Chapter X: Appendix: YOUNG HUNTING. See p. 3 (2)

"And sae was I, o' you, Tamas,
When I was hunted to the sea; 70
But I'se gar bury you in state,
Which is mair than ye'd done to me."

JOHN THOMSON AND THE TURK.

From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, Appendix, p. ix. The same in Buchan's collection, ii. 159.

John Thomson fought against the Turks
Three years, intill a far countrie;
And all that time, and something mair,
Was absent from his gay ladie.

But it fell ance upon a time, 5
As this young chieftain sat alane,
He spied his lady in rich array,
As she walk'd ower a rural plain.

"What brought ye here, my lady gay,
So far awa from your ain countrie? 10
I've thought lang, and very lang,
And all for your fair face to see."

For some days she did with him stay,
Till it fell ance upon a day,
"Fareweel, for a time," she said, 15
"For now I must boun hame away."

He's gi'en to her a jewel fine,
Was set with pearl and precious stane;
Says, "My love, beware of these savages bold
That's in your way as ye gang hame. 20

"Ye'll tak the road, my lady fair,
That leads you fair across the lea:
That keeps you from wild Hind Soldan,
And likewise from base Violentrie."

Wi' heavy heart thir twa did pairt, 25
She mintet as she wuld gae hame;
Hind Soldan by the Greeks was slain,
But to base Violentrie she's gane.

When a twelvemonth had expired,
John Thomson he thought wondrous lang, 30
And he has written a braid letter,
And sealed it weel wi' his ain hand.

He sent it with a small vessel
That there was quickly gaun to sea;
And sent it on to fair Scotland, 35
To see about his gay ladie.

But the answer he received again,--
The lines did grieve his heart right sair:
Nane of her friends there had her seen,
For a twelvemonth and something mair. 40

Then he put on a palmer's weed,
And took a pike-staff in his hand;
To Violentrie's castell he hied;
But slowly, slowly he did gang.

When within the hall he came, 45
He jooked and couch'd out ower his tree:
"If ye be lady of this hall,
Some of your good bountith gie me."

"What news, what news, palmer," she said,
"And from what countrie cam ye?" 50
"I'm lately come from Grecian plains,
Where lies some of the Scots armie."

"If ye be come from Grecian plains,
Some mair news I will ask of thee,--
Of one of the chieftains that lies there, 55
If he has lately seen his gay ladie."

"It is twa months, and something mair,
Since we did pairt on yonder plain;
And now this knight has began to fear
One of his foes he has her ta'en." 60

"He has not ta'en me by force nor slight;
It was a' by my ain free will;
He may tarry into the fight,
For here I mean to tarry still.

"And if John Thomson ye do see, 65
Tell him I wish him silent sleep;
His head was not so coziely,
Nor yet sae weel, as lies at my feet."

With that he threw aff his strange disguise,
Laid by the mask that he had on; 70
Said, "Hide me now, my lady fair,
For Violentrie will soon be hame."

"For the love I bore thee ance,
I'll strive to hide you, if I can:"
Then she put him down in a dark cellar 75
Where there lay many a new slain man.

But he hadna in the cellar been,
Not an hour but barely three,
Then hideous was the noise he heard,
When in at the gate cam Violentrie. 80

Says, "I wish you well, my lady fair,
It's time for us to sit to dine;
Come, serve me with the good white bread,
And likewise with the claret wine.

"That Scots chieftain, our mortal fae, 85
Sae aft frae the field has made us flee,
Ten thousand zechins this day I'll give
That I his face could only see."

"Of that same gift wuld ye give me,
If I wuld bring him unto thee? 90
I fairly hold you at your word;--
Come ben, John Thomson, to my lord."

Then from the vault John Thomson came,
Wringing his hands most piteouslie:
"What would ye do," the Turk he cried, 95
"If ye had me as I hae thee?"

"If I had you as ye have me,
I'll tell ye what I'd do to thee;
I'd hang you up in good greenwood,
And cause your ain hand wale the tree. 100

"I meant to stick you with my knife
For kissing my beloved ladie:"
"But that same weed ye've shaped for me,
It quickly shall be sewed for thee."

Then to the wood they baith are gane; 105
John Thomson clamb frae tree to tree;
And aye he sighed and said, "Och hone!
Here comes the day that I must die."

He tied a ribbon on every branch,
Put up a flag his men might see; 110
But little did his false faes ken
He meant them any injurie.

He set his horn unto his mouth,
And he has blawn baith loud and schill:
And then three thousand armed men 115
Cam tripping all out ower the hill.

"Deliver us our chief," they all did cry;
"It's by our hand that ye must die;"
"Here is your chief," the Turk replied,
With that fell on his bended knee. 120

"O mercy, mercy, good fellows all,
Mercy I pray you'll grant to me;"
"Such mercy as ye meant to give,
Such mercy we shall give to thee."

This Turk they in his castel burnt, 125
That stood upon yon hill so hie;
John Thomson's gay ladie they took
And hanged her on yon greenwood tree.

LORD THOMAS STUART.

From Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 1.

Thomas Stuart was a lord,
A lord of mickle land;
He used to wear a coat of gold,
But now his grave is green.

Now he has wooed the young countess, 5
The Countess of Balquhin,
An' given her for a morning gift,
Strathboggie and Aboyne.

But women's wit is aye willful,
Alas! that ever it was sae; 10
She longed to see the morning gift
That her gude lord to her gae.

When steeds were saddled an' weel bridled,
An' ready for to ride,
There came a pain on that gude lord, 15
His back, likewise his side.

He said, "Ride on, my lady fair,
May goodness be your guide;
For I'm sae sick an' weary that
No farther can I ride." 20

Now ben did come his father dear,
Wearing a golden band;
Says, "Is there nae leech in Edinburgh,
Can cure my son from wrang?"

"O leech is come, an' leech is gane, 25
Yet, father, I'm aye waur;
There's not a leech in Edinbro'
Can death from me debar.

"But be a friend to my wife, father,
Restore to her her own; 30
Restore to her my morning gift,
Strathboggie and Aboyne.

"It had been gude for my wife, father,
To me she'd born a son;
He would have got my land an' rents, 35
Where they lie out an' in.

"It had been gude for my wife, father,
To me she'd born an heir;
He would have got my land an' rents,
Where they lie fine an' fair." 40

The steeds they strave into their stables,
The boys could'nt get them bound;
The hounds lay howling on the leech,
'Cause their master was behind.

"I dreamed a dream since late yestreen, 45
I wish it may be good,
That our chamber was full of swine,
An' our bed full of blood.

"I saw a woman come from the West,
Full sore wringing her hands, 50
And aye she cried, 'Ohon alas!
My good lord's broken bands.'

"As she came by my good lord's bower,
Saw mony black steeds an' brown;
I'm feared it be mony unco lords 55
Havin' my love from town."

As she came by my gude lord's bower,
Saw mony black steeds an' grey;
"I'm feared its mony unco lords
Havin' my love to the clay." 60

THE SPANISH VIRGIN.

From Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 316.

The three following pieces are here inserted merely as specimens of a class of tales, horrible in their incidents but feeble in their execution, of which whole dreary volumes were printed and read about two centuries ago. They were all of them, probably, founded on Italian novels.

"The subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, entitled, _The Theatre of God's Judgments, by Dr. Beard and Dr. Taylor_, 1642. Pt. 2, p. 89. The text is given (with corrections) from two copies; one of them in black-letter in the Pepys Collection. In this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden:

Oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell:
Depart from hence, and therein dwell."

All tender hearts, that ake to hear
Of those that suffer wrong;
All you that never shed a tear,
Give heed unto my song.

Fair Isabella's tragedy 5
My tale doth far exceed:
Alas, that so much cruelty
In female hearts should breed!

In Spain a lady liv'd of late,
Who was of high degree; 10
Whose wayward temper did create
Much woe and misery.

Strange jealousies so filled her head
With many a vain surmize,
She thought her lord had wrong'd her bed, 15
And did her love despise.

A gentlewoman passing fair
Did on this lady wait;
With bravest dames she might compare;
Her beauty was compleat. 20

Her lady cast a jealous eye
Upon this gentle maid,
And taxt her with disloyaltye,
And did her oft upbraid.

In silence still this maiden meek 25
Her bitter taunts would bear,
While oft adown her lovely cheek
Would steal the falling tear.

In vain in humble sort she strove
Her fury to disarm; 30
As well the meekness of the dove
The bloody hawke might charm.

Her lord, of humour light and gay,
And innocent the while,
As oft as she came in his way, 35
Would on the damsell smile.

And oft before his lady's face,
As thinking her her friend,
He would the maiden's modest grace
And comeliness commend. 40

All which incens'd his lady so,
She burnt with wrath extreame;
At length the fire that long did glow,
Burst forth into a flame.

For on a day it so befell, 45
When he was gone from home,
The lady all with rage did swell,
And to the damsell come.

And charging her with great offence
And many a grievous fault, 50
She bade her servants drag her thence,
Into a dismal vault,

That lay beneath the common-shore,--
A dungeon dark and deep,
Where they were wont, in days of yore, 55
Offenders great to keep.

There never light of chearful day
Dispers'd the hideous gloom;
But dank and noisome vapours play
Around the wretched room: 60

And adders, snakes, and toads therein,
As afterwards was known,
Long in this loathsome vault had bin,
And were to monsters grown.

Into this foul and fearful place, 65
The fair one innocent
Was cast, before her lady's face;
Her malice to content.

This maid no sooner enter'd is,
But strait, alas! she hears 70
The toads to croak, and snakes to hiss:
Then grievously she fears.

Soon from their holes the vipers creep,
And fiercely her assail,
Which makes the damsel sorely weep, 75
And her sad fate bewail.

With her fair hands she strives in vain
Her body to defend;
With shrieks and cries she doth complain,
But all is to no end. 80

A servant listning near the door,
Struck with her doleful noise,
Strait ran his lady to implore;
But she'll not hear his voice.

With bleeding heart he goes agen 85
To mark the maiden's groans;
And plainly hears, within the den,
How she herself bemoans.

Again he to his lady hies,
With all the haste he may; 90
She into furious passion flies,
And orders him away.

Still back again does he return
To hear her tender cries;
The virgin now had ceas'd to mourn, 95
Which fill'd him with surprize.

In grief, and horror, and affright,
He listens at the walls
But finding all was silent quite,
He to his lady calls. 100

"Too sure, O lady," now quoth he,
"Your cruelty hath sped;
Make haste, for shame, and come and see;
I fear the virgin's dead."

She starts to hear her sudden fate, 105
And does with torches run;
But all her haste was now too late,
For death his worst had done.

The door being open'd, strait they found
The virgin stretch'd along; 110
Two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round,
Which her to death had stung.

One round her legs, her thighs, her waist,
Had twin'd his fatal wreath;
The other close her neck embrac'd, 115
And stopt her gentle breath.

The snakes being from her body thrust,
Their bellies were so fill'd,
That with excess of blood they burst,
Thus with their prey were kill'd. 120

The wicked lady, at this sight,
With horror strait ran mad;
So raving dy'd, as was most right,
'Cause she no pity had.

Let me advise you, ladies all, 125
Of jealousy beware:
It causeth many a one to fall,
And is the devil's snare.

THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.

"This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263, folio. It is there entitled, _The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's Cruelty; being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the Lady Isabella, the only daughter of a noble Duke, &c. To the tune of The Lady's Fall_. To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, entitled, _The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation_." Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 199.

The copy in Durfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_, v. 53, is nearly _verbatim_ the same.

There was a lord of worthy fame,
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble traine
Of gentrye by his side.

And while he did in chase remaine, 5
To see both sport and playe,
His ladye went, as she did feigne,
Unto the church to praye.

This lord he had a daughter deare,
Whose beauty shone so bright, 10
She was belov'd, both far and neare,
Of many a lord and knight.

Fair Isabella was she call'd,
A creature faire was shee;
She was her fathers only joye; 15
As you shall after see.

Therefore her cruel step-mother
Did envye her so much,
That daye by daye she sought her life,
Her malice it was such. 20

She bargain'd with the master-cook
To take her life awaye;
And taking of her daughter's book,
She thus to her did saye:--

"Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, 25
Go hasten presentlie,
And tell unto the master-cook
These wordes that I tell thee.

"And bid him dresse to dinner streight
That faire and milk-white doe 30
That in the parke doth shine so bright,
There's none so faire to showe."

This ladye fearing of no harme,
Obey'd her mothers will;
And presentlye she hasted home, 35
Her pleasure to fulfill.

She streight into the kitchen went,
Her message for to tell;
And there she spied the master-cook,
Who did with malice swell. 40

"Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,
Do that which I thee tell:
You needes must dresse the milk-white doe,
Which you do knowe full well."

Then streight his cruell bloodye hands, 45
He on the ladye layd;
Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he sayd:

"Thou art the doe that I must dresse;
See here, behold my knife; 50
For it is pointed presently
To ridd thee of thy life."

"O then," cried out the scullion-boye,
As loud as loud might bee,
"O save her life, good master-cook, 55
And make your pyes of mee!

"For pityes sake do not destroye
My ladye with your knife;
You know shee is her father's joye;
For Christes sake save her life!" 60

"I will not save her life," he sayd,
"Nor make my pyes of thee;
Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye,
Thy butcher I will bee."

Now when this lord he did come home 65
For to sitt down and eat,
He called for his daughter deare,
To come and carve his meat.

"Now sit you downe," his ladye sayd,
"O sit you downe to meat; 70
Into some nunnery she is gone;
Your daughter deare forget."

Then solemnlye he made a vowe
Before the companie,
That he would neither eat nor drinke, 75
Until he did her see.

O then bespake the scullion-boye.
With a loud voice so hye;
"If now you will your daughter see,
My lord, cut up that pye: 80

"Wherein her fleshe is minced small,
And parched with the fire;
All caused by her step-mother,
Who did her death desire.

"And cursed bee the master-cook, 85
O cursed may he bee!
I proffered him my own heart's blood,
From death to set her free."

Then all in blacke this lord did mourne,
And for his daughters sake, 90
He judged her cruell step-mother
To be burnt at a stake.

Likewise he judg'd the master-cook
In boiling lead to stand.
And made the simple scullion-boye 95
The heire of all his land.

THE CRUEL BLACK.

_A Collection of Old Ballads_, (1723,) ii. 152: also Evans's _Old Ballads_, iii. 232. Entered in the Stationers' _Registers, 1569-70_. A writer in the _British Bibliographer_, (iv. 182,) has pointed out that this is only one of Bandello's novels versified. The novel is the 21st of the Third Part, (London, 1792.)

_A lamentable Ballad of the tragical End of a gallant Lord and virtuous Lady; together with the untimely Death of their two Children: wickedly performed by a Heathenish and Blood-thirsty Black-a-moor, their Servant; the like of which Cruelty and Murder was never before heard of._

In Rome a nobleman did wed
A virgin of great fame;
A fairer creature never did
Dame Nature ever frame:
By whom he had two children fair, 5
Whose beauty did excel;
They were their parents only joy,
They lov'd them both so well.

The lord he lov'd to hunt the buck,
The tiger, and the boar; 10
And still for swiftness always took
With him a black-a-moor:
Which black-a-moor within the wood
His lord he did offend,
For which he did him then correct, 15
In hopes he would amend.

The day it grew unto an end;
Then homewards he did haste,
Where with his lady he did rest,
Until the night was past. 20
Then in the morning he did rise,
And did his servants call;
A hunting he provides to go:
Straight they were ready all

To cause the toyl the lady did 25
Intreat him not to go:
"Alas, good lady," then quoth he,
"Why art thou grieved so?
Content thyself, I will return
With speed to thee again." 30
"Good father," quoth the little babes,
"With us here still remain."

"Farewel, dear children, I will go
A fine thing for to buy;"
But they, therewith nothing content, 35
Aloud began to cry.
The mother takes them by the hand,
Saying, "Come, go with me
Unto the highest tower, where
Your father you shall see." 40

The black-a-moor, perceiving now,
Who then did stay behind,
His lord to be a hunting gone,
Began to call to mind:
"My master he did me correct, 45
My fault not being great;
Now of his wife I'll be reveng'd,
She shall not me intreat."

The place was moated round about;
The bridge he up did draw; 50
The gates he bolted very fast;
Of none he stood in awe.
He up into the tower went,
The lady being there;
Who, when she saw his countenance grim, 55
She straight began to fear.

But now my trembling heart it quakes
To think what I must write;
My senses all begin to fail,
My soul it doth affright. 60
Yet must I make an end of this
Which here I have begun,
Which will make sad the hardest heart,
Before that I have done.

This wretch unto the lady went, 65
And her with speed did will,
His lust forthwith to satisfy,
His mind for to fulfil.
The lady she amazed was,
To hear the villain speak; 70
"Alas," quoth she, "what shall I do?
With grief my heart will break."

With that he took her in his arms;
She straight for help did cry;
"Content yourself, lady," he said, 75
"Your husband is not nigh:
The bridge is drawn, the gates are shut,
Therefore come lie with me,
Or else I do protest and vow,
Thy butcher I will be." 80

The crystal tears ran down her face,
Her children cried amain,
And sought to help their mother dear,
But all it was in vain;
For that egregious filthy rogue 85
Her hands behind her bound,
And then perforce with all his might,
He threw her on the ground.

With that she shriek'd, her children cried,
And such a noise did make, 90
That town-folks, hearing her laments,
Did seek their parts to take:
But all in vain; no way was found
To help the lady's need,
Who cried to them most piteously, 95
"O help! O help with speed!"

Some run into the forest wide,
Her lord home for to call;
And they that stood still did lament
This gallant lady's fall. 100
With speed her lord came posting home;
He could not enter in;
His lady's cries did pierce his heart;
To call he did begin:

"O hold thy hand, thou savage moor, 105
To hurt her do forbear,
Or else be sure, if I do live,
Wild horses shall thee tear."
With that the rogue ran to the wall,
He having had his will, 110
And brought one child under his arm,
His dearest blood to spill.

The child, seeing his father there,
To him for help did call:
"O father! help my mother dear, 115
We shall be killed all."
Then fell the lord upon his knee,
And did the moor intreat,
To save the life of this poor child,
Whose fear was then so great. 120

But this vile wretch the little child
By both the heels did take
And dash'd his brains against the wall,
Whilst parent's hearts did ake:
That being done, straightway he ran 125
The other child to fetch,
And pluck'd it from the mother's breast,
Most like a cruel wretch.

Within one hand a knife he brought,
The child within the other; 130
And holding it over the wall,
Saying, "Thus shall die thy mother,"
With that he cut the throat of it;
Then to the father he did call,
To look how he the head did cut, 135
And down the head did fall.

This done, he threw it down the wall
Into the moat so deep;
Which made the father wring his hands,
And grievously to weep. 140
Then to the lady went this rogue,
Who was near dead with fear,
Yet this vile wretch most cruelly
Did drag her by the hair;

And drew her to the very wall, 145
Which when her lord did see,
Then presently he cried out,
And fell upon his knee:
Quoth he, "If thou wilt save her life,
Whom I do love so dear, 150
I will forgive thee all is past,
Though they concern me near.

"O save her life, I thee beseech;
O save her, I thee pray,
And I will grant thee what thou wilt 155
Demand of me this day."
"Well," quoth the moor, "I do regard
The moan that thou dost make:
If thou wilt grant me what I ask,
I'll save her for thy sake." 160

"O save her life, and then demand
Of me what thing thou wilt."
"Cut off thy nose, and not one drop
Of her blood shall be spilt."
With that the lord presently took 165
A knife within his hand,
And then his nose he quite cut off,
In place where he did stand.

"Now I have bought my lady's life,"
He to the moor did call; 170
"Then take her," quoth this wicked rogue,
And down he let her fall.
Which when her gallant lord did see,
His senses all did fail;
Yet many sought to save his life, 175
But nothing could prevail.

When as the moor did see him dead,
Then did he laugh amain
At them who for their gallant lord
And lady did complain: 180
Quoth he, "I know you'll torture me,
If that you can me get,
But all your threats I do not fear,
Nor yet regard one whit.

"Wild horses shall my body tear, 185
I know it to be true,
But I prevent you of that pain:"
And down himself he threw.

Too good a death for such a wretch,
A villain void of fear! 190
And thus doth end as sad a tale
As ever man did hear.