : 
 
 But whan he saw her dear hearts blude, 
 A' wode-wroth wexed he. 
 
 162
 
 H J Townsend, del 
 
 'Walxnsley. bc 
 
 He drew his dagger that was sae sharp, 
 That was sae sharp and meet, 
 
 And drave into the nut-browne bride, 
 That fell deid at his feit. 
 
 * Now stay for me, dear Annet,* he sed, 
 * Now stay, my dear ! ' he cryd, — 
 
 Then strake the dagger untill his heart, 
 And fell deid by her side.* 
 
 Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa ; 
 
 Fair Annet within the quiere ; 
 And o' the tane thair grew a birk, 
 
 The other a bonne briere. 
 
 * In Jamieson's ballad of " Sweet Willie and Fair 
 Annie," the spirit of the lady, who dies of a broken 
 lieart, is made to visit the bridal bed of her betrayer: — 
 
 When night was come, and day was gone, 
 
 And a' men boun to bed, 
 Sweet Willie and the nut-browne bride 
 
 In their chamber were laid. 
 
 They werena weel lyen down, 
 
 And scarcely fa'n asleep. 
 Whan up and stands she, Fair Annie, 
 
 Just up at Willie's feet. 
 
 ' Weel brook ye o' your brown brown bride, 
 
 Between ye and the wa'; 
 And sae will I o' my winding sheet. 
 That suits me best ava". 
 
 Weel brook ye o' your brown brown bride, 
 
 Between ye and the stock ; 
 And sae will I o' my black black kist. 
 
 That has neither key nor lock. 
 
 Weel brook ye o" your brown brown bride, 
 
 And o' your bridal bed; 
 And sae will I o' the cald cald mools. 
 
 That soon will hap my head." 
 
 Sae Willie raise, put on his claes, 
 Drew till him his hose and shoon, 
 
 And he is on to Annie's bower, 
 By the lei light o" the moon. 
 
 The lasten bower that he came till, 
 
 O hea^T was his care ! 
 The waxen lights were burning bright, 
 
 And Fair Annie streeket there. 
 
 163 
 
 dh^
 
 
 And ay they grew, and ay they threw, 
 As they wad I'aine be neare ; 
 i. And by this ye may ken right well, 
 -fl- They were twa luvers deare. 
 
 ;■,■ M jli!
 
 rAUSE FOODRAGE. This ballad was originally 
 published in the " Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
 Border," where it is stated to have been " chiefly 
 given" from the MS. of Mrs. Brown, of Falkland.* 
 Although there can be no question that it received many im- 
 provements in passing through the hands of the accom- 
 plished editor, there can be as little doubt of its antiquity in 
 some ruder state ; for Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Motherwell both 
 affirm that it has been "popular in many parts of Scotland;" and by 
 the former it is asserted, that he had made " strict enquiry into the 
 authenticity of the song," in consequence of a line, in verse 31, 
 strongly resembling one that occurs in the avowedly modern ballad of 
 " Hardyknute," — 
 "■^^ Norse e'en like gray goss-hawk stared wild. 
 
 P, -V His doubts were removed by the evidence of a lady of rank (Lady Douglas, 
 \^ of Douglas, sister to the Duke of Buccleuch), who not only recollected the 
 '. ballad as having amused her infancy, but could repeat many of the verses. 
 
 * "An ingenious lady," writes Sir Walter Scott, "to whose taste and memory the world is 
 indebted." She was the youngest daughter of Mr. Thomas Gordon, professor of philosophy, in 
 King's College, Aberdeen ; and the circumstances, under whicli she obtained so much proticiency 
 in ballad lore, are thus explained in a letter from her father to Alexander Eraser Tytler, Esq. : — 
 " An aunt of my children, Mrs. Farquhar, now dead, who was married to the proprietor of a small 
 estate, near the sources of the Dee, in Braemar, a good old woman, who liad spent the best part 
 of her life among flocks and herds, resided, in her later days, in the town of Aberdeen. She was 
 possessed of a most tenacious memory, which retained all the songs she had heard from nurses and 
 countrywomen in that sequestered part of the country. Being naturally fond of my children, 
 when young, she liad them much about her, and delighted them with the songs and tales of 
 chivalry. My youngest daughter, Mrs. Brown, of Falkland, is blessed with as good a memory as 
 her aunt, and has almost the whole of her songs by heart." They were subsequently written 
 down by her nephew, Professor Scott, "as his aunt sung them." To this MS., reference is fre- 
 quently made by the editor of the " Border Minstrelsy," — " as containing a curious and valuable 
 collection," from which he procured "very material assistance," and which often furnished him 
 with "various readings, and supplementary stanzas," to such as were known on the borders. 
 Jamiesoii, also, thus acknowledges his obligations to this lady: — "For the groundwork of this 
 collection, and for the greater and more valuable part of the popular and romantic tales which it 
 contains, the public are indebted to Mrs. Brown, of Falkland. Besides the large supply of ballads, 
 taken down from her own recitation many years ago, by Professor Scott, of Aberdeen, — in ISttO, I 
 paid an unexi)ecteJ visit to Mrs. Brown, at Dysart, where she then happened to be for health, and 
 wrote down, from her unpremeditated repetition, about a dozen pieces more, most of which will 
 be found in ray work. Several others, which I had not time to take down, were afterwards trans- 
 mitted to me by Mrs. Brown herself, and by her late highly-respectable and worthy husband, tlie 
 Reverend Dr. Brown. Every person, who peruses the following sheets, will see how much I owe 
 to Mrs. Brown, and to her nephew, my much-esteemed friend. Professor Scott; and it rests with 
 me to feel, that I owe them much more for the zeal and spirit «hich they have manifested, than 
 even for the valuable communications which they have made. As to the 'authenticity' of the 
 pieces themselves, they are as authentic as traditionary poetry can be expected to be; and their 
 being more entire than most other such pieces are found to be, may be easily accounted for, from 
 the circumstance, that there are few persons of Mrs. Brown's abilities and education, who repeat 
 popular ballads from memory. She learnt most of them before she was twelve years old, from old 
 women and maid-servants. What she once learnt slie never forgot ; and such wore lier curiosity 
 and industry, that she was not contented with merely knowing the story, according to one way of 
 telling, but studied to acquire all the varieties of the same tale which she could meet with."
 
 ^^^St^^^^ 
 
 For the leading incident of the poem, and the beautiful episode introduced into 
 it — the exchange of the children, u])on which the story is made to depend — there 
 appears to be no historical authority. At least. Sir Walter Scott has referred to 
 none ; and if there had been any, it would not have escaped his search. Yet it is 
 not improbable that some such circumstance did actually occur; the old ballad- 
 makers were seldom mere inventors ; and the tragedy, with all its attendant events, 
 may be considered as by no means rare or uncommon to a remote age. 'I'liat its ape 
 is "remote" is rendered certain, by the references to King Kastcr and King Wester; 
 who, it is surmised by Sir Walter Scott, were " petty princes of Northumberland and 
 Westmoreland. From this," he adds, " it may be conjectured, with some degree of 
 plausibility, that the independent kingdoms of the east and west coast were, at an 
 early period, thus denominated, according to the Saxon mode of naming districts 
 from their relative positions, as Essex, Wesscx, Sussex." In the " complaynt of 
 Scotland," mention is made of an ancient romance, entitled, " How the King of 
 Estmureland married the King's daughter of Wcstmureland." But Mr. Kitson is 
 of opinion, that — " Kstmuri-land and Wcstmureland have no sort of relation to Nor- 
 thumberland and Westmoreland. The former was never called Eastmorel.ind, nor 
 were there any kings of Westmoreland, unless we admit the authority of an old 
 rhyme, cited by Usher : — 
 
 Here the King Westmer 
 
 Slew tile King Rothinger. 
 
 In the old metrical romance of ' Kyng Horn,' or ' Horn Child,' we find both West- 
 nesse and Kstnesse ; and it is somewhat singular, that two places, so called, actually 
 exist in Yorkshire at this day. But ' ness,' in that quarter, is the name given to an 
 inlet from a river. There is, however, great confusion in this poem, as ' Horn ' is 
 called king, sometimes of one country, and sometimes of the other. In the French 
 original, Westir is said to have been the old name of Hirland or Ireland; which, 
 occasionally at least, is called Westnesse, in the translation, in which Britain is 
 named Sudene ; but here, again, it is inconsistent and confused. It is, at any rate," 
 adds the learned antiquary, " highly probable, that the story, cited in the ' Com- 
 playnt of Scotland,' was a romance of * King Horn,' whether prose or verse; and, 
 consequently, that Estmureland and Wcstmureland should there mean England and 
 Ireland; though it is possible that no other instance can be found of these two 
 names occurring with the same sense." 
 
 Of the Scottish origin of this ballad there is internal evidence; and several of the 
 phrases made use of, besides the titles to which we have referred, afford corroborative 
 ))roof of its antiquity. The term " kevil," used in the third verse, — 
 
 And they cast kevils them amang, 
 
 And kevits them between; 
 And they cast kevils them amang, 
 
 Wha suld gae kill the king. — 
 
 is thus explained by Sir Walter Scott, — "'Kevils' — lots. Both words originally 
 meant only a portion or share of any thing. — Li-ges Burgorum, cap 59, de tot, cut, 
 or kavil. Statua Oitdte, cap 20. Nullus emiit lanam, Sfc, nisifuerit confrater Gildtc, 
 8fc, Neqtic lot neque cavil habeat cum aliquo contrafre nostra. In both these laws, 
 ' lot ' and ' cavil ' signify a share in trade." 
 
 \l^ 
 
 166
 
 King Easter has courted her for her lands, 
 
 King Wester for her fee, 
 King Honour for her comelye face. 
 
 And for her fair bodie. 
 
 Tliey had not been four months married, 
 
 As I have heard them tell. 
 Until the nobles of the land 
 
 Against them did rebel. 
 
 And they cast kevils them aniang. 
 And kevils them between ; 
 
 And they cast kevils them amang, 
 Wiia suld gae kill the kine 
 
 T, M. Ju7. dsl 
 
 Mary Ana Williams, BC.
 
 
 jfnusc JFootivagr. 
 
 
 
 _^.:::.C^ 
 
 Wi 
 
 ^fc'-> 
 
 -"^:^' 
 
 O some said yea, .and some said nay, 
 Tlieir words did not agree ; 
 
 Till uj) and got him, Faiise Foodrage, 
 And swore it suld be he. 
 
 Wien bells were rung, and mass was sung, 
 
 And a' men bound to bed. 
 King Honour and his g.iy ladye 
 
 In a hie chamber were laid. 
 
 Then up and raise him. Pause Foodrage, 
 
 When a' were fast asleep. 
 And slew the porter in his lodge. 
 
 That watch and ward did keep. 
 
 O, four and twenty silver keys 
 
 Hung hie ujjon a pin ; 
 And aye, as ae door he did unlock. 
 
 He has fastened it him behind. 
 
 Then up and raise him. King Honour, 
 Says — ' What means a' this din ? 
 
 Or what 's the matter, Fause Foodrage, 
 Or wha has loot you in ?' — 
 
 ' O ye my errand weel sail learn. 
 
 Before that I depart.' — 
 Then drew a knife, baith lang and sharp. 
 
 And pierced him to the heart. 
 
 Then up and got the queen hersell. 
 And fell low down on her knee : 
 
 ' O spare my life, now, Fause F'oodrage ! 
 For I never injured thee. 
 
 O spare mj- life, now, Fause F'oodrage ! 
 
 Until 1 -lighter be! 
 And see gin it be lad or lass. 
 
 Kins Honour has left wi' me.' — 
 
 ^ 
 
 _>^p T. M, Joy, del .kiory Ann WilliaiDB. sc 
 
 168 ^j !.^
 
 — fx^ 
 
 €^-^ 
 
 ' O gin it be a lass,' he says, 
 
 ' Weel nursed it sail be ; 
 But gin it be a lad bairn. 
 
 He sail be hanged hie. 
 
 I winna spare for his tender age. 
 Nor yet for his hie hie kin ; 
 
 But soon as e'er he born is, 
 
 He sail mount the gallows pin.' — 
 
 O four-and-twenty valiant knights 
 Were set the queen to guard ; 
 
 And four stood aye at her bouir door, 
 To keep both watch and ward. 
 
 But when the time drew near an end, 
 
 That she suld lighter be. 
 She cast about to find a wile. 
 
 To set her body free. 
 
 O she has birled these merry young men 
 With the ale but and the wine. 
 
 Unto they were a' deadly drunk 
 As any wild-wood swine. 
 
 ' O narrow, narrow, is this window. 
 And big, big, am I grown ! ' — 
 
 Yet through the might of our I-adye, 
 Out at it she has gone. 
 
 She wandered up, she wandered down, 
 
 She wandered out and in ; 
 And, at last, into the very swine's stythe. 
 
 The queen brought ibrth a son. 
 
 Then they cast kevils them amang, 
 Which sidd gae seek the queen ; 
 
 And the kevil fell upon Wise WiUiam, 
 And he sent his wife for him. 
 
 ;4 
 
 J ^^ T.M.Joy., 
 
 Mary Ann Williams, sc. 
 
 "l69 ^ l>j
 
 VH^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 3^- 
 
 dpnusc .iPootrnge. 
 
 'n 
 
 ~Y^ 
 
 O when slie saw Wise William's wife, 
 The queen fell on her knee : 
 
 ' Win up, win np, madam ! ' she says : 
 ' What needs this courtesie ? ' — 
 
 ' O out o' this I winna rise, 
 Till a boon ye grant to me ; 
 
 To change your lass for this lad bairn, 
 King Honour left me wi'. 
 
 And ye maun learn my gay goss-liawk 
 Right weel to breast a steed ; 
 
 And I sail learn your turtle dow 
 As weel to write and read. 
 
 And ye maun learn my gay goss-hawk 
 To wield baith bow and brand ; 
 
 And I sail learn your turtle dow 
 To lay gowd wi' Ikt hand. 
 
 At kirk and market when we meet, 
 
 We "11 dare make nae avowe. 
 But — Dame, how does my gay goss-hawk? 
 — Madame, how does my dow ? ' * 
 
 ■ "This metaphorical language," says Scott, "was 
 customary among the northern nations. In 925, King 
 Adelstein sent an embassy to llarald Harfager. King of 
 Norway, the cliief of which presented that prince with 
 a sword. As it was presented by the point, tlie Nor- 
 wegian chief, in receiving it, unwarily laid hold of the 
 hilt. The English ambassador declared, in the name 
 of his master, that he accepted tlie act as a deed of 
 homage. The Norwegian prince resolving to circum- 
 vent his rival by a similiir artitlce. sent, next summer, 
 an embassy to Adelstein, the chief of which presented 
 Haco, the son of Harald, to the English prince; and, 
 placing him on his knees, made the following declara* 
 tion: — " JIaratdus, Normatioriim Rex, amice te talulal; 
 albamquc haiic avem bene irislilutam mitlit, utque metiiis 
 deincejia crudiaa, pusliilat." The king received young 
 Haco on his knees, which the Norwegian accepled, in 
 the name of his master, as a declaration of inferiority; 
 according to the proverb, " la minor temper kalietur, qui 
 iilteriuajiituin educat." 
 
 />; T U.Joy, del. Mary 
 
 Add WilUiinid. sc 
 
 170 $^4.
 
 --^^ 
 
 jpaus£ jpooiirnge. 
 
 When days were gane, and years came on, 
 
 Wise William he thought lang ; 
 And he has ta'en King Honour's son 
 
 A-hunting for to gang. 
 
 It sae fell out, at this hunting, 
 
 Upon a simmer's da}-. 
 That they came by a fair castell, 
 
 Stood on a sunny brae. 
 
 ' O dinna ye see that bonny castell, 
 Wi' halls and towers sae fair ? 
 
 Gin ilka man had back his ain, 
 Of it j-ou sidd be heir.' — 
 
 ' How I suld be heir of that castell, 
 
 In sooth, I canna see ; 
 For it belangs to Fause Foodrage, 
 
 And he is na kin to me.' — 
 
 I ' O gin ye suld kill him, Fause Foodrage, 
 You would do but what was right ; 
 For, I wot, he killed your father dear. 
 Or ever ye saw the light. 
 
 And gin ye suld kiU him, Fause Foodrage, 
 There is no man durst you blame ; 
 
 For he keeps your mother a prisoner. 
 And she daurna take ye hame.' — 
 
 The boy stared wild like agrey goss-hawk, 
 Says, — ' What may a' this mean ? ' 
 
 ' My boy, ye are King Honour's son, 
 And your mother's oiu: lawful queen.' 
 
 ' O gin I be King Honour's son. 
 
 By our Ladye I swear. 
 This night I will that traitor slay. 
 
 And relieve my mother dear ! ' — 
 
 ^ 
 
 ff 
 
 5?^-^ 
 
 J i^ T. M.Joy, d 
 
 Mary Ann Williams. sc 
 
 171
 
 Vz^ 
 
 f^ 1^ LUOoy, 
 
 .- Aun WirianiM.sc. 
 
 ^^\
 
 ENEVIEVE. This exquisitely beautiful ballad is the com- 
 position of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whose rank is high 
 among the veritable poets of our age and countrj-, and 
 whose poems will endure as long as the language in 
 which they are written. It was composed at an early 
 period of his life ; and seems to be a record of some 
 actual memory, — one of those ordinary events which stir 
 the heart and excite the imagination, and transmute 
 common materials into pure gold. The leading sentiment 
 is akin to that expressed in some lines equally touching, 
 entitled, " Recollections of Love : " — 
 
 As when a mother doth explore 
 
 The rose-mark on her long-lost child, 
 I met, I loved yuu, maiden mild! 
 
 As whom I long had loved before, — 
 So deeply had I been beguiled! 
 
 You stood before me like a thought, 
 A dream remembered in a dream ; 
 But when those meek eyes first did seem 
 
 To tell me Love within you wrought, — 
 O, Greta, dear domestic stream ! — 
 
 Has not, since then. Love's prompture deep, — 
 Has not Love's whisper evermore 
 Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar? 
 
 Sole voice, when other voices sleep, 
 Dear under-song in Clamour's hour ! 
 
 How warm this woodland wild recess, 
 
 Love surely hath been breathing here; 
 
 And this sweet bed of heath, my dear, 
 Swells up, then sinks with fain caress, 
 
 As if to have you yet more near ! 
 
 Eight springs have flown since last I lay 
 
 On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills, 
 
 \Miere quiet sounds from hidden rills 
 Float here and there, like things astray. 
 
 And high o'er-head the sky-lark shrills. 
 
 No voice as yet had made the air 
 
 Be music with your name; yet why 
 
 That asking look, that yearning sigh. 
 That sense of promise everywhere! 
 
 Beloved! flew your spirit by? 
 
 As there is no "history" attached to this poem, we may occupy our space with 
 some brief memorials concerning the life and writings of the distinguished poet. 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born on the 20th of October, 1772, at Ottery St Mary, 
 in Devonshire. His father was a learned clergyman; and the poet was the youngest 
 of eleven children. In 1782, he was admitted into Christ's Hospital, London, 
 where, according to his own account, he "enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a 
 very sensible, though, at the same time, a verj- severe master." At a premature 
 age, even before his Hfteenth year, he had " bewildered himself in metaphysical and 
 theological controversy;" yet he pursued his studies with so much zeal and per- 
 severance, that, in 1791, he became Grecian, or captain of the school, which entitled 
 him to an exhibition at the University : he was entered at Jesus College, Cambridge. 
 Three years afterv-'ards, " in an inauspicious hour, he left the friendly cloisters," without 
 assigning any cause, and without taking his degree ; and again came to London. 
 There, without the means of support, he wandered for some days about the streets, 
 and enlisted in the 15th Dragoons. "While doing duty at Reading, be wrote, on the 
 wall of the stable, a Latin sentence, — 
 
 Eheu ! quam infortunii miserrimum est fuisse felicem 
 It chanced to meet the eye of one of the officers. The enquiry that followed led to 
 his discharge. In 1794, he published a small volume of poems. Subsequently, the 
 taint of French republicanism fell upon him; and he lectured at Bristol in praise of 
 the dasmon that had stolen in, and was for a time welcomed, in the garb of liberty. In 

 
 1735, he married; and in 1798, he visited Germany. In 1800, he returned to 
 England; and although he had formerly professed Unitarianism, and had preached 
 to a congregation at Taunton, he became a firm adherent to the doctrines of Christi- 
 anity: or, to use his own expression, found a "reconversion." Afterwards, he 
 " wasted the prime and manhood of liis intellect " as the editor of a newspaper. 
 During the last niucteen years of his life he resided with his faithful and devoted 
 friends, Mr. and Mrs. Gillman, at llighgate, — lecturing occasionally, writing poetry 
 and prose, and delighting and instructing all who had the good fortune to be admitted 
 to his society. He died on the 2.5th of July, 1831. 
 
 The friends who knew him best, and under the shelter of whose roof-tree the later 
 and the happier years of his chequered life were passed, have recorded their opinion 
 of his character on the tablet that marks his grave in the church at llighgate; and 
 all who enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance will bear testimony to its truth. It 
 tells of his profound learning and discursive genius; his private worth; his social 
 and christian virtues : and adds, that his disposition was unalterably sweet and 
 angelic ; that he was an ever-enduring, ever-loving friend ; the gentlest and kindest 
 teacher ; the most engaging home-companion : — 
 
 Philosopher contemning wealth and death. 
 Yet docile, child-like, full of life and love. 
 
 Hazlitt, who knew him in his youth, describes him as rather above the middle 
 size, inclined to corpulency ; as having a dreamy countenance, a forehead broad and 
 high, with large projecting eye-brows, and " eyes rolling like a sea with darkened 
 lustre." The description applies with almost equal accuracy to the poet in age. 
 The wonderful eloquence of his conversation is a prominent theme with all who have 
 written or spoken of him : it was full of matter. His bookish lore, and his wide and 
 intimate acquaintance with men and things were enlivened by a grace and sprightli- 
 ness absolutely startling: his m.inner was singularly attractive, and the tones of his 
 voice were perfect music. During the later years of his life, it was our own privilege 
 occasionally to enjoy his society ; and the beneficial and gratifying hours so passed, 
 are among the most pleasant and profitable of our memories. 
 
 Few have obtained greater celebrity in the world of letters ; yet few have so 
 wasted the energies of a naturally great mind ; few, in short, have done so fittle of 
 the purposed and promised much. Some of the most perfect examples that our 
 language can supply are to be found among his poetry, full of the simplest and purest 
 nature, yet pregnant with the deepest and most subtle philosophy. His judgment 
 and taste were sound and refined to a degree ; and when he spoke of the " little he 
 had published," as being of " little importance," it was because his conception of 
 excellence exceeded his power to convey it. Those who read his wildest productions — 
 " Christabel," and the "Ancient Mariner" — will readily appreciate the fertile imagi- 
 nation, and the prodigious strength of the writer ; and if they turn to the gentler 
 efforts of his genius, they will find many illustrations of a passage which prefaces 
 an edition of his "Juvenile Verses:" — "Poetry has been to me its 'exceeding great 
 reward:' it has sootlied my afflictions, it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments: 
 it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the 
 good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me."
 
 
 ^. 
 
 ^ 
 
 The moonsliine, stcalinsj o'er the scene, 
 Had blended witli the lights of eve ; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She loaned afjainst the armed man. 
 The statue of the armed knight ; 
 She stood and listened to my lay. 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 Aly hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
 She loves me best whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and mo\'ing story — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, I could not choose, 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 \Vith which I sang another's love. 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 Amistioug. ic 
 
 17(>
 
 iD. 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely knight, 
 And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, — 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a fiend ; 
 This miserable knight ! 
 
 And that, unknowing what he did. 
 He leaped amid a murderous band. 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land ; — 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And how his madness went away, 
 When on the yellow forest- leaves 
 A dying man he lay ;■ — ■ 
 
 His dying words — but when I reached 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturbed her sold with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
 The music and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 FrauklLn.del, 
 
 ArrasLroog,9c, 
 
 177 '^3A
 
 CScncbitbc. 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistiiiguishable tliron<j, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 Subdued and cherished long ! 
 
 She wept with pity and deligiit, 
 She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; 
 And, like the murmur of a dream, 
 1 heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside. 
 As conscious of my look she slept — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And, bending back her head, looked up, 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 't was a bashful art, 
 That I might rather feel, than see, 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so 1 won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous bride.
 
 
 % 
 
 'AIR MARGARET AND SWEET WILLIAM. This 
 fine and pathetic old ballad »ve borrow from 
 Dr. Percy, who gives it " from a modern printed 
 copy, picked up on a stall ;" and although its age is un- 
 questionable, it does not appear that an earlier edition of it 
 has yet been recovered. Its date is, perhaps, very remote ; 
 for although the language has been modernised, it retains many 
 tokens of antiquity; and passages of it were quoted by Fletcher, in 
 his play of " The Knight of the Burning Pestle." The full title of 
 the ballad "picked up" by Dr. Percy, is "Fair Margaret's Mis- 
 fortunes ; or Sweet William's Frightful Dreams on his Wedding Night, with 
 the Sudden Death and Burial of those Noble Lovers." In extracting it, we 
 have omitted the two concluding stanzas ; they are, evidently, additions of some 
 " other hand," and, by their meanness, essentially weaken the touching picture 
 by which the story is terminated. It may be well, however, to introduce 
 them here, where they will less prejudice the beautiful and pathetic composi- 
 tion. The lines are designed to "draw out" the fine and natural idea of the 
 rose and brier growhig out of the graves of the hapless lovers : — 
 
 They grew as high as the church top, 
 
 Till they could grow no higher ; 
 And there they grew in a true lover's knot. 
 
 Made all the folke admire. 
 
 Then came the clerk of the parish, 
 
 As you this truth shall hear, 
 And by misfortune cut them down, 
 
 Or they had now been there. 
 
 Many of the old ballad-makers have introduced a similar incident ; — the rose 
 and brier springing from the earth that covered the graves of youths and maidens, 
 whose loves were " pleasant," and who " in death were not divided." Thus, in 
 " Lord Thomas and Fair Annet:" — 
 
 And ay they grew, and ay they threw, 
 As they wad falne be neare. 
 
 And in the Douglas Tragedy, after the "twa" had "met," and the "twa" had 
 
 " plat :" — 
 
 By and rade the black Douglas, 
 And wow but he was rough ! 
 For he pulled up the bonny brier, 
 And flanged it in St. Maries lough. 
 
 To the passage quoted by Fletcher, we are indebted for the ballad of " William 
 and Margaret," written by David JIallet ; which Dr. Percy distinguishes as " one 
 of the most beautiful ballads to be found in our own or any language." Mallet 
 had never seen the poem which Dr. Percy recovered ; he expresses his belief that it 
 was "not any where to be met with;" and adds, that "the few lines, naked of 
 ornament and simple as they are, struck his fancy;" and "bringing fresh into his 
 
 179
 
 niiiul an unhappy adventure, nuieli talked of formerly, gave birth to the composi- 
 tion." The air to this ballad of Mallett's we introduce: — 
 
 The ballad of " Fair Margaret and Sweet William," it is probable, originated 
 also another poem of touching interest and high merit. It is entitled " Sweet 
 William's Ghost," and was, we believe, first published by Allan Ramsay in the " Tea 
 Table Miscellany." In this, the spirit of the dead lover appears to the maiden, 
 demanding back his "faith and troth," and replying to the question of her whose 
 heart was true : — 
 
 ' There 's no room at my head, Marg'ret, 
 
 There 's no room at my feet ; 
 There 's no room at my side, Marg'ret, 
 My coffin 's made so meet.'* 
 
 In Jamieson's version of " Sweet William and Fair Annie," the concluding 
 incidents of the ballad are also preserved. 
 
 We question, however, if either the poem written by Mallet, or that which 
 Ramsay prints, is equal in pathos, character, and dramatic interest, to the ballad 
 wc copy from the "Reliques" of Dr. Percy. Every line is a picture: few com- 
 positions, even of old times, are more earnestly condensed; so thoroughly record 
 a long history within a very limited space; or with so much eloquence bring before 
 the mind the sad doom of the two lovers — the broken hearts of both. 
 
 s 
 
 * It is this stanza that Fletcher (luoted in " The Knigtit of the Burning Pestle," where 
 *' Merrythought" enters repeating it; altered somewhat, however, from the version of Dr. Percy, 
 thus; — 
 
 When it was grown to dark midnight, 
 
 And all were fast asleep, 
 In came Margaret's grimly ghost, 
 And stood at William's feet ! 
 
 Part of a verse is also quoted, which does not appear in the ballad, but which it is more than 
 probable belonged to it: — 
 
 ' You are no love for me Marg'ret, 
 I am no love for you.' 
 
 As the " stall copy," printed by Dr. Percy, was certainly subjected to some " ingenious altera- 
 tions, " the original was, perhaps, as a whole, intinitely superior even to the fine composition of 
 which, only, we are at present possessed. U wilt be seen that the main incidents and the leading 
 features ore common to several ballads ; and perhaps they were all derived from one great source. 
 
 ISO
 
 Then down she layd her ivory combe, 
 And braided lier hair in twain : — 
 
 She went alive out of her bower, 
 But ne'er came aUve in 't again. 
 
 When day was gone, and night was come. 
 
 And all men fast asleep. 
 Then came the spirit of fair Marg'ret, 
 
 And stood at AVilliams feet. 
 
 ' Are you awake, sweet AMUiam V she said ; 
 
 ' Or, sweet William, are you asleep ? 
 God give you joy of your gay bride-bed. 
 
 And me of my winding sheet.' 
 
 When day was come, and night was gone, 
 And all men waked from sleep. 
 
 Sweet William to his ladye sayd, 
 ' My dear, I have cause to weep ; 
 
 I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, 
 Such dreams are never good : 
 
 I dreamt my bower was full of red wine, 
 And my bride-bed full of blood.' — 
 
 ' Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, 
 
 They never do prove good : 
 To dream thy bower was full of red wine, 
 
 And thy bride-bed full of blood.' 
 
 He called up his merry men all, 
 By one, by two, and by three ; 
 
 Saying, ' I '11 away to fair Marg'rets bower. 
 By the leave of my ladye.' 
 
 And when he came to fair Marg'rets bower. 
 
 He knocked at the ring ; 
 And who so ready as her seven brethren 
 
 To let sweet William in. 
 
 
 5) 
 
 182 
 
 -w^
 
 JFair ittargnitt nnti ^tocct SOilliam. 
 
 ffT-^ 
 
 Then he turned up the covering-sheet, — 
 
 * Pray let me see the dead: 
 Methinks slie looks all pale and wan, 
 
 She luith lost her cherry red, 
 
 I '11 do more for thee, Margaret, 
 
 Than any of thy kin ; 
 For I will kiss thy pale wan Hps, 
 Though a smile I cannot win.' 
 
 With that bespake the seven brethren, 
 Making most piteous mone : 
 
 ' You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, 
 And let our sister alone.' 
 
 ' If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, 
 
 I do but what is right ; 
 I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse 
 
 By ^^Yi ^or yet by night. 
 
 * The following are the concluding stanzas of Jamieson's 
 ballad, "Sweet Willie and Fair Annie": — 
 
 Pale Willie grew, wae was his heart, 
 
 And sair he sighed wi' teen: 
 *0h Annie! had I kent thy worth, 
 
 Ere it o'er late had been ! 
 
 It's I will kiss your bonny cheek, 
 
 And I will kiss your chin ; 
 And [ will kiss your clay-cald lip ; 
 
 But I'll never kiss woman again. 
 
 And that I was in love outdone, 
 
 Sail ne'er be said o' me; 
 For as ye've died for me, Annie, 
 
 Sae will I do for thee! 
 
 The day ye deal at Annie's burial, 
 
 Tlie bread but and the wine; 
 Before the morn at twall o'clock, 
 
 They'll deal the same at mine.' 
 
 The tane was buried in Mary's kirk, 
 
 The tither in Mary's quire; 
 And out o' the tane there grew a birk, 
 
 Aud out o' the tither a brier. 
 
 And ay they grew, and ay they drew, 
 
 Untill they twa did meet; 
 And every one tliat past them by, 
 
 Said, 'Thae's twa lovers sweet.' 
 
 183
 
 HE BIRTH OF ST. CEOKGE. This ballad, copied from 
 the " Reliques of Ancient English Poetry," Dr. Percy 
 confesses to he "for the most part modern." He pro- 
 bably derived some hints for the composition from his 
 *' folio MS ;" but the greater portion of it bears evidence 
 of being the production of his own pen. The incidents 
 are chiefly taken from the old story-book of " The 
 Seven Clianipions of Christcndome," which, though 
 now "the plaything of children," was once in high 
 repute. It was written by "one Richard Johnson, 
 who lived in the reigns of Elizabeth and James." So much donbt exists concern- 
 ing the early history of this patron saint of the Order of the Garter, that his very 
 existence has been questioned. Dr. Pettingal, in a " Dissertation on the original 
 of the figure of St. George and the Dragon," published in 1753, discourses very 
 learnedly on its symbolic meaning; declaring that it anciently typified the "ma- 
 lignity of the air (under the form of a serpent), purified, and made wholesome by 
 the action of the sun" (symbolized by the mounted horseman). He asserts that the 
 Egyptian gnostics used this symbol of the sun, in its propitious influences, as a 
 device on their amulets, in expectation of victory, and that from them it descended 
 to the christians. He engraves one of these antique amulets, from Montfauyon, 
 which certainly bears a singular resemblance to St. George and the Dragon, and 
 affirms it to be no saint, but an Arian of that name, and he thinks it unlikely that 
 the orthodox western world should confer any distinction upon one they must have 
 considered as a "pestilent heretic." Constantine, he says, placed on his coins a 
 figure of himself, mounted on horseback, and destroying a serpent, to signify his 
 triumph over the devil, or paganism. He combats the idea of charms or amulets 
 being worn in England down to the ordination of the Garter, by an allusion to the 
 laws which regulated trial by battle in the time of Edward III. and Richard II., 
 when the duellists were sworn not to retain about their persons any "majicall" 
 stone, or herb, or charm, &c. by which they might overcome their enemies. 
 
 Butler, in his " Lives of the Saints," says that the Saint became the patron of 
 the military because he had been military himself, having been "tribune or colonel 
 in the army" under the Emperor Dioclesi.m, who still further promoted him; all 
 which posts he resigned when that emperor persecuted the christians, and for which 
 he was beheaded. His apparition appeared to encourage the christian army under 
 Godfrey of Bouilloigne and Richard I., in their expedition against the Saracens ; 
 and hence he was chosen as their patron saint, from the interest thus taken in the 
 crusades. He adds, " St. George is usually painted on horseback, and tilting at a 
 dragon under his feet; but this is no more than an cmbltmatical figure, purporting, 
 that, by faith and christian fortitude, he conquered the devil, called the dragon in the 
 Apocalypse." Others imagine that St. Michael destroying the dragon is the origin 
 of this representation of St. George. 
 
 The story of a saint, or deity, spearing a dragon, was known in the east from the 
 earliest periods: among the Mahometans, a person called Gergis, or George, was 
 revered as a prophet, and was so represented. Similar emblems have been dis- 
 covered among other nations of the east. Whether these nations took it from the 
 
 \f\W 
 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 185
 
 V. 
 
 Greeks, or the latter from them, cannot be ascertained ; for, of tlie real existence 
 of such a person as St. George, no positive proofs have ever been advanced. 
 
 Chanceler, the first Englishman who discovered Russia, speaking of a dispatch 
 sent from Ivan Vassilievitch to Queen Mary, says that it had appended to it a seal 
 "much like the broad seal of England, having on one side the image of a man on 
 horseback, in complete armour, fighting with a dragon;" and this figure appears to 
 have been in common use by the Russian princes on their coins, &c., long before 
 the institution of the Garter, in England, wliich took place on St. George's Day, 
 April 23, 1350. 
 
 The representation of St. George, here copied, is from an illumination in a tliick 
 
 folio volume of Romanus, most splendidly 
 ornamented, which was presented to King 
 Henry VI. by Talbot, the great Earl of Shrews- 
 bury, and which is now among the royal manu- 
 scripts in the British Museum. It shews us 
 St George, in complete armour, spearing the 
 dragon; while behind stands the king's daugh- 
 ter who was about to be sacrificed to the 
 ,^ - ^ ^ , . monster, dressed in the costume of a lady of 
 
 Np^i r'.T -*_ rank in the reign of Henry VI., and holding 
 
 '* '^- a Iamb, typical, perhaps, of her purity, or 
 
 innocence. To this circumstance reference is 
 made in the old ballad of " St George and the 
 Dragon:" — 
 
 The king ami queen, .ind all their train. 
 
 ■. ii3 
 
 :-- "-o^ : 
 
 ' Farewell, my father, dear,' quoth she, 
 ' And my sweet mother meek and mild 
 
 Take you no thought, nor weep for me. 
 For you may have another child: 
 
 Since for my country's good I dye. 
 
 Death I receive most willinglye." 
 
 Willi weeping eyes went tlien their way, 
 And let their daughter there remain, 
 
 To be the hungry dragon's prey : 
 But as she did tliere weeping lye. 
 Behold St. George came riding by. 
 
 Dr. Percy, in his "Introduction" to the ballad, says, " the equestrian figure worn 
 by the Knights of the Garter, has been understood to be 
 an emblem of the christian warrior, in his spiritual armour, 
 vanquishing the old serpent" Independent of the figure 
 of St. George and the Dragon, appended to the collar 
 of the Order of the Garter, is the badge, worn on ordinary 
 occasions by the knights, called " The George," and which 
 was constantly worn in former times by the companions 
 of the order. It was the figure of the Saint, on horse- 
 back, spearing the dragon, and was hung round the neck 
 by a blue ribbon. There is an engraving, by Hollar, of 
 the "George" worn by Charles I., and which that mo- 
 narch gave to Bishop Juxon, on the scaffold, at his 
 execution : it was made to open by a spring, like a 
 locket, and contained a portrait of the Queen Henrietta 
 Maria. Our engraving is a copy from the representation 
 of this interesting relic. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 186
 
 W B Scott, del. 
 
 H. Vizetelly, ac
 
 Distressed ladies to relieve 
 
 lie travelled many a day; 
 In honour of t lie christian faith, 
 
 Which shall endure for aye. 
 
 In Coventry sometime did dwell 
 
 A knight of worthy fame, 
 High steward of this noble realme. 
 
 Lord Albert was his name : 
 
 He had to wife a princely dame, 
 Whose beauty did excell, — • 
 
 This virtuous lady, being with child, 
 In sudden sadness fell : 
 
 For thirty nights, no sooner sleep 
 Had closed her wakeful eyes. 
 
 But, lo ! a foul and fearful dream 
 Her fancy woiUd surprise : — 
 
 She dreamt a dragon fierce and fell 
 Conceived within her womb, 
 
 Whose mortal fangs her body rent 
 Ere he to life could come ! 
 
 All woe-begone, and sad was she. 
 She nourisht constant woe ; 
 
 Yet strove to hide it from her lord. 
 Lest he should sorrow know. 
 
 In vain she strove ; her tender lord, ^i 
 Who watched her slightest look. 
 
 Discovered soon her secret pain, 
 And soon that pain partook. 
 
 And when to him the fearful cause 
 
 She weeping did impart, 
 With kindest speech he strove to heal 
 
 The ani'uish of her heart. 
 
 H. V:zew:ly. sc.
 
 ©fie 23frt6 of ^t. CScorgc. 
 
 
 
 ' Be comforted, my lady dear, 
 
 Those pearly drops refrain ; 
 Betide me weal, betide me woe, 
 
 I '11 try to ease thy pain. 
 
 And for this foul and fearful dream. 
 
 That causeth all thy woe. 
 Trust me I 'U travel far away, 
 
 But I '11 the meaning knowe.' 
 
 Then giving many a fond embrace. 
 And shedding many a teare. 
 
 To the weird lady of the woods. 
 He purposed to repaire. 
 
 To the we'ird lady of the woods, 
 
 FuU long and many a day, 
 Through lonely shades and thickets rough 
 
 He \vinds his weary way. 
 
 I 
 
 At length he reached a dreary deU 
 
 With dismal yews o'erhimg ; 
 \Vliere cypress spred its mournful boughs, ^Ij 
 
 And pois'nous nightshade sprung. 
 
 No chearful gleams here pierced the gloom. 
 
 He hears no chearful sound ; 
 But shrill night-ravens' yelling scream. 
 
 And serpents hissing round. 
 
 The shriek of fiends and damned ghosts 
 
 Ran howling through his ear : 
 A chilling horror froze his heart. 
 
 Though all unused to fear. 
 
 Three times he strives to win his way, 
 
 And pierce those sickly dews : 
 Three times to bear his trembling corse 
 
 His knocking knees refuse. 
 
 1S9
 
 =«=»«=*'=^=5^ 
 
 -^ . ■ tw 
 
 ^f)r 33irt6 of ^t. Clrorar. 
 
 ;>'. ) 
 
 At length upon liis beating breast 
 
 He signs the lioly crosse ; 
 And, rouzing up his wonted might, 
 
 He treads th' unhallowed mosse. 
 
 Beneath a pendant craggy chff. 
 
 All vaulted like a grave. 
 And opening in the solid rock. 
 
 He found the inchanted cave. 
 
 An iron gate closed up the mouth, 
 
 All hideous and forlorne ; 
 And, fastened by a silver chain, 
 
 Near hung a brazed home. 
 
 Then offering up a secret prayer, 
 Three times he blowcs aniaine : 
 
 Three times a deepe and hollow sound 
 Did answer liim againe. 
 
 ' Sir Knight, thy lady beares a son, 
 
 A\nio, like a dragon bright, 
 Shall prove most dreadful to his foes, 
 
 And terrible in fight. 
 
 His name, advanced in future times. 
 On banners shall be worn : ^1 
 
 But, lo ! thy lady's life must passe 
 Before he can be born.' 
 
 All sore opprest with fear and doubt 
 Long time Lord Albert stood ; 
 
 At length he winds his doubtful way 
 Back through the dreary wood. 
 
 Eager to clasp his lovely dame, 
 
 Then fast he travels back ; 
 But when he reached his castle gate, Jj 
 
 His gate was hung with black.
 
 In every court and hall he found 
 
 A sullen silence reigne ; 
 Save where, amid the lonely towers, 
 
 He heard her maidens 'plaine ; 
 
 And bitterly lament and weep, 
 With many a grievous grone : 
 
 Then sore his bleeding heart misgave, 
 His lady's life was gone. 
 
 With faultering step he enters in, 
 
 Yet half affraid to goe ; 
 With trembling voice asks why they grieve, 
 
 Yet fears the cause to knowe. 
 
 ' Three times the sun hath rose and set,' 
 They said, then stopt to weep, 
 
 ' Since heaven hath laid thy lady deare 
 In death's eternal sleep. 
 
 For, ah ! in travail sore she fell. 
 
 So sore that she must dye ; 
 Unless some shrewd and cunning leech 
 
 Could ease her presentlye. 
 
 But when a cunning leech was fet. 
 
 Too soon declared he, 
 She, or her babe must lose its life ; 
 
 Both saved could not be. 
 
 Now take my life, thy lady s;ud ; 
 
 My little infant save : 
 And O i commend me to my lord. 
 
 When I am laid in grave. 
 
 ! tell him how that precious babe 
 Cost him a tender wife ; 
 
 And teach my son to lisp her name, 
 Who died to save his life. 
 
 W. B. Scotl.dsl. 
 
 H, Vize:elly, sc.
 
 ■"M./"" 
 
 
 J 
 
 A- -- 
 
 Then calling still upon tliv name, 
 
 And praying still for thee, 
 Without repining or complaint, 
 
 Her gentle soul did (lee.' 
 
 What tongue can paint Lord Albert's woe,- 
 
 The bitter tears he shed, — 
 The bitter pangs that wrung his heart, 
 
 To find his lady dead ! 
 
 lie beat his breast, he tore his hair. 
 And, shedding many a tear. 
 
 At length he askt to see his son — 
 The son that cost so dear. 
 
 New sorrowe seized the damsells all : 
 At length they faultering say : — 
 
 ' Alas, my lord ! how shall we tell ? 
 Thy son is stoln away. 
 
 Fair as the sw^eetest flower of spring, 
 
 Such was his infant mien : 
 And on his little body stampt, 
 
 Tliree wonderous marks were seen : 
 
 A blood-red cross was on his arm ; 
 
 A dragon on his breast ; 
 A little garter all of gold 
 
 Was round his leg exprest. 
 
 Three careful! nurses we provide. 
 
 Our little lord to keep : 
 One gave him sucke, one gave him food. 
 
 And one did hUl to sleep. 
 
 But, lo ! all in the dead of night, 
 
 Wc heard a fearful sound : 
 Loud thunder clapt ; the castle shook ; 
 
 And lightning flasht around. 
 
 192 
 
 -Jl_ 
 
 IT
 
 ^f)c 33trt{) o( ^t. ClJrorac. 
 
 w. B Scou, del. 
 
 Folkard sc 
 
 Dead with affright at first we lay ; 
 
 But rousing up anon, 
 We ran to see our little lord — 
 
 Our little lord was gone ! 
 
 But how or where we coidd not tell ; 
 
 For, l}'ing on the ground, 
 In deep and magic slumbers laid. 
 
 The nurses there we found.' 
 
 ' O grief on grief ! ' Lord Albert said : 
 No more his tongue cou'd say, 
 
 Wien falling in a deadly swoone, 
 Long time he lifeless lay. 
 
 At length restored to life and sense, 
 
 He nourisht endless woe ; 
 No future joy his heart coidd taste, 
 
 No future comfort know. 
 
 So ■withers on the mountain top 
 
 A fair and stately oake, 
 AMiose vigorous arms are torn away 
 
 By some rude thunder-stroke. 
 
 At length his castle irksome grew. 
 He loathes his wonted home ; 
 
 His native eoiuitry he forsakes. 
 In foreign lands to roame. 
 
 There up and downe he wandered far. 
 
 Clad in a pahner's gown, 
 Till his brown locks grew white as wool, 
 
 His beard as thistle down. 
 
 At length, all wearied, down in death 
 He laid his reverend head. — 
 
 ^leantime amid the lonely wilds 
 His little son was bred. 
 
 193
 
 =^=iC=S" 
 
 VI\}t '13irt?) of ^t. <5tom. 
 
 There the weird lady of the woods 
 
 Had boriie liini far away ; !'■ 
 
 And trained him up in feates of armes, '■ 
 And every martial play. ,
 
 Scarba 
 
 r 
 
 HE MERMAID. This beautiful ballad is the com- 
 position of Dr. John Leyden, and was originally 
 published in the " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Bor- 
 der." It is founded, writes Sir Walter Scott, "upon 
 a Gaelic traditional ballad called Macphail of Colon- 
 and the Mermaid of Corrivrekin." The dangerous 
 of Corrivrekin lies between the islands of Jura and 
 a, and the superstition of the islanders has tenanted 
 shelves and eddies with all the fabulous monsters and 
 t 1^ / *-i^-Sij^ -V demons of the ocean. Among these, according to a uni- 
 
 " '' versal tradition, the mermaid is the most remarkable. In her dwelling, and 
 in her appearance, the mermaid of the northern nations resembles the siren of 
 the ancients. "The Gaelic story bears, that Macphail of Colonsay was carried 
 off by a mermaid, while passing the gulf above-mentioned : that they resided 
 together, in a grotto beneath the sea, for several years, during which time she 
 bore him five children : but finally, he tired of her society, and, having prevailed 
 upon her to carry him near the shore of Colonsay, he escaped to land." 
 
 Legends of the mermaid, and of their loves for mortal men, are, however, com- 
 mon to nearly every country of the globe — so common, indeed, that many sensible 
 authors have reasoned upon the probabilities of their actual existence ; and some 
 stories of their occasional appearances rest upon authorities that can scarcely be 
 characterised as apocryphal. Sir Walter Scott, himself, in a note to the ballad, has 
 a passage which may lead to the inference that he was by no means altogether 
 sceptical on the subject. "I cannot help adding," he says, "that some late evi- 
 dence has been produced, serving to shew, either that imagination played strange 
 tricks with the witnesses, or that the existence of mermaids is no longer a matter of 
 question. I refer to the letters written to Sir John Sinclair, by the spectators of 
 such a phenomenon, in the bay of Sandside, in Caithness." * He adds that it would 
 be easy to quote a variety of writers concerning the supposed being of these "marine 
 people." — "The reader may consult the 'Telliamed' of M. Maillet, wlio, in support 
 of the Neptunist system of geology, has collected a variety of legends, respecting 
 mermen and mermaids, p. 230 et sequen. Much information may also be derived 
 from Pontopiddan's 'Natural History of Norway,' who fails not to people her seas 
 with this amphibious race. An older authority is to be found in the ' Kongs shugg- 
 sio, or Royal Mirror,' written, as it is believed, about 1170. The mermen, there 
 mentioned, are termed hafstrambur (sea-giants), and are said to have the upper parts 
 resembling the human race ; but the author, with becoming dithdence, declines to 
 stale, positively, whether they are equipped with a dolphin's tail. The female mon- 
 ster is called Mar-Gyga (sea-giantess), and is averred certainly to drag a fish's 
 train. She appears generally in the act of devouring fish, which she has caught. 
 According to the apparent voracity of her appetite, the sailors pretend to guess what 
 chance they had of saving their lives in the tempests, which always followed her 
 appearance." 
 
 * The reader may remember that some years ago, " a veritable mermaid " was exhibited in 
 London. The clieat was discovered, however, upon close examination. The lady of the sea bad 
 been manufactured in Japan, out of ihe upper part of an ourang outang and the tail of a fish. 
 
 195
 
 In Cromck's "Remains of Nithsdule and Galloway song," was published a 
 ballad, entitled "The Mermaid of Galloway;" understood to be the prodnction of 
 Mr. Allan Cunningham, who received the substance of the story "from tradition;" 
 .and " tradition," he states, " is yet rich with the fame of the bewitching mermaid. 
 Her favourite haunts were along the shores of tlie Nith and Orr, and on the edge of 
 the Solway Sea, whicli adjoins the mouth of those waters. Her beauty was such, 
 that man could not behold her face, hut his heart was fired by unquenchable love ; 
 and, as usual, whenever she was seen, she was occupied in combing her "long hair 
 of burning gold." "According to Lowland mythology," he adds, "they are a race 
 of goddesses, corrupted with earthly passions ; their visits to the world, though few 
 and far between, are spoken of and remembered with awe ; their affections were 
 bestowed on men of exalted virtue and rare endowment of persons and parts. They 
 wooed in such a strain of syren eloquence, that all hearts were fettered by the 
 witcheries of love. AVheu their celestial voice dropt on the ear, every other faculty 
 was enthralled. They caught the beloved object in their embrace, and laid him on a 
 couch, where mortal eyes might search in vain into the rites of such romantic and 
 mysterious wedlock." The hero of this story is said to have been one of the 
 Maxwells, of Cowehill : he is wiled away from the arms of his betrothed bride by a 
 song of the syren, — " the sweetest sang ere brake frae a lip ;" lulled to sleep among 
 the water-lilies ; and taken over the white " sea-faem ;" while the earthly damsel is left to 
 mourn his loss. The mystery of his disappearance is, however, thus explained to her: — 
 
 It was i' the mid-hour o' the night. 
 
 Her siller bell did ring: 
 An' soun't as if nae eartiilie hand 
 
 Had pou'd the silken string. 
 
 There was a cheek touch'd that ladye's, 
 
 Cauld as the marble stane; 
 An' a hand eauld as the drifting snaw, 
 
 WaA laid on her breast- banc. 
 
 * O cauld is thy hand, my dear Willie ; 
 
 O cauld, caultl is thy cheek ; 
 An' wring thae locks o' yellow hair, 
 Frae which the cauld draps drecp.' 
 
 * seek another bridegroom, Marie, 
 
 On thae bosom-faulds to sleep ; 
 My bride is the yellow water-lilie, 
 Its leaves my brydal sheet !' 
 
 Mr. Cunningham records two or three striking anecdotes relative to the popular 
 belief, and Sir Walter Scott supplies others ; the most remarkable, however, are told 
 by Waldron, in his " History of the Isle of Man." One of them we copy: — "A 
 very beautiful mermaid fell in love with a young shepherd, who kept his flocks 
 beside a creek much frequented by these marine people. She frequently caressed 
 him, and brought him presents of coral, fine pearls, and every valuable production 
 of the ocean. Once upon a time, as she threw her arms eagerly round him, he 
 suspected her of a design to draw him into the sea, and, struggling hard, disengaged 
 himself from her embrace, and ran away. But the mermaid resented either the sus- 
 picion, or the disappointment, so highly, that she threw a stone after him, and flung 
 herself into the sea, whence she never returned. The youth, though but slightly 
 struck with the pebble, felt, from that moment, the most excruciating agony, and 
 died at the end of seven days." In Ireland, stories of the mermaid — there called 
 the " Merrow" — are very abundant; we have conversed with many of the peasants 
 who would readily depose, upon oath, to having repeatedly seen them ; and there, as 
 well as elsewhere, they are always encountered 
 
 Combing their yellow hair. 
 
 m 
 
 AW' 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
 I 
 
 m 
 
 
 196
 
 ■v iW 
 
 1\ '■ 
 
 On Jura's heath how sweetly swell 
 The mumiurs of the mountain bee ! 
 
 How softly mourns the writhed shell, 
 Of Jura's shore, its parent sea ! 
 
 ]5ut 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. 

 
 
 _§-f--..' 
 
 ®l)e i^lcrmniJj. 
 
 n 
 
 ^ 
 
 "^ 
 
 ^-^ 
 
 Fraaklin del 
 
 Fred. Briicalou so 
 
 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 3'outli's gay bloom, the brave Macpliail 
 Still blamed the lingering bark's delay ; 
 
 For her he chid the flagging sail, 
 The lovely Maid of ("olonsay. 
 
 And ' raise,' he cried, ' the song of love, 
 The maiden sung witli tearful smile, 
 
 When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove, 
 M'e left afar the lonely isle ! — 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Where the wave is tinged with red, 
 
 And the russet sea-leaves grow. 
 Mariners, with prudent dread, 
 Shun the shelving reefs below. 
 
 As you pass through Jura's sound, 
 
 Bend your course by Scarba's shore. 
 
 Shun, O shun, the gulf profound. 
 Where Corrivrekin's surges roar ! 
 
 1!)8
 
 
 'K 
 
 ®f)£ iHcrmaili. 
 
 ^^, 
 
 in 
 
 If, from that unbottomcd deep, 
 
 With wrinkled form and wreathed train, 
 O'er the verge of Scarba's steep, 
 
 The sea-snake heave his snowy mane, 
 
 Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils, 
 Sea-green sisters of the main, 
 
 And, in the gulf where ocean boils, 
 
 The unwieldy wallowing monster chain. 
 
 Softly blow, thou western breeze. 
 Softly rustle through the sail ! 
 
 Soothe to rest the furrowed 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 moordight shore, 
 
 He turns his eyes to Colonsay. 
 
 The moonbeams crisp the curling surge. 
 That streaks with foam the ocean green : 
 
 Wliile forward still the rowers urge 
 
 Their course, a female form was seen. 
 
 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. 
 
 
 <!l-^« 
 
 Fred Brausioo.sc. 
 
 rr 
 
 199 ^ L^
 
 c^- 
 
 'Ei)t iVlcrmail). 
 
 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 ! 
 
 But downwards, like a powerless corse, 
 The eddying waves the chieftain bear ; 
 
 lie only heard the moaning hoarse 
 Of waters, murmuring in Ids ear. 
 
 The murmurs sink by slow degrees ; 
 
 No more the surges round him rave ; 
 ladled 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 ; 
 
 Soft as that harp's unseen control, 
 
 In morning dreams which lovers hear, 
 
 Wiose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul. 
 But never reach the waking ear. 
 
 As sunbeams through the tepid air, 
 
 When clouds dissolve the dews unseen, 
 
 Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair. 
 And fields that glow with livelier green; 
 
 So melting soft the music fell ; 
 
 It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray— 
 ' Say, heardst thou not these wild notes swell ?' 
 
 'Ah ! 't is the song of Colonsay.' 
 
 Like one that from a fearful dream 
 Awakes, the morning light to view, 
 
 And joys to see the purple beam. 
 
 Yet fears to find the vision true, — 
 
 nraDkliu, del. 
 
 ^ 
 
 2<'0 ^ L^
 
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 ^ 
 
 «^-f 
 
 i 
 
 Sftc illcrmaiii. 
 
 He heard that strain, so wildly sweet, 
 Which bade his torpid languor fly ; 
 
 He feared some spell had bound his feet, 
 And hardly dared his limbs to try. 
 
 '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 V 
 
 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. 
 
 I How sweet to dance with gliding feet, 
 Along the level tide so green ; 
 Responsive to the cadence sweet, 
 
 That breathes along the moonlight scene I 
 
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 () ^ ir^khu. 
 
 f led. dUUSLQU bC 
 
 201 S>^— -^
 
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 <5t 
 
 £S>f-^ 
 
 ®6f ittcrmntti. 
 
 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. 
 
 How sweet, when billows heave their head. 
 And shake their snowy crests on high. 
 
 Serene in Ocean's sapphire-bed, 
 
 Beneath the tumbling surge to lie ; 
 
 To trace, with tranquil step, the deep, 
 \Miere pearly drops of frozen dew, 
 
 In concave shells, unconscious, sleep. 
 Or shine with lustre, silvery blue ! 
 
 Then shall the summer sun, from far. 
 Pour through the wave a softer ray ; 
 
 Wiile diamonds, in a bower of spar, 
 At eve shall shed a brighter day. 
 
 Nor stormy \vind, nor wintry gale. 
 That o'er the angry ocean sweep. 
 
 Shall e'er our coral groves assail. 
 Calm in the bosom of the deep. 
 
 Through the green meads beneath the sea, 
 I'inamoured, we shall fondly stray ; 
 
 llaen, gentle warrior, dwell with me, 
 And leave the Maid of Colonsay!' 
 
 'Tliougli bright thy locks of glistering gold, 
 Fair maiden of the foamy main ! 
 
 Thy life-blood is the water cold, 
 
 \\niile mine beats high in every vein. 
 
 If I beneath thy sparry cave, 
 
 Should in thy snowy arms recline. 
 
 Inconstant as the restless wave, 
 
 My heart would grow as cold as thine.' 
 
 l^ 
 
 ^^"^ 
 
 r 
 
 Fr.iDlclia lieL 
 
 Fred, israoaton tc 
 
 •i02 ^jr-\,
 
 
 M 
 
 ®i)E Jllcrmaiir. 
 
 "3? 
 
 
 
 As cygnet clown, proud swelled her breast, 
 Her eye confessed the pearly tear ; 
 
 His hand she to her bosom pressed — 
 ' Is there no heart for rapture here ? 
 
 These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea, 
 Does no warm blood their currents fill ; 
 
 No heart-pulse riot, wild and free. 
 To joy, to love's delirious thrill?' 
 
 ' 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 IMaid of Colonsay, 
 
 Her eyes are milder than the dove ! 
 
 Even now, within the lonely isle, 
 
 Her eyes are dun with tears for me ; 
 
 And canst thou think that siren smile 
 Can lure my soul to dwell with thee V 
 
 An oozy fibn 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-nj-mphs 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. 
 
 --k^ 
 
 2(i:J 

 
 M 
 
 ^ 
 
 -d^ 
 
 'ULllt illcrmnitr. 
 
 ^ 
 
 "t^ '■'■ 
 
 Anusircug. "C 
 
 I feel my former soul return ; 
 
 It kindles at tlij' coki disdain : 
 And has a mortal dared to spurn 
 
 A daugliter of tlie 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 ■\Vhen 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. 
 
 When seven long lonely months were gone, 
 The mermaid to his cavern came ; 
 
 No more mis-shapen from the zone, 
 But like a maid of mortal frame. 
 
 204 
 
 ^ir-^
 
 -t^ 
 
 u 
 
 ®6e iJlcnnniU. 
 
 ' O give to me that ruby ring, 
 
 That on thy finger glances gay, 
 
 And thou shall hear the mermaid sing 
 The song thou lov'st 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, 
 M'hile 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. 
 
 Proud swells her heart ! she deems, at last. 
 To lure him with her silver tongue. 
 
 And, as the shelving rocks she passed, 
 She raised her voice, and sweetly sung. 
 
 In softer sweeter strains she sung, 
 
 Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay. 
 
 When light to land t!ie chieftain sprung. 
 To hail the Maid of Colonsay. 
 
 iS 
 
 ff 
 
 Fmukliu. deV. 
 
 Fred. BraiAslou.sc 
 
 20i ^ \^
 
 
 ^6e i:ittrmailj. 
 
 ^ 
 ^ 
 
 O 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. 
 
 — fjp 
 
 ctaiikha, dcL 
 
 ,i7i.!.irx:t.a IK. c-^-^ L -L.
 
 ORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. Few modem ballads have ob- 
 tained greater celebrity than this — the composition of 
 Thomas Campbell ; and none are more justly entitled to 
 the universal popularity it has acquired. It is one of his 
 earlier productions; written when in the zenith of his 
 fame, and when, in the vigour of his conceptions and the 
 ^raccand delicacy of his versification, he was entirely un- 
 .ipproached. It has stood the test of time, and will be for 
 ever classed among the finest and most touching contribu- 
 tions to the ballad lore of Britain. The author }ias left us 
 to our own speculations as to whether the poem was sug- 
 gested by any actual occurrence, or is the result of pure invention. It is more than 
 probable, however, that in the vast store-house of Scottisli history, he obtained some 
 record of a real event, which formed the ground-work of his story; and that neither 
 " Lord Ullin," nor the "Chief of Ulva's isle," nor the "winsome lady," are alto- 
 gether fictitious. The incident of a young chieftain bearing away the daughter of a 
 rival house is, indeed, common enough in Scottish ballad lore. Thus in the "Dou- 
 glas tragedy," already quoted, the youtli and maiden are followed by the "angry 
 father;" and in "the Child of Elle," 
 
 Faire Emmcline scant liad ridden a mile, 
 
 A mile forth of the towne. 
 When she was aware of her father's men 
 
 Come galloping over the downe. 
 
 In a ballad entitled " Sweet Willie and Lady Margerie," printed by Motherwell, 
 'from the recitation of a lady now far advanced in years," the lady falls in love with 
 'a widow's son," and while they are sitting together. 
 
 She turned her back unto tlie wa', 
 Her face unto the room, O ; 
 
 And there slie saw her auld father, 
 Fast walking up and down, O. 
 
 In then came her father dear, 
 
 And a braid sword by his gare, O ; 
 
 And he 's gien Willie, the widow's son, 
 A deep wound and a sair, O. 
 
 She turned her back unto the room, 
 
 Her face unto the wa', O; 
 And with a deep and heavy sigh, 
 
 Her heart it brak' in twa, O. 
 
 In " Sir James the Rose," the knight approaches the window of his lady-love, the 
 daughter of a rival chief, " and thus began to call," 
 
 * Art thou asleep, Matilda, dear? 
 
 Awake, my love, awake ; 
 Thy luckless lover on thee calls, 
 
 A long farewell to take. 
 
 For I have slain fierce Donald Grseme, 
 His blood is on my sword ; 
 
 And distant are my faithful men, 
 That sliould assist their lord. 
 
 To Sky I 'U now direct my way, 
 
 Where my twa brothers bide, 
 And raise the valiant of the isles, 
 To combat on my side.'
 
 But, although occurrences, such as these, are to be found recorded in many an- 
 cient ballads, and history abounds in facts of a similar character, we have met with 
 no incident in either, that may be supposed to have suggested the touching story 
 which the poet has so hajipily imagined, and so beautifully expressed. 
 
 Loch Gyle, or Goil, is an arm of Loch Long, a salt water loch, both being fed 
 by the Frith of Clyde. Loch Goil is in tlie country of Lachlan Mac Lachlan, of 
 Castle Lachlan, chief of the clan Lachlan, parish of Lachlan, Strath Lachlan, Ar- 
 gyleshirc; being very near the "countries" of the wild Macfarlanes, the Coh[uhouns, 
 Macgregors, and, above all, the " bludie children of Diarniid" (Campbells), it has 
 been the site of many a glorious clan feud. It is within a few miles of the residence 
 of Fletcher of Uunans, known by bis Gaelic cognomen of Angus More (Angus the 
 Great), one of the finest specimens of a Highland gentleman in all the west 
 country: distinguished for the zeal with wliich he and his family have adhered to the 
 faith of his fathers, and for the usual Highland attributes, hospitality and courage — 
 never backward in exerting cither. 
 
 Although Campbell has contributed but little to the store-house of British biil- 
 lads, that little is of vast value; unquestionably, no modern poet has so completely 
 rivalled the old masters of song, or combined, in so remarkable a manner, the con- 
 densed vigour of the ancient minstrel with a grace peculiarly his own. In the loftier 
 purpose of the poet, too, he has gone hand-in-hand with the earlier "ballad-makers," 
 aiming to perpetuate national fame, and encourage national greatness, while cele- 
 brating national glories. The " Mariners of England," and the " Battle of the 
 Haltic," will endure as long as the memory of Nelson, or while it may be said of 
 Britannia, 
 
 Her march is o'er the mnuiitain wave, 
 Her home is on tlie deep. 
 
 From Ireland, also, he claims the debt of gratitude ; few productions of the pen 
 have directed more attention towards its people, or excited stronger sympathy for 
 their sufferings and devotion to tlieir native land, than the true, and touching, and 
 pathetic ballad of " the exile," who 
 
 Sang t)ie bold antliem or Erin go brngti! 
 
 The poetry of Campbell is, indeed, universally felt, and, therefore, universally appre- 
 ciated. His appeals are made to sensations that are common to mankind. While it 
 can bear the test of the severest criticism, it is intelligible to the simplest under- 
 standing. It speaks to the heart as well as the mind, and is as music to the ear. 
 If he labours hard — as we believe he does — to render his verse easy and harmonious, 
 he never permits the reader to suspect, that care to refine has lessened the power of 
 conception. He aflbrds no evidence of fastidiousness in the choice of words, yet 
 they always seem the fittest for his purpose, and are not pressed into his service. 
 He combines the rare qualities — not often met together — strength and smoothness ; 
 yet his strength is never coarse, and his delicacy is never effeminate. Above all, it 
 is to bis " eternal praise," that he has sought for themes only where a pure mind 
 seeks them ; turning from the grosser passions, the meaner desires, and the vulgar 
 sentiments of man, as unworthy the high calling of the poet. 
 
 7-^^^^^S^^'> 
 
 208
 
 £a. CoTboiild del. 
 
 y. WiUiatpa ac.
 
 ' Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, 
 This dark and stormy water ? ' 
 
 ' (), I 'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, 
 And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 
 
 And fast before her father's men, 
 Three days we 'vc fled together ; 
 
 For should he find us in the glen, 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 
 
 Should they our stops discover, 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride, 
 
 ^^^len they have slain her lover ? ' 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
 ' I '11 go, my chief — I 'm ready : — 
 
 It is not for your silver bright, 
 But for your winsome lady : 
 
 And, by my word ! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry ; 
 So, though the waves are raging white, 
 
 I '11 row you o'er the ferry.' 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace, 
 The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
 
 And in the scowl of heaven each face 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But still as wilder blew the wind. 
 And as the night grew drearer, 
 
 Adown the glen rode armed men ; 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 ' O haste thee, haste ! ' the lady cries, 
 ' Though tempests round us gather ; 
 
 I '11 meet the raging of the skies, 
 But not an angry father.' 
 
 E.Cortovjli.ael. 
 
 S. WilliaiD5 9C. 
 
 210 
 
 a 
 
 m
 
 If]) 
 
 -^' 
 
 J). 
 
 Uorb Sailm's iBauafitcr. 
 
 ^' 
 
 The boat has left a stonny land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her, — 
 \\Tien, Oh! too strong for human hand, 
 
 The tempest gathered o'er her. 
 
 And still they row'd amidst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing : 
 Lord UUin reached that fatal shore, 
 
 His wrath was changed to wailing. 
 
 For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, 
 
 His child he did discover ; 
 One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 
 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 ' Come back! come back !' he cried in grief, 
 
 ' Across this stormy water; 
 And I *11 forgive your Highland chief. 
 
 My daughter ! Oh ! my daughter ! ' — * 
 
 * III a -ballad, entitled " Duncan," printed by Herd, are 
 some vigorous and beautiful stanzas, which describe the 
 meeting of the lover and the uncle of a lady who has been 
 taken from her " old home : — " 
 
 ' The rose I pluckt o* right is mine, 
 
 Our hearts together grew 
 Like twa sweet roses on ae stalk; 
 
 Frae hate to love they flew.' 
 
 He stampt his foot upo' the ground. 
 
 And thus in wrath did say, 
 ' God strike my saul, if frae this field, 
 
 We baith in life shall gae.' 
 
 But wha is she that runs sae fast .' 
 Her feet nae stap they find ; 
 
 Sae swiftly rides the milky cloud, 
 Upo' the summer's wind. 
 
 ' Alack ! my friends ; what sight is this .' 
 O stap your rage,' she cry'd ; 
 
 • Wiar love with honey'd lips should be, 
 Mak not'a breach sae wide.' 
 
 rU 
 
 e=^ 
 
 — ^) E, Corbould del. J. vT. Whimper sc. 
 
 211 :—' 

 
 £•' CutUuuiU, aei. 
 
 J. W. ^\ himper. sc.
 
 ?^i;S^5>^ 
 
 AGILTHOHN. Tliis l)allad is the production of Matthew 
 Gregory Lewis ; and our principal motive in introducing 
 it into this collection is to supply an example of his 
 compositions, for its merits are not such as to warrant the 
 selection upon other grounds. His writings, although 
 now nearly forgotten, had, at one period, no inconsider- 
 able influence upon the literature of the age ; the success 
 that attended his publications induced a host of imitators, 
 and, for awhile, his "school" may be almost said to have 
 formed the taste of the country. But the unnatural will be 
 always the ephemeral ; and that which is not based upon 
 Truth, Time will be certain to destroy. With the exception of two or three of his more 
 romantic ballads — "Alonzo the Brave and Fair Imogene," and, perhaps, " Osric the 
 Lion" — the poems of Lewis are as completely consigned to oblivion as if they had 
 never been printed; even his vain and useless "Romances," which have passed 
 through numerous editions, are now seldom read ; and are re-published only by ca- 
 terers for the meretricious or the vicious. Meritofaparticular order he undoubtedly 
 had ; public attention is never obtained, even for a season, without it ; but his works 
 possessed very little of real value, and the world has lost nothing by the obscurity 
 into which they have sunk. He was "the first to introduce something like the Ger- 
 man taste into English fictitious, dramatic, and poetical composition ;" and no less an 
 authority than Sir Walter Scott considers that he did service to our literature by 
 shewing, that "the prevailing taste of Germany might be employed as a formidable 
 auxiliary to renewing the spirit of our own, upon the same system as when medical 
 persons attempt, by the transfusion of blood, to pass into the veins of an aged and 
 exhausted patient, the vivacity of the circulation and liveliness of sensation which dis- 
 tinguish a young subject." It is certain, that at the period in which he " flourished." 
 English literature had become sluggish, inert, and comparatively valueless ; while 
 " the realms of Parnassus," more especially, seemed to lie open to the first bold invader, 
 whether he should be a daring usurper, or could shew a legitimate title of sove- 
 reignty.* Lewis was "born to fortune;" his father held the lucrative appointment of 
 luider-secretary at war ; and he was himself a member of parliament as soon as his age 
 permitted him to occupy a seat. During a residence in Germany, he had opportu- 
 nities of indulging his inclination for the marvellous ; and he and his imitators, 
 towards the close of the last century, absolutely flooded the libraries of Great 
 Britain with their tales of enchantment and diablerie, in poetry and prose. Lewis's 
 publications are the romances of" The Monk," " Feudal Tyrants," and " Romantic 
 Tales;" "Tales of Wonder" and " Tales of Terror," in verse ; " The Castle Spectre" 
 and " Adelmorn," romantic dramas ; " Venoni," a tragedy ; a volume of miscellaneous 
 
 * "Lewis was a martinet, if I may so terra him, in the accuracy of rhymes and of numbers: 
 I may add he had a right to be so, for few persons liave exhibited more mastery of rhyme, or 
 gre.ittr command over the melody of verse." » * * * "His works were admired, and the 
 author became famous, not merely through his own merit, though that was of no mean quality, 
 but because he had in some measure taken tlie public by surprise, by using a style of eomi)osition, 
 which, like national melodies, is so congenial to tlie general taste, that, though it palls by being 
 much hackneyed, it has only to be for a short time forgotten in order to recover its original 
 popularity." — Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 i 
 
 k 
 
 21-3
 
 ■'^■>--S^:f>i>'-^' ^1 
 
 I l^m^ 
 
 I 
 
 I ifo Y'J I 
 
 poetry, and the " Bravo of Venice," a translation from the German. He died 
 in 1S18, while on his voyage home from a visit to his patrimonial property in Janiaiea. 
 An idle story has been circulated, that his death was occasioned l)y poison, adminis- 
 tered to him by a negro whom he had incautiously acquainted with his intention to 
 emancipate the whole of his slaves at his decease. 
 
 His volumes of ballads, " Tales of Wonder" and " Talcs of Terror," were com- 
 parative failures; to the first, Sir Walter Scott, Southcy, Leyden, and others, con- 
 tributed, and their contributions sufficed to give value to the work. It was published 
 in 1801, "for the author." Lewis, however, was tempted to "drive it out" into two 
 volumes, royal 8vo., which were sold at a high price. " Purchasers murmured at 
 finding this size had been attained by the insertion of some of the best known pieces 
 of the English language, such as Dryden's ' Theodore and Honoria,' Parnell's 
 'Hermit,' Lisle's ' Porsenna, King of Russia,' and many other popular poems of 
 old date, and generally known, which ought not in conscience to have made part of 
 a set of tales, 'written and collected' by a modern author." The consequence was, 
 that the costly and weighty volumes met with little or no public approval. What 
 had been at first received as simple and natural, was now sneered at as puerile and 
 extravagant. " Another objection was," adds Sir Walter Scott, " that my friend 
 Lewis had a high but mistaken opinion of his own powers of humour. The truth 
 was, that though he could throw some gaiety into his lighter pieces, after the manner 
 of the French writers, his attempts at what is called pleasantry in English wholly 
 wanted the quality of humour, and were generally failures. But this he would not 
 allow ; and the ' Tales of Wonder ' were filled, in a sense, with attempts at com.edy, 
 which might be generally accounted abortive." 
 
 One important consequence, at least, followed this introduction of a new style 
 into our literature; to his acquaintance with Lewis we are probably indebted for the 
 vast store-house of wealth bequeathed to us by Sir Walter Scott. " Finding Lewis," 
 he says, "in possession of so much reputation, and conceiving that if I fell behind 
 him in poetical powers, I considerably exceeded him in general information, I sud- 
 denly took it into my head to attempt the style of poetry by which he had raised 
 himself to fame;" and, he adds, "out of an accidental acquaintance" with the popular 
 author, which "increased into a sort of intimacy, consequences arose wliich altered 
 almost all the Scottish ballad-maker's future prospects in life." He was first stimu- 
 lated to the translation of some German ballads ; and soon acquired confidence to 
 attempt "the imitation of what he admired." Lewis had, about this period, 
 announced the publication of a work, the title of which sufficiently indicates its 
 character — "Tales of Wonder," — and to this work Scott readily agreed to contribute. 
 It was published in two volumes, in the year ISOl; and contained, among others, 
 the ballads of " Glenfinlas" and the " Eve of Saint John," by Sir Walter — composi- 
 tions which he can scarcely be said to have afterwards surpassed. The encourage- 
 ment the young author here met with, led to the collection and subsequent publication 
 of the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," originally printed by James Ballantyne, 
 at Kelso. What "great events from little causes flow!"— possibly if "Monk Lewis" 
 had never existed as a versifier, the genius of Scott might have been directed into 
 some less serviceable channel ; for, mainly out of the trivial circumstances here 
 briefly recorded, he "gradually, and almost insensibly, engaged himself in that species 
 of literary employment" — "modern imitations of the ancient ballad." 
 
 \f# 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 I 
 
 214
 
 J%\ if hK__^Ky\i''^' ^^k'^i^^, ^ 
 
 On ! gentle luintsman, softly tread, 
 And softly wind tliy bugle-horn ; 
 
 Xor rudely break the silence shed 
 Around the grave of Agilthorn ! 
 
 Oh! gentle huntsman, if a tear 
 
 E'er dimmed for others' woe thine eyes, 
 Thou 'It surely dew, with drops sincere, 
 
 The sod where Lady Eva lies. 
 
 R Redgrave, A.R.A., del
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^ix ^gillljovn. 
 
 ^\wm 
 
 fe;.:^iv^ 
 
 Yon crumbling chapel's sainted bound 
 
 Their hands and hearts beheld them plight ; 
 
 Long held yon towers, with ivy crowned, 
 The beauteous dame and "allant knisrht. 
 
 Alas ! the hour of bliss is past, 
 
 For hark ! the din of discord rings ; 
 
 War's clarion sounds, Joy hears the blast. 
 And trembling plies his radiant wings. 
 
 And must sad Eva lose her lord ? 
 
 And must he seek the martial plain ? 
 Oh ! see she brings his casque and sword ! 
 
 Oh ! hark, she pours her plaintive strain ! 
 
 'Blessed is the village damsel's fate, 
 
 Though poor and low her station be ; 
 
 Safe from the cares which haunt the great, 
 Safe from the cares which torture mc ! 
 
 No doubting fear, no cruel pain, 
 
 No dread suspense her breast alarms ; 
 
 No tyrant honour rules her swain, 
 
 And tears him from her folding arms. 
 
 She, careless wandering 'midst the rocks, 
 In pleasing toil consumes the day ; 
 
 And tends her goats, or feeds her flocks, 
 Or joins her rustic lover's lay. 
 
 Though hard her couch, each sorrow flies 
 The pillow which supports her head ; 
 
 She sleeps, nor fears at morn her eyes 
 Shall wake, to mourn a husband dead. 
 
 Hush, impious fears ! the good and brave. 
 
 Heaven's arm will guard from danger free; 
 
 When death with thousands gluts the grave, 
 His dart, my love, shall glance from thee ; 
 
 ^1 
 
 » 
 
 Redgrave. A.II.A.. a«l. 
 
 216
 
 Wiile thine sliall fly direct and sure, 
 This buckler every blow repel ; 
 
 This casque from wounds that face secure, 
 Where all the loves and graces dwell. 
 
 This glittering scarf, with tenderest care. 
 My hands in happier moments wove ; 
 
 Cursed be the wretch, whose sword shall tear 
 The spell-bound work of wedded love ! 
 
 Lo I on thy falchion keen and bright, 
 I shed a trembling consort's tears ; 
 
 Oh ! when their traces meet thy sight. 
 Remember wretched Eva's fears ! 
 
 Think how thy lips she fondly pressed. 
 
 Think how she wept — compelled to part ; 
 
 Think, every wound which scars thy breast, 
 Is doubly marked on Eva's heart!' — 
 
 ' O thou ! my mistress, wife, and friend !' — 
 Thus Agilthorn with sighs began; 
 
 ' Thy fond complaints my bosom rend, 
 Thy tears my fainting soul unman : 
 
 In pity cease, my gentle dame, 
 
 Such sweetness and such grief to join! 
 
 Lest I forget the voice of Fame, 
 
 And only list to Love's and thine. 
 
 Flow, flow, my tears, unbounded gush ! 
 
 Rise, rise, my sobs, I set ye free : 
 Bleed, bleed, my heart ! I need not blush 
 
 To own that life is dear to me. 
 
 The wretch whose lips have pressed the bowl. 
 The bitter bowl of pain and woe, 
 
 May careless reach his mortal goal. 
 May boldly meet the final blow : 
 
 cm~ 
 
 Kedgrave.A.R A.dcl. 
 
 217
 
 His hopes destroyed, liis comfort wrecked, 
 A happier life lie hopes to find ; 
 
 But what can I in heaven expect, 
 Beyond the bliss I leave behind ? 
 
 Oil, no ! the joys of yonder skies. 
 
 To prosperous love present no charms ; 
 
 My heaven is placed in Eva's eyes, 
 l\Iy paradise in Eva's arms. 
 
 Yet mark me, sweet ! if Heaven's command 
 Hath doomed my fall in martial strife. 
 
 Oh ! let not anguish tempt thy hand 
 To rashly break the thread of life ! 
 
 No ! let our boy thy care engross. 
 Let him thy stay, thy comfort be ; 
 
 Supply his luckless father's loss. 
 
 And love him for thyself and me. 
 
 So may oblivion soon efface 
 
 The grief which clouds this fatal morn ; 
 And soon thy cheeks afford no trace 
 
 Of tears which fall for Agilthorn !' 
 
 He said ; and couched his quivering lance : 
 
 He said ; and braced his moony shield : — 
 Sealed a last kiss, threw a last glance. 
 
 Then 
 
 ;pur 
 
 rred his steed to h'lodden Field. 
 
 But Eva, of all joy bereft. 
 
 Stood rooted at the castle gate, 
 
 .\nd viewed the prints his courser left, 
 While hurrying at the call of fate. 
 
 Forebodings sad her bosom told. 
 
 The steed which bore him thence so light, 
 Her longing eyes would ne'er behold 
 
 Again bring home her own true knight. 
 
 R. BocIgrave.A.R^.. del. xrd Braaaioii 9c 
 
 218
 
 Wliile many a sigli her bosom lieaves, 
 
 She tlius addressed her orphan page : — 
 
 ' Dear youth, if e'er my love relieved 
 The sorrows of thy infant age : 
 
 If e'er I taught thy locks to play, 
 
 Luxuriant round thy blooming face ; 
 
 If e'er I vi'iped thy tears away, 
 
 And bade them yield to smiles their place : 
 
 Oh ! speed thee, swift as steed can bear, 
 
 Where Flodden groans with heaps of dead; 
 
 And o'er the combat, home repair, 
 And tell me how my lord has sped. 
 
 Till thou return'st each hour 's an age, 
 An age employed in doubt and pain ; 
 
 Oh ! haste thee, haste, my little foot-page, 
 Oh ! haste and soon return again.' 
 
 ' Now lady dear, thy grief assuage, 
 
 Good tidings soon shall ease thy pain; 
 
 I '11 haste, I 'U haste, thy little foot-page, 
 I '11 haste, and soon return again.' 
 
 Then Osway bade his courser flj- ; 
 
 But still, while hapless Eva wept. 
 Time scarce!}' seemed his wings to ply. 
 
 So slow the tedious moments crept. 
 
 And oft she kissed her bab}-'s cheek, 
 
 Who slumbered on her throbbing breast ; 
 
 And now she bade the warder speak. 
 And now she lulled her child to rest. 
 
 ' Good warder, say, what meets thy sight ? 
 
 What see'st from the castle tower ?' 
 ' Nought but the rocks of Elginbright, 
 
 Nought but the shades of Forest-Bower.' 
 
 210
 
 (S^ 
 
 
 ' Oh, pretty babe ! tliy mother's joy, 
 Pledge of the purest, f'oiulest (lame, 
 
 To-morrow's sun, dear helpless boy, 
 
 May see thee bear an orphan's name. 
 
 Perliaps, e'en now, some Scottish sword 
 The life-blood of thy father drains ; 
 
 Perhaps, e'en now, that heart is gored, 
 Whose streams supplied thy little veins. 
 
 O warder, from the castle tower. 
 
 Now say what objects meet thy sight?' 
 
 ' None but the shades of Forest-Bower, 
 None but the rocks of Elginbright.' 
 
 'Smil'st thou, my babe ? so smikd thy sire. 
 When gazing on his Eva's face ; 
 
 His eyes shot beams of gentle fire. 
 
 And joyed such beams in mine to trace. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, my babe ! of care devoid : 
 
 Thy mother breathes this fervent vow — 
 
 Oil, never be thy soul employed 
 
 On thoughts so sad as hers are now ! 
 
 Now warder, warder, speak again! 
 
 \\'hat seest thou from the turret's height V 
 'Oh, lady, speeding o'er the plain, 
 
 The little foot-page appears in sight !' 
 
 Quick beat her heart, short grew her breath ; 
 
 Close to her breast the babe slie drew — 
 'Now, Heaven,' she cried, 'for life or death !' 
 
 And forth to meet the page she flew. 
 
 'And is tliy lord from danger free ? 
 
 And is tlie deadly combat o'er?' — 
 In silence Osway bent his knee, 
 
 And laid a scarf her feet before. 
 
 Eed^rdve. A.R.A.,de!. Walmsley sc. 
 
 220
 
 The ■well-known scarf with blood was stained, 
 And tears from Osway's eyelids fell ; 
 
 Too truly Eva's heart explained, 
 
 What meant those silent tears to tell. 
 
 ' Come, come, my babe ! ' she wildly cried, 
 ' We needs must seek the field of woe : 
 
 Come, come, my babe ! cast fear aside ! 
 To dig thy father's grave we go.' 
 
 ' Stay, lady, stay ! a storm impends ; 
 
 Lo ! threatening clouds the sky o'erspread ; 
 The tliunder roars, the rain descends, 
 
 And lightning streaks the heavens with red. 
 
 ' Hark, hark ! the winds tempestuous rave ! 
 
 Oh ! be thy dread intent resigned ! 
 Or, if resolved the storm to brave. 
 
 Be this dear infant left behind !' 
 
 ' No, no ! with me my baby stays ! 
 
 With me he lives ; with me he dies ! 
 Flash, lightnings, flash ! your friendly blaze 
 
 WiU shew me where my warrior lies." 
 
 O see she roams the bloody field, 
 
 And wildly shrieks her husband's name : 
 
 O see she stops and eyes a shield, 
 
 A heart the symbol, wrapt in flame. 
 
 His armour broke in many a place, 
 
 A knight lay stretched that shield beside ; 
 
 She raised his vizor, kissed his face. 
 Then on his bosom sunk and died. 
 
 Huntsman, their rustic grave behold : 
 'T is here, at night, the feiry king, 
 
 AMiere sleeps the fair, where sleeps the bold, 
 Oft forms his light fantastic ring.
 
 
 ^ jOHNIE OF BREADISLEE. This is styled by Sir "Walter Scott 
 "an ancient Nithsdale ballad,'* the hero of which appears 
 to have been an outlaw and deer-stealer ; probably one of 
 the broken men residing upon the border. It is some- 
 times said that he possessed the old castle of Morton, in 
 Dumfries-shire, now ruinous : — " Near to this castle there 
 was a park, built by Sir Thomas Randolph, on the face of 
 a very great and high hill ; so artiticially, that, by the ad- 
 vantage of the hill, all wild beasts, such as deers, harts, and 
 roes, and hares, did easily leap in, but could not get out 
 again ; and if any other cattle, such as cows, sheep, or goats, did voluntarily leap 
 in, or were forced to do it, it is doubted if their owners were permitted to get them 
 out again." But the date of Johnie's history must be very remote, for the scene 
 of his exploits has been reduced from the condition of a deer-forest to that of a 
 cultivated domain from a time "beyond the memory of tradition."* There are 
 several versions of the ballad ; the one we have selected is that printed by Sir Walter 
 Scott — "from the different copies." Mr. Motherwell reprints it, but gives also 
 these fragments of a more ancient composition, entitled " Johnie of Braidisbank:" — 
 
 Johiiie rose up on a May morning, 
 Called for water to wash liis hands; 
 
 And lie 's awa" to Braidisbanks, 
 To ding the dun deer down. 
 
 Johnie lookit east, and Johnie lookit west, 
 And it 's lang before the sun ; 
 
 And there did he spy ilie dun deer Ue, 
 Beneath a bush of brume. 
 
 Johnie shot, and the dun deer lap, 
 And lie 's wounded her in the side ; 
 
 Out then spake his sister's son, 
 
 * And tlie neist will lay her pride.' 
 
 They 've eaten sae mickle o' tlie gude venison, 
 And they 've drunken saemuckleo' the blude; 
 
 That they 've fallen into as sound a sleep, 
 As gif that they were dead. 
 
 It's doun, and it's doun, and it's doun, doun, 
 And it's doun aniang the scroggs ; 
 
 And there ye "11 espy twa bonny boys lie, 
 Asleep amaiig their dogs. 
 
 TJiey 've waukened Johnie out o' his sleep, 
 And he's drawn to him Itis coat; 
 
 ' My fingers five save me alive, 
 And a stout heart fail me not !' 
 
 Mr. Motherwell gives also the music to which the old ballad was sung : — 
 
 m^i^^^r^^^^^^m 
 
 And Mr. Motherwell suggests the introduction of the following beautiful stanza 
 (preserved by Mr. Finlay), after the nineteenth stanza in the printed copy. It is, as 
 
 * Another tradition, according to Motherwell, assigns Braid, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, 
 to have been the scene of the " woful hunting ;"—" and," writes Mr. Cunningham, " Breadeslee, 
 near Loehraaben, has been pointed out as the more probable residence of tlie hero of tlie song ; 
 and tlie scenery iu the neiglibuurhood, and the traditions of the country, countenance the suppo- 
 sition." 
 
 i 
 
 
 223
 
 1^ 
 
 lie justly remarks, " so descriptive of the languor of approaching death,' 
 surprising Sir Walter Scott should have omitted to adopt it: — 
 
 tliat it is 
 
 ' There 's no a bird in a" this forest 
 
 "Will do as micklc for me, 
 As dip its wing in the wan water, 
 
 And straik it on my e'e brec' 
 
 Another copy has been printed by Robert Chambers— Scoltisli Ballads — partly 
 taken from the ballads of Scott and Motherwell, and partly from the *' recitation of a 
 lady resident at Peebles, and from a MS, copy submitted to him by Mr. Kinloch." 
 He publishes, for the first time, no fewer than ten additional stanzas ; we select three, 
 as indicating that the hero held a higher station than that of a mere deer-stealer : — 
 
 His cheeks were like the roses red, 
 His neck was like the snaw; 
 
 He was the bonniest gentleman, 
 My eyes they ever saw. 
 
 His coat was o' the scarlet red, 
 His Vest was o' the same ; 
 
 His stockings were o' the worset lace. 
 And buckles tied to the same. 
 
 Tiie shirt that was upon his back, 
 
 Was o' the holland fine; 
 The doublet that was over that. 
 
 Was o' the Lincoln twine. 
 
 These stanzas, however, may have been a modern interpolation. Mr. Cunningham, 
 also, prints a version, into which he has evidently introduced some improvements of 
 his own. We copy the concluding verse : — 
 
 ' Oh lay my brown sword by my side, 
 
 And my bent bow at my feet ; 
 And stay the howling o' my gray dogs, 
 
 That sound may be my sleep.* 
 His dogs are dead, his bent bow broke. 
 
 And his shafts tliat flew sae free ; 
 And he lies dead near Durisdeer, 
 
 Fair Johnie of Breadislce. 
 
 The daring exploits of border outlaws are the themes of many ancient ballads ; 
 the reckless character of their lives, their indomitable courage, and continual escapes 
 from their enemies and the law, suggested favourable topics to the old minstrels ; 
 several of them are singular for the adventures they describe, although few ad- 
 vance very high claims to poetic merit One of the most striking is published by 
 Ritson ("Ancient Songs"), and re-pub!ishcd, with ''better readings," by Scott. 
 It is entitled by Ritson "The Life and Death of Sir Hugh of the Grime;" and by 
 Scott, *'Hughie the Grame." The foUoving are the introductory verses:— 
 
 Gude Lord Scroope 's to the hunting gane, 
 He has ridden o'er moss and muir ; 
 
 And he has grlppit Hughie the Gramme, 
 For stealing o' the bishop's marc. 
 
 ' Now, good L»rd Scroope, this may not be ! 
 
 Here hangs a broadsword by my side; 
 AuU if that thou canst conquer me, 
 
 The matter it may soon be tryed.' 
 
 • I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief; 
 
 Although thy name be Hughie the Grasme, 
 I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds, 
 
 If God but grant me life and time.' 
 
 <*?^^^£^:S2^ 
 
 ^^ms 
 
 22+
 
 JOHNIE OF BEEADISLEE. 
 
 _,, JoHNiE rose up in a May morning, 
 
 Called for water to wash his hands — 
 ' Gar loose to me the gude graie dogs, 
 That are bound wi' iron bands.' 
 
 Mlien Johnie's mother gat word o' that. 
 Her hands for dide she wrang — 
 
 ' O Johnie ! for my benison, 
 
 To the greenwood dinna gang !
 
 3)oljnic of JUrcniiislcf. 
 
 Eneugh ye hae o' gude wlieat bread, 
 And eneugh o' the blude-red wine ; 
 
 And, therefore, for nae venison, Jolinie, 
 I pray ye, stir Irae hame.' 
 
 But Johnie 's busk't up his gude bend bow, 
 
 His arrows, ane by ane ; 
 And he has gane to Durrisdccr, 
 
 To Imnt the dun deer down. 
 
 As lie came down by Merriemass, 
 
 And in by the benty line. 
 There has he espied a deer lying 
 
 Aneath a bush of ling. 
 
 Johnie he shot, and the dun deer lap. 
 And he wounded her on the side ; 
 
 But, atween the water and the brae, 
 His hounds they laid her pride. 
 
 And Johnie has bryttled the deer sae weel, 
 That he 's had out her liver and lungs ; 
 
 And wi' these he has feasted his bluidy hounds, 
 As if they had been earl's sons. 
 
 They eat sae much o' the venison, 
 And drank sae much o' the blude, 
 
 That Johnie and a' his bluidy hounds. 
 Fell asleep as they liad been dead. 
 
 And by there came a silly auld carle, 
 
 An ill death mote he die ! 
 For he 's awa' to Hislinton, 
 
 Wliere the seven foresters did lie. 
 
 ' Wliat news, what news, ye gray headed carle, 
 
 M'hat news bring ye to me ?' 
 ' I bring nae news,' said the gray headed carle, 
 
 'Save what these eyes did see. 
 
 As I came down by I\[erriemass, 
 And down among the scroggs,
 
 The bonniest childe that ever I saw 
 Lay sleeping amang his dogs. 
 
 The shirt that was upon his back 
 
 Was o' the holland fine ; 
 The doublet whicli was over that 
 
 Was o' the lincome twine. 
 
 The buttons that were on his sleeve 
 
 Were o' the goud sae gude : 
 The gude graie hounds he lay amang, 
 
 Their mouths were dyed wi' blude.' 
 
 Then out and spak the first forester, 
 The heid man ower them a' — 
 
 ' If this be Johnie o' Breadislee, 
 Nae nearer will we draw.' 
 
 But up and spak the sixth forester 
 
 ( His sister's son was he), 
 ' If this be Johnie o' Breadislee, 
 
 We soon shall gar him die ! ' 
 
 The first flight of arrows the foresters shot, 
 They wounded him on the knee ; 
 
 And out and spak the seventh forester, 
 ' The next will gar him die.' 
 
 Johnie 's set his back against an aik, 
 
 His fute against a stane ; 
 And he has slain the seven foresters. 
 
 He has slain them a' but ane. 
 
 He has broke three ribs in that ane's side, 
 
 But and his collar bane ; 
 He 's laid him twa-fald ower his steed. 
 
 Bade him carrj* the tidings hame. 
 
 ' O is there nae a bonnie bird, 
 
 Can sing as I can say ? — 
 Could flee away to my mother's bower, 
 
 And tell to fetch Johnie away?' 
 
 227
 
 5io|)ntc of 33rcalJislcc. 
 
 1? 
 
 
 
 ■\,' 
 
 The starling flew to lus motlicr's window staiu-, 
 
 It whistled and it sang ; 
 And aye the ower word o' the tune 
 
 Was — Mohnie tarries lang !' 
 
 Tiiev made a rod o' the hazel bush, 
 Anotlier o' the slae-thorn tree, 
 
 And mony, mon)- were the men 
 At fetcliins o'er Johnie. 
 
 Tlien out and spak his auld mother, 
 And last her tears did la" — 
 
 ' Ye wad nae be warned, my son Johnie, 
 Frae the huntins' to bide awa'. 
 
 .'^"^^ 
 
 Aft hae I brought to Hreadislee, 
 The less gear and the mair ; 
 
 But I ne'er brought to Breadislee, 
 AMiat grieved my heart sae sair. 
 
 But wae betyde tliat silly auld carle, 
 
 An ill death shall he die ! 
 For the highest tree in Merriemass 
 
 Shall be his morning's fee.' 
 
 Now Johnie's gude bend bow is broke, 
 And his gude graie dogs are slain ; 
 
 And his bodie lies dead in Durrisdeer, 
 And his hunting it is done.
 
 ^ HE DOAVIE DENS OF YARROW. This ballad was first 
 
 published in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border;" 
 
 but other versions of it were, previously, in circulation, 
 
 and it is stated by Sir Walter Scott to have been " a very 
 
 great favourite among the inhabitants of Ettrick Forest," 
 
 where it is universally believed to be founded on facL Sir 
 
 Walter, indeed, "found it easy to collect a variety of 
 
 copies;'* and from them he collated the present edition— 
 
 avowedly for the purpose of '* suiting the tastes of these 
 
 more light and giddy-paced times." A copy is contained 
 
 in Motherwell's *' Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern;" another, in Buchan's 
 
 "Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland: '* it, no doubt, originated the 
 
 popular composition beginning — 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, iny bonny, bonny bride, 
 
 by Hamilton, of Bangour, first published in Ramsay's "Tea Table Miscellany;" 
 and suggested the ballad "The Braes of Yarrow," by the Rev. John Logan. 
 In Herd's collection, in Ritson's "Scottish Songs," and in the "Tea Table Mis- 
 cellany," are to be foimd fragments of another ballad, entitled "Willie's drowned in 
 Yarrow," of which this is the concluding stanza; — 
 
 Slie sought him east, she sought him west. 
 
 She sought him braid and narrow; 
 Syne in the cleaving of a craig. 
 
 She found him drowned in Yarrow. 
 
 Indeed, "Yarrow stream" has been a fertile source of poetry, and seems to have 
 inspired the poets; the very sound is seductive; and, as Mr. Buchan remarks, "all 
 who have attempted to sing its praise, or celebrate the actions of those who have 
 been its visitors, have almost universally succeeded in their attempts." The ballad 
 he publishes, is entitled "The Braes of Yarrow;" it bears a close resemblance, 
 in its more prominent features, to that collated by Sir AValter Scott, but is far more 
 rugged and less poetic: take for example the opening verse: — 
 
 Ten lords sat drinking at the wine, 
 
 Intill a morning early; 
 There fell a combat them amang, 
 
 It must be fought — nae parly. 
 
 The version preserved by Mr. Jlothenvell was taken down "from the recitation 
 of an old woman in Kilbarcan," and is chiefly valuable as shewing the state in which 
 the song is preserved in the west of Scotland. It is entitled "The Dowie Downs of 
 Yarrow." The main incidents are similar to those contained in the ballad of 
 Scott ; but the style is, as may he expected, much inferior. The two introductory 
 verses may suffice as a sample of the whole : — 
 
 There were three lords birling at the wine, 
 On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow ; 
 
 They made a compact them lietween, 
 They would go fecht to-morrow. 
 
 ' Thou took our sister to be thy wife, 
 
 And thou ne'er ihocht her thy marrow ; 
 
 Thou stealed her frae her daddie's back. 
 When she was the rose o" Yarrow.' 
 
 S-^i 
 
 229
 
 Another version was publishcil by Uobert Chambers, in his " Scottish Balhids," 
 — "chiffly taken from a fragment in Herd's collection (which we have introduced in 
 a note), a few stanzas and lines from Buehan's copy, and part of a ballad printed by 
 Jamieson, entitled 'Lizie Lindsay,'" which .lamieson gives in an imperfect, and 
 Unchan in an entire, shape. Mr. Chambers, however, has been "under the necessity 
 of altering several lines and verses, and rc-writing others." Mr. Allan Cunningham, 
 also, prints yet another version, principally copied fiom that of Sir Walter Scott, 
 but omitting the three first verses, and reforming the remainder. Mr. Cunningham 
 states, that "he had seen a fragment of the same song in the handwriting of Hums," 
 — of which he has given three verses; the first is as follows: — 
 
 • Where shall I gang, my ain true love, 
 Where shall 1 gang to hide nic i 
 
 For wecl I ken, i' ycre father's bower, 
 It wad be death to lind me.' 
 
 • O go you to yon tavern house. 
 
 And there eount o'er your lawin ; 
 And if 1 be u woman true. 
 
 I'll meet you in the dawin.' 
 
 That the several versions of the story, scattered among the people, and preserved 
 by them in some form or other, had one common origin there can be little doubt. 
 " Tradition," according to Sir Walter Scott, " places the event recorded in the song 
 very early, and it is probable the ballad was composed soon afterwards, although the 
 language has been modernised in the course of its transmission to us, through the 
 inaccurate channel of oral tradition." " The hero of the ballad," he adds, "was a 
 knight of great bravery, called Scott;" and he believes it refers to a duel fought at 
 Deucharswyre, of which Annan's Treat is a part, betwi.xt John Scott, of Tushielaw, 
 and his brother-in-law, Walter Scott, third son of Robert of Thirlstanc, in which the 
 latter was slain. Annan's Treat is a low niuir, on the banks of the Yarrow, lying to 
 the west of Yarrow kirk. Two tall unhewn masses of stone are erected about 
 eighty yards distant from each other, and the least child, that can herd a cow, will 
 tell the passenger, that there lie "the two lords who were slain in single combat." 
 Sir Walter also informs us that, according to tradition, the murderer was the brother 
 of either the wife or the betrothed bride of the murdered ; and that the alleged cause 
 of quarrel was, the lady's father having proposed to endow her with half of his pro- 
 perty upon her marriage with a w.arrior of such renown. The name of the murderer 
 is said to have been Annan, hence the place of combat is still called Annan's Treat. 
 
 The music to which the ballad was sung has been given by Sir Walter Scott : — 
 
 ^^^ ^f^m^^fY^^ - 
 
 3 
 
 ^a^^^^Jfe Sttq d n^ 
 
 f% ^f ^^r=W g ^^P 
 
 230
 
 t^xjaTIrr"^ 
 
 Fraclclln, del 
 
 ^iw^S. 
 
 trecl. Branston , sc.
 
 i 
 
 'illic Botuic Drns of |f)artolu. 
 
 ' O fare ye weel, my ladye gaye ! 
 
 fare ye weel, my Sarah ! 
 
 For I maun gae, though I iu''er return 
 Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow.' 
 
 She kissed his clieek, she kaimed liis hair, 
 As oft she had done before, O ; 
 
 She behed him with his noble brand, 
 And he 's away to Yarrow'. 
 
 As he gaed up the Tennies bank, 
 
 1 wot he gaed wi' sorrow. 
 
 Till, down in a den, he spied nine armed men, 
 On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 
 
 ' O ! come yo here to part }-our land, 
 
 The bonnie forest thorough ? 
 Or come ye here to wield your brand, 
 
 On the dowie houms of Yarrow ?' — 
 
 ' I come not here to part my land. 
 And neither to beg nor borrow ; 
 
 I come to wield my noble brand. 
 On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.' 
 
 ' If I see all, ye 're nine to ane, 
 
 And that 's an unequal marrow ; 
 
 Y''et will I fight while lasts my brand, 
 On llie bonnie banks of Yarrow.' 
 
 Four has he hurt, and five has slain. 
 On the bonnie braes of Yarrow ; 
 
 Till that stubborn knight came him behind, 
 And ran his body thorough. 
 
 ' Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, 
 
 And tell your sister Sarah 
 To come and lift her leafu' lord ; 
 
 He 's sleeping sound on Yarrow.' — 
 
 =9 
 
 Frouklln del. 
 
 c^Za^Qj:^^ 
 
 232
 
 .^vr£^^_ 
 
 ®Se BotDie Bens of 39arroto. 
 
 * Yest'reen I dreamed a dolefu' dream ;* 
 
 I fear there will be sorrow ! 
 I dreamed I pu'd the heather green, 
 
 Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. 
 
 O gentle wind, that bloweth south, 
 
 From wliere my love repaireth, 
 Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, 
 
 And tell me how he fareth ! 
 
 But in the glen strive armed men ; 
 
 They 've wrought me dole and sorrow ; 
 They 've slain— the comeliest knight they 've slain, 
 
 He bleeding lies on Yarrow.* 
 
 As she sped down yon high high hill, 
 
 She gaed wi' dole and sorrow ; 
 And in the den spied ten slain men, 
 
 On the dowie banks of Yarrow. 
 
 * The following is the fragment given by Mr. Herd, "to the 
 tune of Leaderhaughs and Yarrow : — " 
 
 ' I dream"d a dreary dream last night ; 
 
 God keep us a' frae sorrow ; 
 I dream'd I pu'd the birk sae green, 
 
 Wi' my true luve on Yarrow.' 
 
 ' I '11 read your dream, my sister dear, 
 
 I '11 tell you a" your sorrow; 
 You pu'd the birk wi' your true luve ; 
 
 He "s kill'd, he's killd, on Yarrow.' 
 
 ' O gentle wind, that bloweth south, 
 
 To where my luve repaireth. 
 Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, 
 
 And tell me how he fareth. 
 
 But o'er yon gleo run amaed men. 
 Have wrought me dule and s-irrow ; 
 
 They've slain, they've slain, ta comeliest swain, 
 He bleeding lies on Yarrow.' 
 
 FraQithQ del. 
 
 ■iJ, brdiastO!., 5C. 
 
 /iii.a^i/:^ij= 
 
 233
 
 'S'ftr Botoic Bens of Ynrroto. 
 
 She kissed his cheek, slio kaimt-d his liair, 
 She scarcht'd liis wounds all thorough ; 
 
 She kissed tlu'iii till her lips grew red, 
 On tlie dowie houms of Yarrow. 
 
 ' Now hand your tongue, my daughter dear ! 
 
 For a' this breeds but sorrow ; 
 I 'U wed ye to a better lord 
 
 Tlian him ye lost on Yarrow.' 
 
 ' O haud your tongue, my lather dear ; 
 
 Ye mind me but of sorrow ; 
 .\ fairer rose did never bloom 
 
 Than now lies cropped on Yarrow.' 
 
 =9 
 
 i-nuQNliu.del. 
 
 «5^aJLa^<^
 
 irjBESo 
 
 PtOB 
 
 BIRTH OF SAINT GliDHOK .... 185 
 
 Dcsif^iis by \V. B. Scott. 
 
 EngraviTigs by Folkard, Vizi-.telly, and Akmstrong. 
 
 BLIND BEGGAR OF BEDNALL GREEN 73 
 
 Designs by J. Gilbert. 
 EnL'ravings by Vizetellv. 
 
 CHEVY CHACE I 
 
 Designs by J. Franklin. 
 
 Engravings by Linton, T. Williams, Bastin, Armstrosg, and Iandklis. 
 
 CHILD OF ELLE . . 57 
 
 Designs by J. Franklin. 
 Engravings by T. Williams. 
 
 CHILDREN IN THE WOOD 13 
 
 Designs by J. R. Herbert, A.U.A. 
 Engravings by GREt-N. 
 
 DEMON LOVER 31 
 
 Designs by J. Giluert. 
 
 Engravings by Folkard and Ba^tin. 
 
 DOWIE DENS OF YARROW .22!) 
 
 Designs by J. Franklin. 
 
 Engravings by Fred. Branston and Evans. 
 
 FAIR MARGARET AND SWEET WILLIAM 179 
 
 Designs by H. Warrkn. 
 Engravings by Jalkson. 
 
 FAIR ROSAMOND 21 
 
 Designs by J. Franklin. 
 
 Engravings by T. Williams, Smith, Evans, Walmsley, and Miss Williams. 
 
 PAUSE FOODRAGE 165 
 
 Designs by T. M. Joy. 
 Engravings by Miss Williams. 
 
 GENEVIEVE 173 
 
 Designs by J. Franklin. 
 
 Engravings by Armstrong and Nicholls. 
 
 GIL MORRICE y? 
 
 Designs by Kenny Meadows. 
 Engravings by Smith and Ljnton
 
 r\<.t 
 
 HEIRE OF LINNE 135 
 
 Designs by E. M. Ward. 
 Engravings by Bastij*. 
 
 JOHXIE OF BREADISLEE . . ^is 
 
 Designs by T. SiBsoN. 
 Engravings by Linton. 
 
 KEMPIOX .SI 
 
 Designs by W. B. Scott. 
 Engravings by Smith and Listos. 
 
 KING ARTHUR'S DEATH .125 
 
 Designs by J. Franklin. 
 
 Engravings by Grkkn. XituoLLs. Williams, and Armstrong. 
 
 LOUD SOULIS 145 
 
 Designs by R. R. M'Ias. 
 Engravings by Smith and Linton. 
 
 LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET 157 
 
 Designs by J. H. Townsend. 
 
 Engravings by Folkard, Frkd. Bu^N^ToN. Walmslev. and Bastin. 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER ... 207 
 
 Designs by E. Corbould. 
 
 Engravings by Wmimi-er and S. Williams. 
 
 MERMAID . . . . li>7 
 
 Designs by J. Frakklin. 
 
 Engravings by Green, Fred. Bravston, Niciioli.s. AVa^mslkv. .tnd Ahmsthung. 
 
 NUT-BROAVN MAYD 37 
 
 Designs by T. Creswick. W. B. Scott, and S Williams. 
 Engravings by S. and J. Williams, LanDc:lls. and Vizetelly. 
 
 ROBIN GOODFELLOW . 1'- 
 
 Designs by R. Dadd. 
 Engravings by Green 
 
 SIR AGILTHORN .... 21.. 
 
 Designs by R. REnoRAVE, A. It. A. 
 
 Engravings by Walmslev. Bastin. Fred. Branston. and Vizktellv. 
 
 SIR ALDINGAR 107 
 
 Designs by J. Gilbert. 
 Engravings by Gilks and Folkard. 
 
 SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE 117 
 
 Designs by E. Corbould. 
 Engravings by Smith and Linton. 
 
 SIR PATRICK SPENS 01 
 
 Designs by J. Franklin. 
 Engravings by Armstrong. 
 
 THE TW^A BROTHERS 97 
 
 Designs liy W. P. Frith. 
 Engravings by Bastin.
 
 SECOND SERIES OF THIS COLLECTION 
 
 IS IN PROGRESS, 
 
 AND WILL BE COMPLETED BY 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 134.3.
 
 llllllllJIIIlilllllll "III I'll! """■"""»"• 
 
 D 000 008 587 8
 
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 -.^ J 
 
 .1 
 
 M.^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 r> 
 
 C^'^ 
 
 M .•?* 
 
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