Chapter I: Front Matter

POPULAR BRITISH BALLADS

ANCIENT AND MODERN

By Various

Chosen and edited by R. Brimley Johnson

Illustrated By W. C. Cooke

In Four Volumes

Volume III

1894

THE HERMIT

|Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow,

Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem length'ning as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,

"To tempt the dangerous gloom;

For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whateer my cell bestows;

My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free

To slaughter I condemn;

Taught by that Power that pities me,

I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong:

Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay--

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master's care;

The wicket, opening with a latch,

Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,

The hermit trimmed his little fire,

And cheered his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily pressed and smiled;

And, skilled in legendary lore,

The ling'ring hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,

Its tricks the kitten tries,

The cricket chirrups on the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,

With answering care opprest:

And "Whence, unhappy youth," he cried,

"The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurn'd,

Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,

Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings,

Are trifling, and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep,

A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep?

"And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex," he said;

But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view:

Like colours o er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms.

And, "Ah! forgive a stranger rude--

A wretch forlorn," she cried;

"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where Heaven and you reside.

"But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray;

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

"My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine--

He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber'd suitors came,

Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feigned, a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;

Amongst the rest, young Edwin bowed,

But never talked of love.

"In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he;

Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

"And when beside me in the dale,

He carolled lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

And music to the grove.

"The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refined,

Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine:

Their charms were his, but, woe to me,

Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;

And, while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumphed in his pain:

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride,

And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay;

I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

"And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die;

'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide--

'Twas Edwin's self that prest!

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign:

And shall we never, never part,

My life,--my all that's mine?

"No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true--

The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too."

----O. Goldsmith.

|Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wondrous short,--

It cannot hold you long.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

|In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,

That still a godly race he ran,--

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes;

The naked every day he clad,--

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad

To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That showed the rogues they lied;

The man recovered of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

----O. Goldsmith.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

|It was a friar of orders gray

Walkt forth to tell his beades;

And he met with a lady faire

Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst see,"

"And how should I know your true love

From many another one?"

"O, by his cockle hat, and staff,

And by his sandal shoone.

"But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view;

His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,

And eyne of lovely blue."

"O lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady, he's dead and gone!

And at his head a green grass turfe,

And at his heels a stone.

"Within these holy cloysters long

He languisht, and he dyed,

Lamenting of a ladyes love,

And playing of her pride.

"Here bore him barefac'd on his bier

Six proper youths and tall,

And many a tear bedew'd his grave

Within yon kirk-yard wall."

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!

And art thou dead and gone!

And didst thou die for love of me!

Break, cruel heart of stone!"

"O weep not, lady, weep not soe:

Some ghostly comfort seek:

Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,

Ne teares bedew thy cheek."

"O do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow now reprove;

For I have lost the sweetest youth,

That e'er wan ladyes love.

"And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,

I'll evermore weep and sigh:

For thee I only wisht to live,

For thee I wish to dye."

"Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrowe is in vaine:

For violets pluckt the sweetest showers

Will ne'er make grow againe.

"Our joys as winged dreams doe flye,

Why then should sorrow last?

Since grief but aggravates thy losse,

Grieve not for what is past."

"O say not soe, thou holy friar;

I pray thee, say not soe:

For since my true-love dyed for mee,

'Tis meet my tears should flow.

"And will he never come again?

Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,

For ever to remain.

"His cheek was redder than the rose;

The comeliest youth was he?

But he is dead and laid in his grave:

Alas, and woe is me!"

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever:

One foot on sea and one on land,

To one thing constant never.

"Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,

And left thee sad and heavy;

For young men ever were fickle found,

Since summer trees were leafy."

"Now say not soe, thou holy friar,

I pray thee say not soe;

My love he had the truest heart:

O he was ever true!

"And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,

And didst thou dye for mee?

Then farewell home; for ever-more

A pilgrim I will bee.

"But first upon my true-love s grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,

That wraps his breathless clay."

"Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile

Beneath this cloyster wall:

See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,

And drizzly rain doth fall."

"O stay me not, thou holy friar;

O stay me not, I pray;

No drizzly rain that falls on me,

Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears;

For see beneath this gown of gray

Thy owne true-love appears.

"Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought;

And here amid these lonely walls

To end my days I thought.

"But haply for my year of grace

Is not yet past away,

Might I still hope to win thy love,

No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart;

For since I have found thee, lovely youth,

We never more will part."

----T. Percy.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN

|John Gilpin was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

A train-band captain eke was he,

Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,

"Though wedded we have been

These twice ten tedious years, yet we

No holiday have seen.

"To-morrow is our wedding-day,

And we will then repair

Unto the ( Bell at Edmonton,

All in a chaise and pair.

"My sister, and my sister's child,

Myself, and children three,

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride

On horseback after me."

He soon replied, "I do admire

Of womankind but one,

And you are she, my dearest dear,

Therefore it shall be done.

"I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know,

And my good friend the calender

Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs Gilpin, "That's well said;

And for that wine is dear,

We will be furnished with our own,

Which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;

O'erjoyed was he to find,

That though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,

But yet was not allowed

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed,

Where they did all get in;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folks so glad,

The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side

Seized fast the flowing mane,

And up he got, in haste to ride,

But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,

His journey to begin,

When, turning round his head, he saw

Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,

Although it grieved him sore,

Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,

Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind,

When Betty screaming came downstairs,

"The wine is left behind!"

"Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me,

My leathern belt likewise,

In which I bear my trusty sword

When I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)

Had two stone bottles found,

To hold the liquor that she loved,

And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear,

Through which the belt he drew,

And hung a bottle on each side,

To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be

Equipped from top to toe,

His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,

He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again

Upon his nimble steed,

Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,

With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road

Beneath his well-shod feet,

The snorting beast began to trot,

Which galled him in his seat.

So, "Fair and softly!" John he cried,

But John he cried in vain;

That trot became a gallop soon,

In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must

Who cannot sit upright,

He grasped the mane with both his hands,

And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort

Had handled been before,

What thing upon his back had got

Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;

Away went hat and wig;

He little dreamt, when he set out,

Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly

Like streamer long and gay,

Till, loop and button failing both,

At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern

The bottles he had slung;

A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed,

Up flew the windows all;

And every soul cried out, "Well done!

As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin--who but he?

His fame soon spread around;

"He carries weight! he rides a race!

'Tis for a thousand pound!"

And still as fast as he drew near,

'Twas wonderful to view,

How in a trice the turnpike-men

Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down

His reeking head full low,

The bottles twain behind his back

Were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,

Most piteous to be seen,

Which made the horse's flanks to smoke

As they had basted been.

But still he seemed to carry weight,

With leathern girdle braced;

For all might see the bottle-necks

Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington

These gambols he did play,

Until he came unto the Wash

Of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the Wash about

On both sides of the way,

Just like unto a trundling mop,

Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife

From the balcony spied

Her tender husband, wondering much

To see how he did ride.

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house!"

They all at once did cry;

"The dinner waits, and we are tired;"

Said Gilpin--"So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whit

Inclined to tarry there!

For why?--his owner had a house

Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew,

Shot by an archer strong;

So did he fly--which brings me to

The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin, out of breath,

And sore against his will,

Till at his friend the calender's

His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amazed to see

His neighbour in such trim,

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,

And thus accosted him:

"What news? what news? your tidings tell;

Tell me you must and shall--

Say why bareheaded you are come,

Or why you come at all?"

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,

And loved a timely joke;

And thus unto the calender

In merry guise he spoke:

"I came because your horse would come:

And, if I well forebode,

My hat and wig will soon be here,

They are upon the road."

The calender, right glad to find

His friend in merry pin,

Returned him not a single word,

But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig,

A wig that flowed behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,

Each comely in his kind.

He held them up, and in his turn

Thus showed his ready wit:

"My head is twice as big as yours,

They therefore needs must fit."

"But let me scrape the dirt away,

That hangs upon your face;

And stop and eat, for well you may

Be in a hungry case."

Said John, "It is my wedding-day,

And all the world would stare

If wife should dine at Edmonton,

And I should dine at Ware."

So turning to his horse, he said,

"I am in haste to dine;

'Twas for your pleasure you came here,

You shall go back for mine."

Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast!

For which he paid full dear;

For while he spake, a braying ass

Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he

Had heard a lion roar,

And galloped off with all his might,

As he had done before

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went Gilpin's hat and wig;

He lost them sooner than at first,

For why?--they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw

Her husband posting down

Into the country far away,

She pulled out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said

That drove them to the "Bell,"

"This shall be yours when you bring back

My husband safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet

John coming back amain;

Whom in a trice he tried to stop,

By catching at his rein.

But not performing what he meant,

And gladly would have done,

The frighted steed he frighted more,

And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went postboy at his heels,

The postboy's horse right glad to miss

The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With postboy scampering in the rear,

They raised the hue and cry:

"Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!"

Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that passed that way

Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike-gates again

Flew open in short space;

The toll-men thinking, as before,

That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town;

Nor stopped till where he had got up,

He did again get down.

Now let us sing, Long live the King,

And Gilpin, long live he!

And when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see!

----W. Cowper.

FAIR ELEANOR

|The bell struck one, and shook the silent tower;

The graves give up their dead: fair Eleanor

Walked by the castle gate, and looked in;

A hollow groan ran through the dreary vaults.

She shrieked aloud, and sunk upon the steps,

On the cold stone her pale cheek. Sickly smells

Of death issue as from a sepulchre.

And all is silent but the sighing vaults.

Chill death withdraws his hand, and she revives;

Amazed she finds herself upon her feet,

And, like a ghost, through narrow passages

Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.

Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones

And grinning skulls, and corruptible death

Wrapt in his shroud; and now fancies she hears

Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.

At length, no fancy but reality

Distracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet

Of one that fled, approaches.--Ellen stood,

Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.

The wretch approaches, crying, "The deed is done!

Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send;

It is my life--send it to Eleanor--:

He's dead, and howling after me for blood!

"Take this," he cried: and thrust into her arms

A wet napkin, wrapt about; then rushed

Past, howling. She received into her arms

Pale death, and followed on the wings of fear.

They passed swift through the outer gate; the wretch

Howling, leaped o'er the wall into the moat,

Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen passed the bridge,

And heard a gloomy voice cry, "Is it done?"

As the deer wounded, Ellen flew over

The pathless plain; as the arrows that fly

By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness.

She fled from fear, till at her house arrived.

Her maids await her; on her bed she falls,

That bed of joy where erst her lord hath pressed.

"Ah woman's fear!" she cried, "Ah cursed duke!

Ah my dear lord! Ah wretched Eleanor!

"My lord was like a flower upon the brows

Of lusty May! Ah life as frail as flower!

O ghastly Death! withdraw thy cruel hand!

Seek'st thou that flower to deck thy horrid temples?

"My lord was like a star in highest heaven

Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness;

My lord was like the opening eyes of day,

When western winds creep softly oer the flowers.

"But he is darkened; like the summer's noon

Clouded; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down;

The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves,'

O Eleanor, weak woman, filled with woe!"

Thus having spoke, she raised up her head,

And saw the bloody napkin by her side,

Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold

More terrified, saw it unfold itself.

Her eyes were fixed; the bloody cloth unfolds,

Disclosing to her sight the murdered head

Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted

With gory blood; it groaned, and thus it spake:

"O Eleanor, behold thy husband's head,

Who sleeping on the stones of yonder tower,

Was reft of life by the accursed duke:

A hired villain turned my sleep to death.

"O Eleanor, beware the cursed duke;

O give him not thy hand, now I am dead.

He seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night,

Hired a villain to bereave my life."

She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffened to stone;

She took the gory head up in her arms;

She kissed the pale lips; she had no tears to shed;

She hugged it to her breast, and groaned her last.

----W. Blake.

THE WHISTLE

|I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth,

I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,

And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,

The god of the bottle sends down from his hall--

"This whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get oer,

And drink them to hell, sir, or ne'er see me

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,

What champions ventured, what champions fell;

The son of great Loda was conqueror still,

And blew on the whistle their requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,

Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquerd in war,

He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea,

No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd,

Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;

Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,

The jovial contest again have renew'd.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw:

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;

And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;

And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,

Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,

And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies,

"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,

And bumper his horn with him twenty times oer.

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe--or his friend,

Said, Toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,

And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame

Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray,

And tell future ages the feats of the day;

A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,

And every new cork is a new spring of joy;

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,

And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;

Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,

And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,

Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles apiece had well wore out the night,

When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,

Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,

And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,

No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;

A high ruling-elder to wallow in wine!

He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;

But who can with Fate and quart-bumpers contend?

Though Fate said--A hero shall perish in light;

So up rose bright Phoebus--and down fell the knight.

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink:

"Craigdarroch, thou'll soar when creation shall sink!

But if thou wouldst flourish immortal in rhyme,

Come--one bottle more--and have at the sublime!

"Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom with Bruce,

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"

----R. Burns.

LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

|Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,

And sair wi' his love he did deave me;

I said there was naething I hated like men,

The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me!

The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!

He spak o' the darts in my bonie black e'en,

And vow'd for my love he was dying;

I said he might die when he liked for Jean,

The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,

The Lord forgie me for lying!

A weel-stockèd mailen--himsel for the laird--

And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:

I never loot on that I ken'd it, or cared,

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,

But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less--

The deil tak his taste to gae near her!

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her could bear her,

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.

But a' the niest week, as I fretted wi' care,

I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock,

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there!

I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock,

I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,

Lest neebors might say I was saucy;

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,

And vow'd I was his dear lassie.

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,

Gin she had recover'd her hearin',

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet,

But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a swearin',

But, heavens! how he fell a swearin'!

He begg'd, for gudesake, I wad be his wife,

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow:

So e'en to preserve the poor body his life,

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,

I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

----R. Burns

JOHN BARLEYCORN

|There was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high;

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head;

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerfu' spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong,

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,

When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head

Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgell'd him full sore;

They hung him up before the storm,

And turned him o'er and o'er.

They fill'd up a darksome pit

With water to the brim,

They heaved in John Barleycorn,

There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,

To work him further woe,

And still, as signs of life appear'd,

They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, oer a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones;

But a miller used him worst of all--

He crushed him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood

And drank it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,

Of noble enterprise,

For if you do but taste his blood,

'Twill make your courage rise;

'Twill make a man forget his woe;

'Twill heighten all his joy:

'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,

Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

----R. Burns.

LADY MARY ANN

|O, Lady Mary Ann

Looks o'er the castle wa',

She saw three bonie boys

Playing at the ba';

The youngest he was

The flower amang them a';

My bonie laddie's young,

But he's growin' yet.

O father! O father!

An' ye think it fit,

We'll send him a year

To the college yet:

We'll sew a green ribbon

Round about his hat,

And that will let them ken

He's to marry yet.

Lady Mary Ann

Was a flower i' the dew,

Sweet was its smell,

And bonie was its hue!

And the langer it blossom'd

The sweeter it grew;

For the lily in the bud

Will be bonier yet.

Young Charlie Cochrane

Was the sprout of an aik;

Bonie and bloomin'

And straught was its make:

The sun took delight

To shine for its sake,

And it will be the brag

O' the forest yet.

The simmer is gane

When the leaves they were green,

And the days are awa'

That we hae seen;

But far better days

I trust will come again,

For my bonie laddie's young,

But he's growin' yet.

----R. Burns.

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN

|The laird o' Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great,

His mind is ta'en up wi' things o' the State;

He wanted a wife, his braw house to keep,

But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek.

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,

At his table head he thought she'd look well,

M'Clish's ae daughter o' Clavers-ha' Lee,

A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd and as gude as new,

His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;

He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat,

And wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that?

He took the grey mare, and rade cannily,

An' rapp'd at the yett o' Clavers-ha' Lee;

"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,--

She's wanted to speak to the laird o' Cockpen."

Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine;

"An' what brings the laird at sic a like time?"

She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,

Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

An' when she cam' ben he bow'd fu' low,

An' what was his errand he soon let her know;

Amazed was the laird when the lady said "Na,"

And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.

Dumfounder'd was he, nae sigh did he gie,

He mounted his mare--he rade cannily;

An' aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,

"She's daft to refuse the laird o' Cockpen."

----Carolina, Lady Nairne.

_(Stanzas added by Miss Ferrier)_

And now that the laird his exit had made,

Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;

"Oh, for ane I'll get better, its waur I'll get ten,

I was daft to refuse the laird o' Cockpen."

Next time that the laird and the lady were seen,

They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;

Now she sits in the ha like a weel-tappit hen,

But as yet there's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen.

THE LIDDEL BOWER

|Oh, will ye walk the wood, lady?

Or will ye walk the lea?

Or will ye gae to the Liddel Bower,

An' rest a while wi' me?"

"The deer lies in the wood, Douglas,

The wind blaws on the lea;

An' when I gae to Liddel Bower

It shall not be wi' thee."

"The stag bells on my hills, Lady,

The hart but and the hind;

My flocks lie in the Border dale,

My steeds outstrip the wind;

"At ae blast o' my bugle horn,

A thousand tend the ca:

Oh, gae wi' me to Liddel Bower--

What ill can thee befa'?

"D ye mind when in that lonely bower

We met at even tide,

I kissed your young an' rosy lips,

An' wooed you for my bride?

"I saw the blush break on your cheek,

The tear stand in your e'e;

Oh, could I ween, fair Lady Jane,

That then ye lo'ed na me?"

"But sair, sair hae I rued that day,

An' sairer yet may rue;

Ye thought na on my maiden love,

Nor yet my rosy hue.

"Ye thought na' on my bridal bed,

Nor vow nor tear o' mine;

Ye thought upon the lands o' Nith,

An' how they might be thine.

"Away! away! ye fause leman,

Nae mair my bosom wring:

There is a bird within yon bower,

Oh, gin ye heard it sing!"

Red grew the Douglas' dusky cheek,

He turned his eye away,

The gowden hilt fell to his hand;

"What can the wee bird say?"

It hirpled on the bough an' sang,

"Oh, wae's me, dame, for thee,

An' wae's me for the comely knight

That sleeps aneath the tree!

"His cheek lies on the cauld, cauld clay,

Nae belt nor brand has he;

His blood is on a kinsman's spear;

Oh, wae's me, dame, for thee!"

"My yeomen line the wood, lady,

My steed stands at the tree;

An' ye maun dree a dulefu' weird,

Or mount and fly wi' me."

What gars Caerlaverock yeomen ride

Sae fast in belt an' steel?

What gars the Jardine mount his steed,

And scour owre muir and dale?

Why seek they up by Liddel ford,

An down by Tarras linn?

The heiress o' the lands o' Nith,

Is lost to a' her kin.

Oh, lang, lang may her mother greet,

Down by the salt sea faem;

An' lang, lang may the Maxwells look,

Afore their bride come hame.

An' lang may every Douglas rue,

An' ban the deed for aye:--

The deed was done at Liddel Bower

About the break of day.

----J. Hogg.

ELLEN IRWIN; OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE

|Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate

Upon the braes of Kirtle,

Was lovely as a Grecian maid

Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;

Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,

And there did they beguile the day

With love and gentle speeches,

Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires

The Bruce had been selected;

And Gordon, fairest of them all,

By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble youth!

For it may be proclaimed with truth,

If Bruce hath loved sincerely,

That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what is Gordons beauteous face,

His shattered hopes and crosses,

To them 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,

Reclined on flowers and mosses?

Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,

Sees them and their caressing;

Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts

That through his brain are travelling,--

Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce

He launched a deadly javelin!

Fair Ellen saw it as it came,

And, stepping forth to meet the same,

Did with her body cover

The youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,

Thus died the beauteous Ellen,

Thus, from the heart of her true-love,

The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain

The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;

And fought with rage incessant

Against the Moorish crescent.

But many days, and many months,

And many years ensuing,

This wretched knight did vainly seek

The death that he was wooing:

So coming his last help to crave,

Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave

His body he extended,

And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard

The tale I have been telling,

May in Kirkconnel churchyard view

The grave of lovely Ellen:

By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;

And, for the stone upon its head

May no rude hand deface it,

And its forlorn Hic Jacet!

----W. Wordsworth.

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

|Seven daughters had Lord Archibald

All children of one mother:

I could not say in one short day

What love they bore each other.

A garland of seven lilies wrought!

Seven sisters that together dwell;

But he, bold knight as ever fought,

Their father, took of them no thought,

He loved the wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a rover brave

To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne;

The warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the leader of the band

Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Beside a grotto of their own,

With boughs above them closing,

The seven are laid, and in the shade

They lie like fawns reposing.

But now, upstarting with affright

At noise of man and steed,

Away they fly to left, to right--

Of your fair household, father knight,

Methinks you take small heed!

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,

And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,

The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your father loves to roam:

Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;

For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Some close behind, some side by side,

Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,

And let us die together."

A lake was near; the shore was steep;

There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap

Together plunged into the deep,

Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

The stream that flows out of the lake,

As through the glen it rambles,

Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,

For those seven lovely Campbells.

Seven little islands, green and bare,

Have risen from out the deep:

The fishers say, those sisters fair

By fairies are all buried there,

And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

----W. Wordsworth.

THE FORCE OF PRAYER or, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON'S PRIORY.

(A Tradition.)

|What is good for a bootless bene?"

With these dark words begins my tale;

And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring

When prayer is of no avail?

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

The falconer to the lady said;

And she made answer, "Endless sorrow!"

For she knew that her son was dead.

She knew it by the falconer's words,

And from the look of the falconer's eye;

And from the love which was in her soul

For her youthful Romilly.

Young Romilly through Barden woods

Is ranging high and low;

And holds a greyhound in a leash,

To let slip upon buck or doe.

The pair have reached that fearful chasm,

How tempting to bestride!

For lordly Wharf is there pent in,

With rocks on either side.

This striding-place is called The Strid,

A name which it took of yore:

A thousand years hath it borne that name,

And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid

That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,

Shall bound across The Strid?

He sprang in glee,--for what cared he

That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?

But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

And checked him in his leap.

The boy is in the arms of Wharf,

And strangled by a merciless force;

For never more was young Romilly seen

Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,

And long, unspeaking sorrow:

Wharf shall be to pitying hearts

A name more sad than Yarrow.

If for a lover the lady wept,

A solace she might borrow

From death, and from the passion of death;--

Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day

Which was to be to-morrow:

Her hope was a farther-looking hope,

And hers is a mothers sorrow.

He was a tree that stood alone,

And proudly did its branches wave;

And the root of this delightful tree

Was in her husband's grave!

Long, long in darkness did she sit,

And her first words were, "Let there be

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,

A stately priory!"

The stately priory was reared;

And Wharf, as he moved along,

To matins joined a mournful voice,

Nor failed at even-song.

And the lady prayed in heaviness

That looked not for relief!

But slowly did her succour come,

And a patience to her grief.

Oh! there is never sorrow of heart

That shall lack a timely end,

If but to God we turn, and ask

Of Him to be our Friend!

----W. Wordsworth.

ALBERT GRÆME'S SONG

|It was an English ladye bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

And she would marry a Scottish knight,

For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun,

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;

But they were sad ere day was done,

Though Love was still the lord of all.

Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;

Her brother gave but a flask of wine,

For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands, both meadow and lea,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,

And he swore her death, ere he would see

A Scottish knight the lord of all!

That wine she had not tasted well,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,

For Love was still the lord of all!

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall:--

So perish all would true love part,

That Love may still be lord of all!

And then he took the cross divine,

(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

And died for her sake in Palestine,

So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

Pray for their souls who died for love,

For Love shall still be lord of all!

----W. Scott.

HAROLD'S SONG

|O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell;

Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

--"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay,

Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

"The blackening wave is edged with white:

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;

The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,

Whose screams for bode that wreck is nigh.

(_inch_, isle.)

"Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch:

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?"--

"'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir

To-night at Roslin leads the ball,

But that my ladye-mother there

Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

"'Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well,

But that my sire the wine will chide,

If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."--

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;

'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,

And redder than the bright moon-beam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen,

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,

Each Baron for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire, within, around,

Deep sacristy and altar's pale;

Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh

The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chapelle;

Each one the holy vault doth hold--

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!

And each St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

----W. Scott.

LOCHINVAR

Lady Herons Song.

|O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,

He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)

"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?--

Lochinvar s'

63

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;--

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;--

And now am I come, with this lost love of mine

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,

He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,--

"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet

and plume;

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better by far,

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

----W. Scott.

ALICE BRAND

|Merry it is in the good greenwood,

Where the mavis and merle are singing,

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

And the hunters horn is ringing.

"O Alice Brand, my native land

Is lost for love of you;

And we must hold by wood and wold,

As outlaws wont to do.

"O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright,

And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue,

That on the night of our luckless flight,

Thy brother bold I slew.

"Now must I teach to hew the beech

The hand that held the glaive,

For leaves to spread our lowly bed,

And stakes to fence our cave.

"And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,

That wont on harp to stray,

A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd deer,

To keep the cold away."--

"O Richard! if my brother died,

'Twas but a fatal chance;

For darkling was the battle tried,

And fortune sped the lance.

"If pall and vair no more I wear,

Nor thou the crimson sheen,

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

As gay the forest green.

"And, Richard, if our lot be hard,

And lost thy native land,

Still Alice has her own Richard,

And he his Alice Brand."

'Tis merry,'tis merry, in good greenwood,

So blithe Lady Alice is singing;

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

Lord Richard's axe is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King,

Who wonn'd within the hill,--

Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church,

His voice was ghostly shrill:

"Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,

Our moonlight circle's screen?

Or who comes here to chase the deer,

Beloved of our Elfin Queen?

Or who may dare on wold to wear

The fairies' fatal green?

"Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,

For thou wert christen'd man;

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,

For mutter'd word or ban.

"Lay on him the curse of the wither'd heart,

The curse of the sleepless eye;

Till he wish and pray that his life would part,

Nor yet find leave to die."

'Tis merry,'tis merry, in good greenwood,

Though the birds have still'd their singing;

The evening blaze doth Alice raise,

And Richard is fagots bringing.

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf

Before Lord Richard stands,

And as he cross'd and bless'd himself,

"I fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf,

"That is made with bloody hands."

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,

That woman void of fear,--

"And if there's blood upon his hand,

'Tis but the blood of deer."--

"Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood!

It cleaves unto his hand,

The stain of thine own kindly blood,

The blood of Ethert Brand."

Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand,

And made the holy sign,--

"And if there's blood on Richard's hand,

A spotless hand is mine.

"And I conjure thee, Demon elf,

By Him whom Demons fear,

To show us whence thou art thyself,

And what thine errand here."--

"'Tis merry,'tis merry in Fairy-land,

When fairy birds are singing,

When the court doth ride by their monarch's side,

With bit and bridle ringing:

"And gaily shines the Fairy-land--

But all is glistening show,

Like the idle gleam that December's beam

Can dart on ice and snow.

"And fading, like that varied gleam,

Is our inconstant shape,

Who now like knight and lady seem,

And now like dwarf and ape.

"It was between the night and day,

When the Fairy King has power,

That I sank down in a sinful fray,

And 'twixt life and death was snatched away

To the joyless Elfin bower.

"But wist I of a woman bold,

Who thrice my brow durst sign,

I might regain my mortal mold,

As fair a form as thine."

She cross'd him once--she cross'd him twice--

That lady was so brave;

The fouler grew his goblin hue,

The darker grew the cave.

She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold;

He rose beneath her hand

The fairest knight on Scottish mold,

Her brother, Ethert Brand!

Merry it is in good greenwood,

When the mavis and merle are singing,

But merrier were they in Dunfermline grey,

When all the bells were ringing.

----W. Scott.

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN

|Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?

Why weep ye by the tide?

I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sail be his bride:

And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen"--

But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale;

Young Frank is chief of Errington,

And lord of Langly-dale;

His step is first in peaceful ha,

His sword in battle keen"--

But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sail not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair;

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen"--

But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And dame and knight are there.

They sought her baith by bower and ha';

The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

----W. Scott.

DAVIE GELLATLEY'S SONG

|False love, and hast thou play'd me this

In summer among the flowers?

I will repay thee back again

In winter among the showers.

Unless again, again, my love,

Unless you turn again;

As you with other maidens rove,

I'll smile on other men.

The Knight's to the mountain

His bugle to wind;

The Lady's to greenwood

Her garland to bind.

The bower of Burd Ellen

Has moss on the floor,

That the step of Lord William

Be silent and sure.

----W. Scott.

ELSPETH'S BALLAD

|The herring loves the merry moon-light,

The mackerel loves the wind,

But the oyster loves the dredging sang,

For they come of a gentle kind.

Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle,

And listen great and sma',

And I will sing of Glenallans Earl

That fought on the red Harlaw.

The cronach's cried on Bennachie,

And doun the Don and a',

And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be

For the sair field of Harlaw.--

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,

They hae bridled a hundred black,

With a chafron of steel on each horse's head,

And a good knight upon his back.

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile,

A mile but barely ten,

When Donald came branking down the brae

Wi' twenty thousand men.

Their tartans they were waving wide,

Their glaives were glancing clear,

The pibrochs rung frae side to side,

Would deafen ye to hear.

The great Earl in his stirrups stood,

That Highland host to see:

"Now here a knight that's stout and good

May prove a jeopardie:

"What would'st thou do, my squire so gay,

That rides beside my reyne,--

Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day,

And I were Roland Cheyne?

"To turn the rein were sin and shame,

To fight were wondrous peril,--

What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne,

Were ye Glenallan's Earl?"

"Were I Glenallan s Earl this tide,

And ye were Roland Cheyne,

The spur should be in my horse's side,

And the bridle upon his mane.

"If they hae twenty thousand blades,

And we twice ten times ten,

Yet they hae but their tartan plaids,

And we are mail-clad men.

"My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude,

As through the moorland fern,--

Then neer let the gentle Norman blude

Grow cauld for Highland kerne."

----W. Scott.

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN

|The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,

He spurr'd his courser on,

Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,

That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch,

His banner broad to rear;

He went not gainst the English yew,

To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced,

And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore:

At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,

Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron returned in three days' space,

And his looks were sad and sour;

And weary was his courser's pace,

As he reach'd his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor

Ran red with English blood;

Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,

'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd

His acton pierced and tore,

His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,--

But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still;

And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,

His name was English Will.

"Come thou hither, my little foot-page,

Come hither to my knee;

Though thou art young and tender of age,

I think thou art true to me.

"Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

And look thou tell me true!

Since I from Smaylhome tower have been,

What did thy lady do?"--

"My lady, each night, sought the lonely light,

That burns on the wild Watchfold;

For, from height to height, the beacons bright

Of the English foemen told.

"The bittern clamour'd from the moss,

The wind blew loud and shrill;

Yet the craggy pathway she did cross,

To the eiry Beacon Hill.

"I watch'd her steps, and silent came

Where she sat her on a stone;--

No watchman stood by the dreary flame,

It burned all alone.

"The second night I kept her in sight,

Till to the fire she came,

And, by Mary's might! an Armed Knight

Stood by the lonely flame.

"And many a word that warlike lord

Did speak to my lady there;

But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast,

And I heard not what they were.

"The third night there the sky was fair,

And the mountain-blast was still,

As again I watch'd the secret pair,

On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

"And I heard her name the midnight hour,

And name this holy eve;

And say, 'Come this night to thy lady's bower;

Ask no bold Baron's leave.'

"'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;

His lady is all alone;

The door she'll undo, to her knight so true,

On the eve of good St. John.'--

"' I cannot come; I must not come;

I dare not come to thee;

On the eve of St. John I must wander alone:

In thy bower I may not be.'--

"'Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!

Thou shouldst not say me nay;

For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,

Is worth the whole summer's day.

"'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound,

And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair;

So, by the black rood-stone, and by holy St. John,

I conjure thee, my love, to be there!'--

"'Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot,

And the warder his bugle should not blow,

Yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to the east,

And my footstep he would know.'--

"' O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east!

For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en;

And there to say mass, till three days do pass,

For the soul of a knight that is slayne.'--

"He turn'd him around and grimly he frown'd;

Then he laughed right scornfully--

' He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight,

May as well say mass for me.

"'At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power,

In thy chamber will I be.'--

With that he was gone, and my lady left alone,

And no more did I see."

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's

brow,

From the dark to the blood-red high;

"Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen,

For, by Mary, he shall die!"--

"His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light:

His plume it was scarlet and blue;

On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound,

And his crest was a branch of the yew."--

"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,

Loud dost thou lie to me!

For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould,

All under the Eildon-tree."--

"Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!

For I heard her name his name;

And that lady bright, she called the knight

Sir Richard of Coldinghame."--

The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow,

From high blood-red to pale--

"The grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark--

So I may not trust thy tale.

"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,

And Eildon slopes to the plain,

Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,

That gay gallant was slain.

"The varying light deceived thy sight,

And the wild winds drown'd the name;

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing,

For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!"

He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-gate,

And he mounted the narrow stair,

To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait,

He found his lady fair.

That lady sat in mournful mood

Look'd over hill and vale;

Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood,

And all down Teviotdale.

"Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!"--

"Now hail, thou Baron true!

What news, what news, from Ancram fight?

What news from the bold Buccleuch?"--

"The Ancram Moor is red with gore,

For many a Southern fell;

And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,

To watch our beacons well."--

The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said:

Nor added the Baron a word:

Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,

And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd,

And oft to himself he said,--

"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep...

It cannot give up the dead!"--

It was near the ringing of matin-bell,

The night was well-nigh done,

When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,

On the eve of good St. John.

'

The lady look'd through the chamber fair,

By the light of a dying flame;

And she was aware of a knight stood there--

Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

"Alas! away, away!" she cried,

"For the holy Virgin's sake!"--

"Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side;

But, lady, he will not awake.

"By Eildon-tree, for long nights three,

In bloody grave have I lain;

The mass and the death-prayer are said for me.

But, lady, they are said in vain.

"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand,

Most foully slain, I fell;

And my restless sprite on the beacon s height,

For a space is doom'd to dwell.

"At our trysting-place, for a certain space,

I must wander to and fro;

But I had not had power to come to thy bower,

Had'st thou not conjured me so."--

Love master'd fear--her brow she cross'd;

"How, Richard, hast thou sped?

And art thou saved, or art thou lost?"--

The vision shook his head!

"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life;

So bid thy lord believe:

That lawless love is guilt above,

This awful sign receive."

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam;

His right upon her hand;

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,

For it scorch'd like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four,

Remains on that board impress'd;

And for evermore that lady wore

A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,

Ne'er looks upon the sun;

There is a monk in Melrose tower

He speaketh word to none.

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day,

That monk, who speaks to none--

That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,

That monk the bold Baron.

----W. Scott.

CHRISTABEL