Chapter XIV: Part V (2)

"I had nae stranger here last night, 65
That drank till the day was dawing;
But ane that took a pint, and paid it ere he went,
And there's naething to clear o' his lawing."

A lad amang the rest, being o' a merry mood,
To the young knight fell a-talking; 70
The wife took her foot, and gae him a kick,
Says, "Be busy, ye jilt, at your baking."

They stabbed the house, baith but and ben,
The curtains they spared nae riving,
And for a' that they did search and ca', 75
For a kiss o' the knight they were striving.

THE DUKE OF ATHOL'S NOURICE.

Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 127.

As I cam in by Athol's yetts,
I heard a fair maid singing;
"I am the Duke o' Athol's nourice,
And I wat it weel does set me;
And I wad gie a' my half-year's fee, 5
For ae sicht o' my Johnie."

"Keep weel, keep weel, your half-year's fee,
For ye'll soon get a sicht o' your Johnie;
But anither woman has my heart,
And I am sorry for to leave ye." 10

"Ye'll dow ye doun to yon change-house,
And drink till the day be dawing;
At ilka pint's end ye'll drink the lass' health,
That's coming to pay the lawing."

He hied him doun to yon change-house, 15
And he drank till the day was dawing;
And at ilka pint's end he drank the lass' health,
That was coming to pay for his lawing.

Aye he ranted, and aye he sang,
And drank till the day was dawing; 20
And aye he drank the bonnie lass' health,
That was coming to pay the lawing.

He spared na the sack, though it was dear,
The wine, nor the sugar-candy;
* * * *
* * *

He has dune him to the shot-window, 25
To see gin she war coming;
There he saw the duke and a' his merry men,
That oure the hill cam rinning.

He has dune him to the landlady,
To see gin she wad protect him; 30
She buskit him up into woman's claise,
And set him till a baking.

Sae loudlie as they rappit at the yett,
Sae loudlie as they war calling;
"Had ye a young man here yestreen, 35
That drank till the day was dawing?"

"He drank but ae pint, and he paid it or he went,
And ye've na mair to do wi' the lawing."
They searchit the house a' round and round,
And they spared na the curtains to tear them; 40

While the landlady stood upo' the stair-head,
Crying, "Maid, be busy at your baking;"
They gaed as they cam, and left a' undone,
And left the bonnie maid at her baking.

THE HIREMAN CHIEL.

From _Scarce Ancient Ballads_, p. 17. The same in Buchan, ii. 109, _The Baron turned Ploughman_.

There was a knight, a barone bright,
A bauld barone was he,
And he had only but one son,
A comely youth to see.

He's brought him at schools nine, 5
So has he at schools ten,
But the boy learn'd to haud the plow
Among his father's men.

But it fell ance upon a day
The bauld barone did say, 10
"My son you maun gae court a wife,
And ane o high degree.

"Ye have lands, woods, rents, and bouirs,
Castels and touirs three;
Then go my son and seek some dame 15
To share that gift wi' thee."

"Yes, I have lands and woods, father,
Castels and touirs three;
But what if she like my lands and rents
Far more than she loves me? 20

"But I will go and seek a wife
That weel can please mine ee,
And I sall fairly try her love
Before she gang wi me."

He then took off the scarlet coat, 25
Bedeck'd wi shinin' gold,
And has put on the hireman's coat,
To keip him frae the cold.

He then laid past the studded sword,
That he could bravely draw, 30
And he's gone skipping down the stair,
Swift as the bird that flaw.

He took a stick into his hand,
Which he could bravely wiel,
And he's gane whistling o'er the lan', 35
Like a young hireman chiel.

And he gaed up yon high high hill,[L37]
And low down i the glen,
And there he saw a gay castell,
Wi turrets nine or ten. 40

And he has gone on, and farther on,
Till to the yett drew he,
And there he saw a lady fair,
That pleas'd the young man's ee.

He went streight to the greave's chamber, 45
And with humilitie,
Said, "Have ye any kind of work
For a hireman chiel like me?"

"What is the work that ye intend,
Or how can we agree? 50
Can ye plow, reap, and sow the corn,
And a' for meat and fee?"

"Yes, I can plow, and reap, and mow,
And sow the corn too;
I can weel manage horse and cow, 55
And a' for meat and fee."

"If ye can haud the plow right weel,
And sow the corn too,
By faith and troth, my hireman chiel,
We shall not part for fee." 60

He['s] put his hand in his pocket,
And taen out shillings nine;
Says, "Take ye that, my hireman chiel,
And turn in here and dine."

He acted all he took in hand, 65
His master lov'd him weel,
And the young lady of the land
Fell in love wi the hireman chiel.

How oft she tried to drown the flame,
And oft wept bitterlie; 70
But still she lov'd the hireman chiel,
So well's he pleas'd her ee.

She has written a broad letter,
And seal'd it wi' her hand,
And dropt it at the stable door, 75
Where the young man did stand.

"I am in love, my hireman chiel,
I'm deip in love wi thee;
And if ye think me worth your love,
I' the garden green meet me." 80

When he had read the letter o'er,
A loud loud laugh gae he;
Said, "If I manage my business well,
I'm sure to get my fee."

At night they met behind a tree, 85
Low in the garden green,
To tell their tale among the flowers,
And view the e'ening scene.

Next morning by the rising sun,
She, with her maries fair, 90
Walk'd to the fields to see the plow,
And meet the hireman there.

"Good morn, good morn, my lady gay,
I wonder much at you,
To rise so early in the morn, 95
While fields are wet wi dew,
To hear the linnets on the thorn,
And see the plow-boy plow."

"But I wonder much at you, young man,
I wonder much at you, 100
That ye no other station have
Than hold my father's plow."

"I love as weel to rise each morn
As ye can your maries fair;
I love as weel to hold the plow 105
As I were your father's heir.

"If ye love me, as ye protest,
And I trust weel ye do,
The morn's night at eight o'clock,
In gude green wood meet me." 110

"Yes, I love you, my hireman chiel,
And that most tenderlie,
But when my virgin honor's gone,
I soon will slighted be."

"Take ye no dread, my lady gay, 115
Lat a your folly be;
If ye com a maiden to green wood,
You'll return the same for me."

The lady she went home again
Wi a mary on every hand; 120
She was so very sick in love,
She could not sit nor stand.

It was a dark and cloudy night,
No stars beam'd o'er the lea,
When the lady and the hireman met 125
Beneath a spreading tree.

He took the lady in his arms,
Embraced her tenderlie,
And thrice he kiss'd her rosy lips
Under the green wood tree. 130

"Hold off your hands, young man, I pray;
I wonder much at thee;
The man that holds my father's plow,
To lay his hands on me."

"No harm I mean, my winsome dame, 135
No impudence at a';
I never laid a hand on you
Till your libertie I saw."

"It is a dark and dismal night, 140
The dew is falling down;
I will go home, least I should spoil
My cap and satin gown."

"If you are wearied so soon,
Why did ye tryst me here?" 145
"I would not weary with you, my dear,
Tho this night were a year."

When morning beams began to peep
Among the branches green,
The lovers rose, and part to meet, 150
And tell their tale again.

"Ye will go home unto the plow,
Where often ye hae been;
I'll tak my mantle folded up,
And walk i the garden green. 155

"The barone and my mother dear
Will wonder what I mean;
They'll think I've been disturbed sair,
When I am up so soon."

But this pass'd on, and farther on, 160
For two months and a day,
Till word came to the bauld barone,
And an angry man was he.

The barone swore a solemn oath,
An angry man was he, 165
"The morn, before I eat or drink,
High hanged shall he be."

"Farewell, my lovely maiden fair,
A long adieu to thee;
Your father's sworn a solemn swear 170
That hanged I shall be."

"O woe's me," the lady said,
"Yet do not troubled be;
If e'er they touch the hair on thy head,
They'll get no good of me." 175

He turn'd him right and round about,
And a loud loud laugh gae he;
"That man stood never in the court
That dare this day hang me."

The lady spake from her bouir door, 180
An angry woman was she;
"What insolence in you to tryst
Her to the green wood tree."

"If she had not given her consent,
She had not gone wi me; 185
If she came a maiden to green wood,
She return'd again for me."

He turn'd him right and round about,
And a loud loud laugh gae he;
"Ye may wed your daughter whan ye will, 190
She's none the worse for me."

He has gone whistling o'er the knowe,
Swift as the bird that flaw;
The lady stood in her bouir door,
And lout the salt tears fa. 195

But this pass'd on, and further on,
A twelve month and a day,
Till there came a knight and a barone bright
To woo this lady gay.

He soon gain'd the baronne's will, 200
Likewise the mother gay;
He woo'd and won the lady's love,
But by a slow degree.

"O weel befa' you, daughter dear,
And happy may ye be, 205
To lay your love on the grand knight,
And let the hireman be."

"O haud your tongue, my father dear,
And speak not so to me;
Far more I love the hireman chiel 210
Than a' the knights I see.

The morn was come, and bells were rung,
And all to church repair;
But like the rose among the throng
Was the lady and her maries fair. 215

But as they walked o'er the field,
Among the flowers fair,
Beneath a tree stood on the plain,
The hireman chiel was there.

"I wish you joy, my gay madam, 220
And aye well may ye be;
There is a ring, a pledge of love,
That ance I got from thee."

"O wae befa' ye, you hireman chiel,
Some ill death may ye die; 225
Ye might hae tauld to me your name,
Your hame, or what countrie."

"If ye luve me, my lady gay,
As ye protest ye do,
Then turn your love from this gay knight, 230
And reach your hand to me."

Then out spake the gay baronne,
And an angry man was he;
"If I had known she was belov'd,
She had never been lov'd by me." 235

When she was set on high horse-back,
And riding thro' the glen,
They saw her father posting quick,
With fifty armed men.

"Do for yourself, my hireman lad, 240
And for your safety flee;
My father he will take me back,
But married I'll never be."

When they were up yon rising hill,
There low down i' the glen, 245
He saw his father's gilded coach,
Wi' five hundred gentlemen.

"Come back, turn back, my hireman chiel,
Turn back and speak wi' me;
Ye've serv'd me lang for the lady's sake, 250
Come back, and get your fee."

"Your blessing give us instantly,
Is all we crave o' thee;
These seven years I've serv'd for her sake,
But now I'm paid my fee." 255

37. As.

ARMSTRONG AND MUSGRAVE.

From _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 175.

The story of this ballad seems to be the same as that of _Lord Livingston_, in the third volume of this collection (p. 343). The whole title is as follows:

A pleasant ballad shewing how two valiant knights, Sir John Armstrong
and Sir Michael Musgrave, fell in love with the beautiful daughter
of the Lady Dacres in the North; and of the great strife that
happen'd between them for her, and how they wrought the death of one
hundred men.

As it fell out one Whitsunday,
The blith time of the year,
When every tree was clad with green,
And pretty birds sing clear,
The Lady Dacres took her way 5
Unto the church that pleasant day,
With her fair daughter fresh and gay,
A bright and bonny lass.

Sir Michael Musgrave, in like sort,
To church repaired then, 10
And so did Sir John Armstrong too,
With all his merry men.
Two greater friends there could not be,
Nor braver knights for chivalry,
Both batchelors of high degree, 15
Fit for a bonny lass.

They sat them down upon one seat,
Like loving brethren dear,
With hearts and minds devoutly bent
God's service for to hear; 20
But rising from their prayers tho,
Their eyes a ranging strait did go,
Which wrought their utter overthrow,
All for one bonny lass.

Quoth Musgrave unto Armstrong then, 25
"Yon sits the sweetest dame,
That ever for her fair beauty
Within this country came."
"In sooth," quoth Armstrong presently,
"Your judgment I must verify, 30
There never came unto my eye
A braver bonny lass."

"I swear," said Musgrave, "by this sword,
Which did my knighthood win,
To steal away so sweet a dame, 35
Could be no ghostly sin."
"That deed," quoth Armstrong, "would be ill,
Except you had her right good will,
That your desire she would fulfil,
And be thy bonny lass." 40

By this the service quite was done,
And home the people past;
They wish'd a blister on his tongue
That made thereof such haste.
At the church door the knights did meet, 45
The Lady Dacres for to greet,
But most of all her daughter sweet,
That beauteous bonny lass.

Said Armstrong to the lady fair,
"We both have made a vow 50
At dinner for to be your guests,
If you will it allow."
With that bespoke the lady free,
"Sir knights, right welcome shall you be;"
"The happier men therefore are we, 55
For love of this bonny lass."

Thus were the knights both prick'd in love,
Both in one moment thrall'd,
And both with one fair lady gay,
Fair Isabella call'd. 60
With humble thanks they went away,
Like wounded harts chas'd all the day,
One would not to the other say,
They lov'd this bonny lass.

Fair Isabel, on the other side, 65
As far in love was found;
So long brave Armstrong she had ey'd,
Till love her heart did wound;
"Brave Armstrong is my joy," quoth she,
"Would Christ he were alone with me, 70
To talk an hour, two, or three,
With his fair bonny lass."

But as these knights together rode,
And homeward did repair,
Their talk and eke their countenance shew'd 75
Their hearts were clogg'd with care.
"Fair Isabel," the one did say,
"Thou hast subdu'd my heart this day;"
"But she's my joy," did Musgrave say,
"My bright and bonny lass." 80

With that these friends incontinent
Became most deadly foes;
For love of beauteous Isabel,
Great strife betwixt them rose:
Quoth Armstrong, "She shall be my wife, 85
Although for her I lose my life;"
And thus began a deadly strife,
And for one bonny lass.

Thus two years long this grudge did grow
These gallant knights between, 90
While they a-wooing both did go,
Unto this beauteous queen;
And she who did their furies prove,
To neither would bewray her love,
The deadly quarrel to remove 95
About this bonny lass.

But neither, for her fair intreats,
Nor yet her sharp dispute,
Would they appease their raging ire,
Nor yet give o'er their suit. 100
The gentlemen of the North Country
At last did make this good decree,
All for a perfect unity
About this bonny lass.

The love-sick knights should be set 105
Within one hall so wide,
Each of them in a gallant sort
Even at a several tide;
And 'twixt them both for certainty
Fair Isabel should placed be, 110
Of them to take her choice full free,
Most like a bonny lass.

And as she like an angel bright
Betwixt them mildly stood,
She turn'd unto each several knight 115
With pale and changed blood;
"Now am I at liberty
To make and take my choice?" quoth she:
"Yea," quoth the knights, "we do agree;
Then chuse, thou bonny lass." 120

"O Musgrave, thou art all too hot
To be a lady's love,"
Quoth she, "and Armstrong seems a sot,
Where love binds him to prove.
Of courage great is Musgrave still, 125
And sith to chuse I have my will,
Sweet Armstrong shall my joys fulfil,
And I his bonny lass."

The nobles and the gentles both
That were in present place, 130
Rejoiced at this sweet record;
But Musgrave, in disgrace,
Out of the hall did take his way,
And Armstrong marryed was next day
With Isabel his lady gay, 135
A bright and bonny lass.

But Musgrave on the wedding-day,
Like to a Scotchman dight,
In secret sort allured out
The bridegroom for the fight; 140
And he, that will not outbraved be,
Unto his challenge did agree,
Where he was slain most suddenly
For his fair bonny lass.

The news whereof was quickly brought 145
Unto the lovely bride;
And many of young Armstrong's kin
Did after Musgrave ride.
They hew'd him when they had him got,
As small as flesh into the pot; 150
Lo! thus befel a heavy lot
About this bonny lass.

The lady young, which did lament
This cruel cursed strife,
For very grief dyed that day, 155
A maiden and a wife.
An hundred men that hapless day
Did lose their lives in that same fray,
And 'twixt those names, as many say,
Is deadly strife still biding. 160

FAIR MARGARET OF CRAIGNARGAT.

"Craignargat is a promontory in the Bay of Luce. Though almost surrounded by the Barony of Mochrum, it was long possessed by a branch of the family of Macdowall, which was probably our heroine's surname.--On the head of Fair Margaret's lovers, it may be remarked, that the Agnews of Lochnaw are a very ancient family, and hereditary sheriffs of Wigton. The Gordon mentioned was probably Gordon of Craighlaw, whose castle was situated about five miles from Craignargat, in the parish of Kirkcowan, considered so remote before the formation of military roads, that the local proverb says,--'Out of the world, and into Kirkcowan.' The Hays of Park dwell on the coast, about six miles from Craignargat; but it is singular that the lady is not complimented with a Dunbar as her lover, the Place of Mochrum, as the old town is called, being only two miles from her reputed residence." Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 71.

Fair Marg'ret of Craignargat
Was the flow'r of all her kin,
And she's fallen in love with a false young man,
Her ruin to begin.

The more she lov'd, the more it prov'd 5
Her fatal destiny,
And he that sought her overthrow
Shar'd of her misery.

Before that lady she was born,
Her mother, as we find, 10
She dreamt she had a daughter fair,
That was both dumb and blind.

But as she sat in her bow'r door,
A-viewing of her charms,
There came a raven from the south, 15
And pluck'd her from her arms.

Three times on end she dreamt this dream,
Which troubled sore her mind,
That from that very night and hour
She could no comfort find. 20

Now she has sent for a wise woman,
Liv'd nigh unto the port,
Who being call'd, instantly came,
That lady to comfort.

To her she told her dreary dream, 25
With salt tears in her eye,
Hoping that she would read the same,
Her mind to satisfy.

"Set not your heart on children young,
Whate'er their fortune be, 30
And if I tell what shall befal,
Lay not the blame on me.

"The raven which ye dreamed of,
He is a false young man,
With subtile heart and flatt'ring tongue, 35
Your daughter to trepan.

"Both night and day, 'tis you I pray
For to be on your guard,
For many are the subtile wyles
By which youth are ensnar'd." 40

When she had read the dreary dream,
It vex'd her more and more,
For Craignargat, of birth and state,
Liv'd nigh unto the shore.

But as in age her daughter wax'd, 45
Her beauty did excel
All the ladies far and near
That in that land did dwell.

The Gordon, Hay, and brave Agnew,
Three knights of high degree, 50
Unto the dame a-courting came,
All for her fair beauty.

Which of these men, they ask'd her then,
That should her husband be;
But scornfully she did reply, 55
"I'll wed none of the three."

"Since it is so, where shall we go
A match for thee to find,
That art so fair and beautiful,
That none can suit thy mind?" 60

With scorn and pride she answer made,
"You'll ne'er choice one for me,
Nor will I wed against my mind,
For all their high degree."

The brave Agnew, whose heart was true, 65
A solemn vow did make,
Never to love a woman more
All for that lady's sake.

To counsel this lady was deaf,
To judgement she was blind, 70
Which griev'd her tender parents dear,
And troubled sore their mind.

From the Isle of Man a courter came,
And a false young man was he,
With subtile heart and flatt'ring tongue, 75
To court this fair lady.

This young man was a bold outlaw,
A robber and a thief,
But soon he gain'd this lady's heart,
Which caused all their grief. 80

"O will you wed," her mother said,
"A man you do not know,
For to break your parents' heart,
With shame but and with woe?"

"Yes, I will go with him," she said, 85
"Either by land or sea;
For he's the man I've pitchéd on
My husband for to be."

"O let her go," her father said,
"For she shall have her will; 90
My curse and mallison she's got,
For to pursue her still."

"Your curse, father, I don't regard,
Your blessing I'll ne'er crave;
To the man I love I'll constant prove, 95
And never him deceive."

On board with him fair Margaret's gone,
In hopes his bride to be;
But mark ye well, and I shall tell
Of their sad destiny. 100

They had not sail'd a league but five,
Till the storm began to rise;
The swelling seas ran mountains high,
And dismal were the skies.

In deep despair that lady fair 105
For help aloud she cries,
While crystal tears like fountains ran
Down from her lovely eyes.

"O I have got my father's curse
My pride for to subdue! 110
With sorrows great my heart will break,
Alas what shall I do!

"O were I at my father's house,
His blessing to receive,
Then on my bended knees I'd fall, 115
His pardon for to crave!

"To aid my grief, there's no relief,
To speak it is in vain;
Likewise my loving parents dear
I ne'er shall see again." 120

The winds and waves did both conspire
Their lives for to devour;
That gallant ship that night was lost,
And never was seen more.

When tidings to Craignargat came, 125
Of their sad overthrow,
It griev'd her tender parent's heart;
Afresh began their woe.

Of the dreary dream that she had seen,
And often thought upon,-- 130
"O fatal news," her mother cries,
"My darling, she is gone!

"O fair Marg'ret, I little thought
The seas should be thy grave,
When first thou left thy father's house, 135
Without thy parent's leave."

May this tragedy a warning be
To children while they live,
That they may love their parents dear,
Their blessing to receive. 140

RICHIE STORIE.

"John, third Earl of Wigton, had six sons, and three daughters. The second, Lady Lillias Fleming, was so indiscreet as to marry a footman, by whom she had issue. She and her husband assigned her provision to Lieutenant-Colonel John Fleming, who discharged her renunciation, dated in October, 1673." Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 95.

The Earl o' Wigton had three daughters,
O braw wallie, but they were bonnie!
The youngest o' them, and the bonniest too,
Has fallen in love wi' Richie Storie.

"Here's a letter for ye, madame, 5
Here's a letter for ye, madame;
The Erle o' Home wad fain presume
To be a suitor to ye, madame."

"I'll hae nane o' your letters, Richie;
I'll hae nane o' your letters, Richie; 10
For I've made a vow, and I'll keep it true,
That I'll have nane but you, Richie."

"O do not say so, madame;
O do not say so, madame;
For I have neither land nor rent, 15
For to maintain you o', madame.

"Ribands ye maun wear, madame,
Ribands ye maun wear, madame;
With the bands about your neck
O' the goud that shines sae clear, madame." 20

"I'll lie ayont a dyke, Richie,
I'll lie ayont a dyke, Richie;
And I'll be aye at your command
And bidding, whan ye like, Richie."

O he's gane on the braid braid road, 25
And she's gane through the broom sae bonnie,
Her silken robes down to her heels,
And she's awa' wi' Richie Storie.

This lady gaed up the Parliament stair,
Wi' pendles in her lugs sae bonnie; 30
Mony a lord lifted his hat,
But little did they ken she was Richie's lady.

Up then spak the Erle o' Home's lady;
"Was na ye richt sorrie, Annie,
To leave the lands o' bonnie Cumbernauld, 35
And follow Richie Storie, Annie?"

"O what need I be sorrie, madame,
O what need I be sorrie, madame?
For I've got them that I like best,
And was ordained for me, madame." 40

"Cumbernauld is mine, Annie,
Cumbernauld is mine, Annie;
And a' that's mine, it shall be thine,
As we sit at the wine, Annie."

THE FARMER'S OLD WIFE.

_The Carl of Kellyburn Braes_, composed by Burns for Johnson's _Museum_, (p. 392,) was founded, he says, "on the old traditionary verses." These we have met with in no other form but the following, which is taken from _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, edited by Robert Bell, p. 204. What is styled the original of _The Carle of Kellyburn Braes_, in Cromek's _Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song_, p. 83, is, like many of the pieces in that volume, for the most part a fabrication. The place of the burden is supplied in Sussex, says Mr. Bell, by a whistling chorus.

Of the same tenor is the ballad of _The Devil and the Scold_, Collier's _Roxburghe Ballads_, p. 35.

We subjoin the first stanza of Burns's ballad for the sake of the burden, which is said to be old.

There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes,
_Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme_,
And he had a wife was the plague o' his days,
_And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime_.

* * * * *

There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell,
And he had a bad wife, as many knew well.

Then Satan came to the old man at the plough,--
"One of your family I must have now.

"It is not your eldest son that I crave, 5
But it is your old wife, and she I will have."

"O welcome, good Satan, with all my heart!
I hope you and she will never more part."

Now Satan has got the old wife on his back,
And he lugged her along like a pedlar's pack. 10

He trudged away till they came to his hall-gate:
Says he, "Here, take in an old Sussex chap's mate.

O then she did kick the young imps about,--
Says one to the other, "Let's try turn her out."

She spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains, 15
She up with her pattens, and beat out their brains.

She knocked the old Satan against the wall,--
"Let's try turn her out, or she'll murder us all."

Now he's bundled her up on his back amain,
And to her old husband he took her again. 20

"I have been a tormentor the whole of my life,
But I ne'er was tormented till I met with your wife."

THE DUEL OF WHARTON AND STUART.

_Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 77.

The unhappy event upon which the following ballad is founded took place under the reign of James the VI.

"The sufferers in this melancholy affair were both men of high birth, the heirs-apparent of two noble families, and youths of the most promising expectation. Sir James Stuart was a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Walter, first Lord Blantyre, by Nicholas, daughter of Sir James Somerville of Cambusnethan. Sir George Wharton was also a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Philip, Lord Wharton, by Frances, daughter of Henry Clifford, Earl of Cumberland. He married Anne, daughter of the Earl of Rutland, but left no issue." SCOTT.

This ballad was printed in the first edition of Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, p. 199, from a black-letter copy in Major Pearson's collection, (afterwards part of the Roxburghe.) Scott's version appears to have been obtained from James Hogg. "Two verses have been added," says Sir Walter, "and one considerably improved, from Mr. Ritson's edition. These three stanzas are the fifth and ninth of Part First, and the penult verse of Part Second. I am thus particular, that the reader may be able, if he pleases, to compare the traditional ballad with the original edition. It furnishes striking evidence, that 'without characters, fame lives long.' The difference chiefly to be remarked betwixt the copies, lies in the dialect, and in some modifications applicable to Scotland; as, using the words "our Scottish Knight." The black-letter ballad, in like manner, terms Wharton "our English Knight."

In this connection we may mention another ballad founded on a duel--_Sir Niel and Mac Van_, in Buchan's larger collection, ii. 16. A stall copy is called _Sir Neil and Glengyle_.

PART FIRST.

It grieveth me to tell you o'
Near London late what did befall,
'Twixt two young gallant gentlemen;
It grieveth me, and ever shall.

One of them was Sir George Wharton, 5
My good Lord Wharton's son and heir;
The other, James Stuart, a Scottish knight,
One that a valiant heart did bear.

When first to court these nobles came,
One night, a-gaming, fell to words,[L10] 10
And in their fury grew so hot,
That they did both try their keen swords.

No manner of treating, nor advice,
Could hold from striking in that place;
For, in the height and heat of blood, 15
James struck George Wharton on the face.

"What doth this mean," George Wharton said,
"To strike in such unmanly sort?
But, that I take it at thy hands,
The tongue of man shall ne'er report!" 20

"But do thy worst, then," said Sir James,
"Now do thy worst, appoint a day!
There's not a lord in England breathes
Shall gar me give an inch of way."

"Ye brag right weel," George Wharton said; 25
"Let our brave lords at large alane,
And speak of me, that am thy foe,
For you shall find enough o' ane."

"I'll interchange my glove wi' thine;
I'll show it on the bed of death; 30
I mean the place where we shall fight;
There ane or both maun lose life and breath!"

"We'll meet near Waltham," said Sir James;
"To-morrow, that shall be the day.
We'll either take a single man, 35
And try who bears the bell away."

Then down together hands they shook,
Without any envious sign;
Then went to Ludgate, where they lay,
And each man drank his pint of wine. 40

No kind of envy could be seen,
No kind of malice they did betray;
But a' was clear and calm as death,
Whatever in their bosoms lay:

Till parting time; and then, indeed, 45
They show'd some rancour in their heart;
"Next time we meet," says George Wharton,
"Not half sae soundly we shall part!"

So they have parted, firmly bent
Their valiant minds equal to try: 50
The second part shall clearly show,
Both how they meet, and how they die.

PART SECOND.

George Wharton was the first ae man
Came to the appointed place that day,
Where he espyed our Scots lord coming, 55
As fast as he could post away.

They met, shook hands; their cheeks were pale;
Then to George Wharton James did say,
"I dinna like your doublet, George,
It stands sae weel on you this day. 60

"Say, have you got no armour on?
Have you no under robe of steel?
I never saw an Englishman
Become his doublet half sae weel."

"Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton said, 65
"For that's the thing that mauna be,
That I should come wi' armour on,
And you a naked man truly."

"Our men shall search our doublets, George,
And see if one of us do lie; 70
Then will we prove, wi' weapons sharp,
Ourselves true gallants for to be."

Then they threw off their doublets both,
And stood up in their sarks of lawn;
"Now, take my counsel," said Sir James, 75
"Wharton, to thee I'll make it knawn:

"So as we stand, so will we fight,
Thus naked in our sarks," said he;
"Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton says,
"That is the thing that must not be. 80

"We're neither drinkers, quarrellers,
Nor men that cares na for oursell,
Nor minds na what we're gaun about,
Or if we're gaun to heav'n or hell.

"Let us to God bequeath our souls, 85
Our bodies to the dust and clay:"
With that he drew his deadly sword,
The first was drawn on field that day.

Se'en bouts and turns these heroes had,
Or e'er a drop o' blood was drawn; 90
Our Scotch lord, wond'ring, quickly cry'd,
"Stout Wharton, thou still hauds thy awn!"

The first stroke that George Wharton gae,
He struck him thro' the shoulder-bane;
The neist was thro' the thick o' the thigh; 95
He thought our Scotch lord had been slain.

"O ever alack!" George Wharton cry'd,
"Art thou a living man, tell me?
If there's a surgeon living can,
He's cure thy wounds right speedily." 100

"No more of that," James Stuart said;
"Speak not of curing wounds to me!
For one of us must yield our breath,
Ere off the field one foot we flee."

They looked oure their shoulders both, 105
To see what company was there:
They both had grievous marks of death,
But frae the other nane wad steer.

George Wharton was the first that fell,
Our Scotch lord fell immediately; 110
They both did cry to Him above
To save their souls, for they boud die.

10. Sir George Wharton was quarrelsome at cards; a temper which he exhibited so disagreeably when playing with the Earl of Pembroke, that the Earl told him, "Sir George, I have loved you long; but by your manner in playing, you lay it upon me either to leave to love you, or to leave to play with you; wherefore choosing to love you still, I will never play with you any more."--LODGE'S _Illustrations_, vol. iii. p. 350. SCOTT.

SADDLE TO RAGS.

From _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 126. The editor took this piece down from the recitation of a Yorkshire yeoman. Other ballads are popular with nearly the same plot, one of them called _The Crafty Ploughboy, or the Highwayman outwitted_. Another of a similar description is _Jock the Leg and the Merry Merchant_, (Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 165,) formed on the model of some Robin Hood ballad.

This story I'm going to sing,
I hope it will give you content,
Concerning a silly old man
That was going to pay his rent.

As he was a-riding along, 5
Along all on the highway,
A gentleman-thief overtook him,
And thus unto him did say.

"O well overtaken, old man,
O well overtaken," said he; 10
"Thank you kindly, sir," says the old man,
"If you be for my companie."

"How far are you going this way?"
It made the old man to smile;
"To tell you the truth, kind sir, 15
I'm just a-going twa mile.

"I am but a silly old man,
Who farms a piece of ground;
My half-year rent, kind sir,
Just comes to forty pound. 20

"But my landlord's not been at hame,--
I've not seen him twelve month or more;
It makes my rent to be large,
I've just to pay him fourscore."

"You should not have told any body, 25
For thieves there are ganging many;
If they were to light upon you,
They would rob you of every penny."

"O never mind," says the old man,
"Thieves I fear on no side; 30
My money is safe in my bags,
In the saddle on which I ride."

As they were a-riding along,
And riding a-down a ghyll,
The thief pulled out a pistòl, 35
And bade the old man stand still.

The old man was crafty and false,
As in this world are many;
He flung his old saddle o'er t' hedge,
And said, "Fetch it, if thou'lt have any." 40

This thief got off his horse,
With courage stout and bold,
To search this old man's bags,
And gave him his horse to hold.

The old man put foot in stirrup, 45
And he got on astride,
He set the thief's horse in a gallop,--
You need not bid th' old man ride!

"O stay! O stay!" says the thief,
"And thou half my share shalt have:" 50
"Nay, marry, not I," quoth the old man,
"For once I've bitten a knave!"

This thief he was not content;
He thought these must be bags;
So he up with his rusty sword, 55
And chopped the old saddle to rags.

The old man gallop'd and rode
Until he was almost spent,
Till he came to his landlord's house,
And paid him his whole year's rent. 60

He opened this rogue's portmantle;
It was glorious for to behold;
There was five hundred pound in money,
And other five hundred in gold.

His landlord it made him to stare, 65
When he did the sight behold;
"Where did thou get the white money,
And where get the yellow gold?"

"I met a fond fool by the way,
I swapped horses, and gave him no boot; 70
But never mind," says the old man,
"I got a fond fool by the foot."

"But now you're grown cramped and old,
Nor fit for to travel about;"
"O never mind," says the old man, 75
"I can give these old bones a root!"

As he was a-riding hame,
And a-down a narrow lane,
He spied his mare tied to a tree,
And said, "Tib, thou'lt now gae hame." 80

And when that he got hame,
And told his old wife what he'd done,
She rose and she donned her clothes,
And about the house did run.

She sung, and she danced, and sung, 85
And she sung with a merry devotion,
"If ever our daughter gets wed,
It will help to enlarge her portion!"

THE FAUSE KNIGHT UPON THE ROAD.

Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. lxxiv.

"O whare are ye gaun?"
Quo' the fause knicht upon the road;
"I'm gaun to the scule,"
Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude.

"What is that upon your back?" 5
Quo' the fause knicht upon the road;
"Atweel it is my bukes,"
Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude.

"What's that ye've got on your arm?"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c. 10
"Atweel it is my peit,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c.

"Wha's aucht they sheep?"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c.
"They are mine and my mither's," 15
Quo' the wee boy, &c.

"How monie o' them are mine?"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c.
"A' they that hae blue tails,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c. 20

"I wiss ye were on yon tree,"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c.
"And a gude ladder under me,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c.

"And the ladder for to break," 25
Quo' the fause knicht, &c.
"And you for to fa' doun,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c.

"I wiss ye were in yon sie,"
Quo' the fause knicht, &c. 30
"And a gude bottom under me,"
Quo' the wee boy, &c.

"And the bottom for to break,"
Quo' the fause knicht upon the road;
"And ye to be drowned," 35
Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude.

GIFTS FROM OVER SEA. Appendix to p. 11.

Wright's _Songs and Carols, printed from a MS. in the Sloane Collection_, No. 8.

I have a zong suster fer bezondyn the se,
Many be the drowryis that [s]che sente me.
[S]che sente me the cherye withoutyn ony ston,
And so [s]che dede [the] dowe withoutyn ony bon:
Sche sente me the brere withoutyn ony rynde,
Sche bad me love my lemman withoute longgyng.

How xuld ony cherye be withoute ston?
And how xuld ony dowe ben withoute bon?
How xuld any brere ben withoute rynde?
How xuld I love myn lemman without longyng?

Quan the cherye was a flour, than hadde it non ston:
Quan the dowe was an ey, than hadde it non bon:
Quan the brere was on-bred, than hadde it non rynd:
Quan the mayden hazt that [s]che louth, [s]che is without longyng.

THE COURTEOUS KNIGHT.

Appendix to p. 11, p. 83.

From _Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 91.

There was a knight, in a summer's night,
Appear'd in a lady's hall,
As she was walking up and down,
Looking o'er her castle wall.

"God make you safe and free, fair maid, 5
God make you safe and free!"
"O sae fa' you, ye courteous knight;
What are your wills wi' me?

"My wills wi' you are not sma', lady,
My wills wi' you nae sma'; 10
And since there's nane your bower within,
Ye'se ha'e my secrets a'.

"For here am I a courtier,
A courtier come to thee;
And if ye winna grant your love, 15
All for your sake I'll dee."

"If that ye dee for me, sir knight,
Few for you will make meen;
For mony gude lord's done the same,
Their graves are growing green." 20

"O winna ye pity me, fair maid,
O winna ye pity me?
O winna ye pity a courteous knight,
Whose love is laid on thee?"

"Ye say ye are a courteous knight, 25
But I think ye are nane;
I think ye're but a millar bred,
By the color o' your claithing.

"You seem to be some false young man,
You wear your hat sae wide; 30
You seem to be some false young man,
You wear your boots sae side."

"Indeed I am a courteous knight,
And of great pedigree;
Nae knight did mair for a lady bright 35
Than I will do for thee.

"O I'll put smiths in your smithy,
To shoe for you a steed;
And I'll put tailors in your bower,
To make you for a weed. 40

"I will put cooks in your kitchen,
And butlers in your ha';
And on the tap o' your father's castle,
I'll big gude corn and saw."

"If ye be a courteous knight, 45
As I trust not ye be,
Ye'll answer some o' the sma' questions
That I will ask at thee.

"What is the fairest flower, tell me,
That grows in muir or dale?[L50] 50
Likewise, which is the sweetest bird
Sings next the nightingale?
Or what's the finest thing," she says,
"That king or queen can wale?[L54]

"The primrose is the fairest flower 55
That grows in muir or dale;[L56]
The mavis is the sweetest bird
Next to the nightingale;
And yellow gowd's the finest thing
That king or queen can wale. 60

"Ye ha'e asked many questions, lady,
I've you as many told;"
"But, how many pennies round
Make a hundred pounds in gold?

"How many of the small fishes, 65
Do swim the salt seas round?
Or, what's the seemliest sight you'll see
Into a May morning?"

"Berry-brown ale, and a birken speal,
And wine in a horn green; 70
A milk-white lace in a fair maid's dress,
Looks gay in a May morning."

"Mony's the questions I've ask'd at thee,
And ye've answer'd them a';
Ye are mine, and I am thine, 75
Amo' the sheets sae sma'."

"You may be my match, kind sir,
You may be my match and more;
There ne'er was ane came sic a length,
Wi' my father's heir before. 80

"My father's lord o' nine castles,
My mother she's lady ower three,
And there is nane to heir them all,
No never a ane but me;
Unless it be Willie, my ae brother, 85
But he's far ayont the sea."

"If your father's laird o' nine castles,
Your mother lady ower three;
I am Willie your ae brother,
Was far beyond the sea." 90

"If ye be Willie, my ae brother,
As I doubt sair ye be;
But if it's true ye tell me now,
This night I'll gang wi' thee."

"Ye've ower ill washen feet, Janet, 95
And ower ill washen hands,
And ower coarse robes on your body,
Alang wi' me to gang.

"The worms they are my bed-fellows,
And the cauld clay my sheet; 100
And the higher that the wind does blaw,
The sounder I do sleep.

"My body's buried in Dumfermline,
And far beyond the sea;
But day nor night, nae rest cou'd get, 105
All for the pride o' thee.

"Leave aff your pride, jelly Janet," he says,
"Use it not ony mair;
Or when ye come where I hae been,
You will repent it sair. 110

"Cast aff, cast aff, sister," he says,
"The gowd lace fray your crown;
For if ye gang where I ha'e been,
Ye'll wear it laigher down.

"When ye're in the gude church set, 115
The gowd pins in your hair,
Ye take mair delight in your feckless dress
Than ye do in your morning prayer.

"And when ye walk in the church-yard,
And in your dress are seen, 120
There is nae lady that sees your face
But wishes your grave were green.

"You're straight and tall, handsome withall,
But your pride owergoes your wit;
But if ye do not your ways refrain, 125
In Pirie's chair ye'll sit.

"In Pirie's chair you'll sit, I say,
The lowest seat o' hell;
If ye do not amend your ways,
It's there that ye must dwell." 130

Wi' that he vanish'd frae her sight,
Wi' the twinkling o' an eye;
Naething mair the lady saw,
But the gloomy clouds and sky.

50, 56, mire.

54, wile.

THE NORTHERN LORD AND CRUEL JEW.

Appendix to p. 46.

This ballad, which has some features of resemblance to _Cymbeline_, as well as to the _Merchant of Venice_, is taken from Buchan's _Gleanings of Scotch, English, and Irish scarce old Ballads_, p. 105. Another copy is in Mr. Halliwell's _New Boke about Shakspeare_, p. 19.

A noble lord of high renown,
Two daughters had, the eldest brown,
The youngest beautiful and fair:
By chance a noble knight came there.

Her father said, "Kind sir, I have 5
Two daughters: which do you crave?"
"One that is beautiful," he cried;
The noble knight he then replied:

"She's young, she's beautiful and gay,
And is not to be given away, 10
But as jewels are bought and sold;
She shall bring me her weight in gold.

"The price I think ye need not grudge,
Since I will freely give as much
With her one sister, if I can 15
Find out some other nobleman."

With that bespoke the noble knight,
"I'd sooner have the beauty bright,
At that vast rate, renownèd lord,
Than the other with a vast reward." 20

So then the bargain it was made;
But ere the money could be paid,
He had it of a wealthy Jew;
The sum so large, the writings drew

That if he failed, or miss'd the day, 25
So many ounces he should pay
Of his own flesh, instead of gold;
All was agreed, the sum was told.

So he returned immediately
Unto the lord, where he did buy 30
His daughter fine, I do declare,
And paid him down the money there.

He bought her there, it is well known
Unto mankind; she was his own;
By her a son he did enjoy, 35
A sweet and comely handsome boy.

At length the time of pay drew near,
When the knight did begin to fear;
He dreaded much the cruel Jew,
Because the money it was due. 40

His lady asked him why he grieved:
He said, "My jewel, I received
Such sum of money of a Jew,
And now the money it is due.

"And now the day of payment's come, 45
I'm sure I cannot pay the sum;
He'll have my flesh, weight for weight,
Which makes my grief and sorrow great."

"Hush, never fear him," she replied;
"We'll cross the raging ocean wide, 50
And so secure you from the fate:"
To her request he yielded straight.

Then having pass'd the raging seas,
They travelled on, till by degrees
Unto the German court they came, 55
The knight, his son, and comely dame.

Unto the Emperor he told
His story of the sum of gold
That he had borrowed of a Jew,
And that for fear of death he flew. 60

The Emperor he did erect
A court for them, and show'd respect
Unto his guests, because they came
From Britain, that blest land of fame.

As here he lived in delight, 65
A Dutch lord told our English knight,
That he a ton of gold would lay,
He could enjoy his lady gay.

From her, the lord he was to bring
A rich and costly diamond ring, 70
That was to prove and testify
How he did with his lady lie.

He tries, but never could obtain
Her favour, but with high disdain
She did defy his base intent; 75
So to her chambermaid he went,

And told her if she would but steal
Her lady's ring, and to conceal
The same, and bring it to him straight,
She should enjoy a fine estate. 80

In hopes of such a fine reward,
The ring she stole; then the Dutch lord
Did take it to the noble knight,
Who almost swooned at the sight.

Home he goes to the lady straight; 85
Meeting her at the palace gate,
He flung her headlong into the mote,
And left her there to sink or float.

Soon after that, in clothes of green,
She like a warlike knight was seen, 90
And in most gallant gay deport
She rode unto the Emperor's court.

Now when the Emperor beheld
Her brave deportment, he was fill'd
With admiration at the sight, 95
Who call'd herself an English knight.

The Emperor then did reply,
"We have an English knight to die
For drowning of his lady gay;"
Quoth she, "I'd see him, if I may." 100

'Twas granted; so to him she came,
And calling of him by his name,
She said, "Kind sir, be of good cheer;
Your friend I'll be, you need not fear."

She to the Emperor did ride, 105
And said, "Now let this cause be tried
Once more, for I've a mind to save
This noble gallant from the grave."

It being done, the court was set;
The Dutch lord came, seeming to fret, 110
About the ring seeming to fear,
How truth would make his shame appear.

And so it did, and soon they call
The maid, who on her knees did fall
Before the court, and did confess 115
The Dutch lord's unworthiness.

The court repliéd, "Is it so?
The lady, too, for ought we know,
May be alive; therefore we'll stay
The sentence till another day." 120

Now the Dutch lord gave him a ton
Of gold, which he had justly won,
And so he did with shame and grief,
And thus the knight obtain'd relief.

The Dutch lord to revenge the spite 125
Upon our noble English knight,
Did send a letter out of hand,
And so the Jew did understand,

How he was in a German court;
So here upon this good report, 130
The Jew has cross'd the ocean wide,
Resolving to be satisfied.