Chapter X: Preface (10)

She’s ta’en a cake o’ the best bread,
A stoup o’ the best wine,
And a’ the keys upon her arm,
And to the yett is gane.

‘O ye’re welcome hame, my ain gude lord,
To your castles and your towers;
Ye’re welcome hame, my ain gude lord,
To your ha’s, but and your bowers.
And welcome to your hame, fair lady!
For a’ that’s here is yours.’

‘O whatna lady’s that, my lord,
That welcomes you and me?
Gin I be lang about this place,
Her friend I mean to be.’

Fair Annie served the lang tables
Wi’ the white bread and the wine;
But ay she drank the wan water
To keep her colour fine.

And she gaed by the first table,
And smiled upon them a’;
But ere she reach’d the second table,
The tears began to fa’.

yett] gate.

She took a napkin lang and white,
And hung it on a pin;
It was to wipe away the tears,
As she gaed out and in.

When bells were rung and mass was sung,
And a’ men bound for bed,
The bridegroom and the bonny Bride
In ae chamber were laid.

Fair Annie’s ta’en a harp in her hand,
To harp thir twa asleep;
But ay, as she harpit and she sang,
Fu’ sairly did she weep.

‘O gin my sons were seven rats,
Rinnin’ on the castle wa’,
And I mysell a great grey cat,
I soon wad worry them a’!

‘O gin my sons were seven hares,
Rinnin’ owre yon lily lea,
And I mysell a good greyhound,
Soon worried they a’ should be!’

Then out and spak the bonny young Bride,
In bride-bed where she lay:
‘That’s like my sister Annie,’ she says;
‘Wha is it doth sing and play?

‘I’ll put on my gown,’ said the new-come Bride,
‘And my shoes upon my feet;
I will see wha doth sae sadly sing,
And what is it gars her greet.

‘What ails you, what ails you, my housekeeper,
That ye mak sic a mane?
Has ony wine-barrel cast its girds,
Or is a’ your white bread gane?’

‘It isna because my wine is spilt,
Or that my white bread’s gane;
But because I’ve lost my true love’s love,
And he’s wed to anither ane.’

‘Noo tell me wha was your father?’ she says,
‘Noo tell me wha was your mother?
And had ye ony sister?’ she says,
‘And had ye ever a brother?’

‘The Earl of Wemyss was my father,
The Countess of Wemyss my mother,
Young Elinor she was my sister dear,
And Lord John he was my brother.’

‘If the Earl of Wemyss was your father,
I wot sae was he mine;
And it’s O my sister Annie!
Your love ye sallna tyne.

‘Tak your husband, my sister dear;
You ne’er were wrang’d for me,
Beyond a kiss o’ his merry mouth
As we cam owre the sea.

‘Seven ships, loaded weel,
Cam owre the sea wi’ me;
Ane o’ them will tak me hame,
And six I’ll gie to thee.’

tyne] lose.

_373._ _Edward, Edward_

‘Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
And why sae sad gang ye, O?’
‘O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
And I had nae mair but he, O.’

‘Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
Edward, Edward;
Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O.’
‘O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
That erst was sae fair and free, O.’

‘Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
Some other dule ye dree, O.’
‘O I hae kill’d my father dear,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my father dear,
Alas, and wae is me, O!’

dule ye dree] grief you suffer.

‘And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.’
‘I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mither, mither;
I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I’ll fare over the sea, O.’

‘And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
That were sae fair to see, O?’
‘I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
Mither, mither;
I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
For here never mair maun I be, O.’

‘And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
When ye gang owre the sea, O?’
‘The warld’s room: let them beg through life,
Mither, mither;
The warld’s room: let them beg through life;
For them never mair will I see, O.’

‘And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear.
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
My dear son, now tell me, O?’
‘The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
Mither, mither;
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:
Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!’

_374._ _Edom o’ Gordon_

It fell about the Martinmas,
When the wind blew shrill and cauld,
Said Edom o’ Gordon to his men,
‘We maun draw to a hauld.

‘And what a hauld sall we draw to,
My merry men and me?
We will gae to the house o’ the Rodes,
To see that fair ladye.’

The lady stood on her castle wa’,
Beheld baith dale and down;
There she was ware of a host of men
Cam riding towards the town.

‘O see ye not, my merry men a’,
O see ye not what I see?
Methinks I see a host of men;
I marvel wha they be.’

She ween’d it had been her lovely lord,
As he cam riding hame;
It was the traitor, Edom o’ Gordon,
Wha reck’d nae sin nor shame.

town] stead.

She had nae sooner buskit hersell,
And putten on her gown,
But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his men
Were round about the town.

They had nae sooner supper set,
Nae sooner said the grace,
But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his men
Were lighted about the place.

The lady ran up to her tower-head,
Sae fast as she could hie,
To see if by her fair speeches
She could wi’ him agree.

‘Come doun to me, ye lady gay,
Come doun, come doun to me;
This night sall ye lig within mine arms,
To-morrow my bride sall be.’

‘I winna come down, ye fals Gordon,
I winna come down to thee;
I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
That is sae far frae me.’

‘Gie owre your house, ye lady fair,
Gie owre your house to me;
Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
But and your babies three.’

‘I winna gie owre, ye fals Gordon,
To nae sic traitor as yee;
And if ye brenn my ain dear babes,
My lord sail mak ye dree.

buskit] attired.

‘Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man,
And charge ye weel my gun;
For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
My babes, we been undone!’

She stood upon her castle wa’,
And let twa bullets flee:
She miss’d that bluidy butcher’s heart,
And only razed his knee.

‘Set fire to the house!’ quo’ fals Gordon,
All wud wi’ dule and ire:
‘Fals lady, ye sail rue this deid
As ye brenn in the fire!’

Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man!
I paid ye weel your fee;
Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane,
Lets in the reek to me?

‘And e’en wae worth ye, Jock, my man!
I paid ye weel your hire;
Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane,
To me lets in the fire?’

‘Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye,
Ye paid me weel my fee:
But now I’m Edom o’ Gordon’s man--
Maun either do or die.’

O then bespake her little son,
Sat on the nurse’s knee:
Says, ‘Mither dear, gie owre this house,
For the reek it smithers me.’

wud] mad. grund-wa’] ground-wall.

‘I wad gie a’ my gowd, my bairn,
Sae wad I a’ my fee,
For ae blast o’ the western wind,
To blaw the reek frae thee.’

O then bespake her dochter dear--
She was baith jimp and sma’:
‘O row me in a pair o’ sheets,
And tow me owre the wa’!’

They row’d her in a pair o’ sheets,
And tow’d her owre the wa’;
But on the point o’ Gordon’s spear
She gat a deadly fa’.

O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,
And cherry were her cheiks,
And clear, clear was her yellow hair,
Whereon the red blood dreips.

Then wi’ his spear he turn’d her owre;
O gin her face was wane!
He said, ‘Ye are the first that e’er
I wish’d alive again.’

He turn’d her owre and owre again;
O gin her skin was white!
‘I might hae spared that bonnie face
To hae been some man’s delight.

‘Busk and boun, my merry men a’,
For ill dooms I do guess;
I canna look in that bonnie face
As it lies on the grass.’

jimp] slender, trim. row] roll, wrap. Busk and boun] trim up and
prepare to go.

‘Wha looks to freits, my master dear,
It’s freits will follow them;
Let it ne’er be said that Edom o’ Gordon
Was daunted by a dame.’

But when the lady saw the fire
Come flaming owre her head,
She wept, and kiss’d her children twain,
Says, ‘Bairns, we been but dead.’

The Gordon then his bugle blew,
And said, ‘Awa’, awa’!
This house o’ the Rodes is a’ in a flame;
I hauld it time to ga’.’

And this way lookit her ain dear lord,
As he cam owre the lea;
He saw his castle a’ in a lowe,
As far as he could see.

Then sair, O sair, his mind misgave,
And all his heart was wae:
‘Put on, put on, my wighty men,
Sae fast as ye can gae.

‘Put on, put on, my wighty men,
Sae fast as ye can drie!
For he that’s hindmost o’ the thrang
Sall ne’er get good o’ me.’

Then some they rade, and some they ran,
Out-owre the grass and bent;
But ere the foremost could win up,
Baith lady and babes were brent.

freits] ill omens. lowe] flame. wighty] stout, doughty.

And after the Gordon he is gane,
Sae fast as he might drie;
And soon i’ the Gordon’s foul heart’s blude
He’s wroken his dear ladye.

wroken] avenged.

_375._ _The Queen’s Marie_

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
Wi’ ribbons in her hair;
The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton
Than ony that were there.

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane
Wi’ ribbons on her breast;
The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton
Than he listen’d to the priest.

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
Wi’ gloves upon her hands;
The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton
Than the Queen and a’ her lands.

She hadna been about the King’s court
A month, but barely one,
Till she was beloved by a’ the King’s court
And the King the only man.

She hadna been about the King’s court
A month, but barely three,
Till frae the King’s court Marie Hamilton,
Marie Hamilton durstna be.

The King is to the Abbey gane,
To pu’ the Abbey tree,
To scale the babe frae Marie’s heart;
But the thing it wadna be.

O she has row’d it in her apron,
And set it on the sea--
‘Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe,
Ye’se get nae mair o’ me.’

Word is to the kitchen gane,
And word is to the ha’,
And word is to the noble room
Amang the ladies a’,
That Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed,
And the bonny babe’s miss’d and awa’.

Scarcely had she lain down again,
And scarcely fa’en asleep,
When up and started our gude Queen
Just at her bed-feet;
Saying--‘Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe?
For I am sure I heard it greet.’

‘O no, O no, my noble Queen!
Think no sic thing to be;
’Twas but a stitch into my side,
And sair it troubles me!’

‘Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton:
Get up and follow me;
For I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding for to see.’

row’d] rolled, wrapped. greet] cry.

O slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly put she on;
And slowly rade she out the way
Wi’ mony a weary groan.

The Queen was clad in scarlet,
Her merry maids all in green;
And every town that they cam to,
They took Marie for the Queen.

‘Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen,
Ride hooly now wi’ me!
For never, I am sure, a wearier burd
Rade in your companie.’--

But little wist Marie Hamilton,
When she rade on the brown,
That she was gaen to Edinburgh town,
And a’ to be put down.

‘Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives,
Why look ye so on me?
O I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding to see.’

When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs,
The corks frae her heels did flee;
And lang or e’er she cam down again,
She was condemn’d to die.

When she cam to the Netherbow port,
She laugh’d loud laughters three;
But when she came to the gallows foot
The tears blinded her e’e.

hooly] gently.

‘Yestreen the Queen had four Maries,
The night she’ll hae but three;
There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton,
And Marie Carmichael, and me.

‘O often have I dress’d my Queen
And put gowd upon her hair;
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
The gallows to be my share.

‘Often have I dress’d my Queen
And often made her bed;
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
The gallows tree to tread.

‘I charge ye all, ye mariners,
When ye sail owre the faem,
Let neither my father nor mother get wit
But that I’m coming hame.

‘I charge ye all, ye mariners,
That sail upon the sea,
That neither my father nor mother get wit
The dog’s death I’m to die.

‘For if my father and mother got wit,
And my bold brethren three,
O mickle wad be the gude red blude
This day wad be spilt for me!

‘O little did my mother ken,
The day she cradled me,
The lands I was to travel in
Or the death I was to die!

_376._ _Binnorie_

There were twa sisters sat in a bour;
_Binnorie, O Binnorie_!
There cam a knight to be their wooer,
_By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie_.

He courted the eldest with glove and ring,
But he lo’ed the youngest abune a thing.

The eldest she was vexèd sair,
And sair envied her sister fair.

Upon a morning fair and clear,
She cried upon her sister dear:

‘O sister, sister, tak my hand,
And let’s go down to the river-strand.’

She’s ta’en her by the lily hand,
And led her down to the river-strand.

The youngest stood upon a stane,
The eldest cam and push’d her in.

‘O sister, sister, reach your hand!
And ye sall be heir o’ half my land:

‘O sister, reach me but your glove!
And sweet William sall be your love.’

Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam,
Until she cam to the miller’s dam.

Out then cam the miller’s son,
And saw the fair maid soummin’ in.

‘O father, father, draw your dam!
There’s either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.’

soummin’] swimming.

The miller hasted and drew his dam,
And there he found a drown’d womàn.

You couldna see her middle sma’,
Her gowden girdle was sae braw.

You couldna see her lily feet,
Her gowden fringes were sae deep.

All amang her yellow hair
A string o’ pearls was twisted rare.

You couldna see her fingers sma’,
Wi’ diamond rings they were cover’d a’.

And by there cam a harper fine,
That harpit to the king at dine.

And when he look’d that lady on,
He sigh’d and made a heavy moan.

He’s made a harp of her breast-bane,
Whose sound wad melt a heart of stane.

He’s ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair,
And wi’ them strung his harp sae rare.

He went into her father’s hall,
And there was the court assembled all.

He laid his harp upon a stane,
And straight it began to play by lane.

‘O yonder sits my father, the King,
And yonder sits my mother, the Queen;
‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh,
And by him my William, sweet and true.’

But the last tune that the harp play’d then--
_Binnorie, O Binnorie_!
Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helèn!’
_By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie._

_377._ _The Bonnie House o’ Airlie_

It fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day,
When green grew aits and barley,
That there fell out a great dispute
Between Argyll and Airlie.

Argyll has raised an hunder men,
An hunder harness’d rarely,
And he’s awa’ by the back of Dunkell,
To plunder the castle of Airlie.

Lady Ogilvie looks o’er her bower-window,
And O but she looks warely!
And there she spied the great Argyll,
Come to plunder the bonnie house of Airlie.

‘Come down, come down, my Lady Ogilvie,
Come down and kiss me fairly:’
‘O I winna kiss the fause Argyll,
If he shouldna leave a standing stane in Airlie.’

He hath taken her by the left shoulder,
Says, ‘Dame, where lies thy dowry?’
‘O it’s east and west yon wan water side,
And it’s down by the banks of the Airlie.’

They hae sought it up, they hae sought it down,
They hae sought it maist severely,
Till they fand it in the fair plum-tree
That shines on the bowling-green of Airlie.

He hath taken her by the middle sae small,
And O but she grat sairly!
And laid her down by the bonnie burn-side,
Till they plunder’d the castle of Airlie.

‘Gif my gude lord war here this night,
As he is with King Charlie,
Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish lord,
Durst avow to the plundering of Airlie.

‘Gif my gude lord war now at hame,
As he is with his king,
There durst nae a Campbell in a’ Argyll
Set fit on Airlie green.

‘Ten bonnie sons I have borne unto him,
The eleventh ne’er saw his daddy;
But though I had an hunder mair,
I’d gie them a’ to King Charlie!’

_378._ _The Wife of Usher’s Well_

There lived a wife at Usher’s well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them o’er the sea.

They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife
That her three sons were gane.

They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carline wife
That her sons she’d never see.

‘I wish the wind may never cease.
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood!’

It fell about the Martinmas,
When nights are lang and mirk,
The carline wife’s three sons came hame,
And their hats were o’ the birk.

It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh;
But at the gates o’ Paradise
That birk grew fair eneugh.

‘Blow up the fire, my maidens!
Bring water from the well!
For a’ my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well.’

And she has made to them a bed,
She’s made it large and wide;
And she’s ta’en her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bedside.

fashes] troubles. syke] marsh. sheugh] trench.

Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray;
The eldest to the youngest said.
‘’Tis time we were away.’

The cock he hadna craw’d but once,
And clapp’d his wings at a’,
When the youngest to the eldest said,
‘Brother, we must awa’.

‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin’ worm doth chide;
Gin we be miss’d out o’ our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.’

‘Lie still, lie still but a little wee while,
Lie still but if we may;
Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes,
She’ll go mad ere it be day.’

‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother’s fire!’

_378._ channerin’] fretting.

_379._ _The Three Ravens_

There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be.

The one of them said to his make,
‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’

_379._ make] mate.

‘Down in yonder greene field
There lies a knight slain under his shield;

‘His hounds they lie down at his feet,
So well they can their master keep;

‘His hawks they flie so eagerly,
There ’s no fowl dare come him nigh.’

Down there comes a fallow doe
As great with young as she might goe.

She lift up his bloudy head
And kist his wounds that were so red.

She gat him up upon her back
And carried him to earthen lake.

She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herself ere evensong time.

God send every gentleman
Such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman.

_380._ _The Twa Corbies_

(SCOTTISH VERSION)

As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the tither did say,
‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’

_380._ corbies] ravens.

‘--In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

‘His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en anither mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.

‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en:
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.

‘Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’

_380._ fail] turf. hause] neck. theek] thatch.

_381._ _A Lyke-Wake Dirge_

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
_And Christe receive thy saule_.

When thou from hence away art past,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.

_381._ fleet] house-room.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
Sit thee down and put them on;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.

If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane
--_Every nighte and alle_,
The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.

From Whinny-muir when thou may’st pass,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.

From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st pass,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
The fire sall never make thee shrink;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.

If meat or drink thou ne’er gav’st nane,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
_And Christe receive thy saule_.

_382._ _The Seven Virgins._

A CAROL

All under the leaves and the leaves of life
I met with virgins seven,
And one of them was Mary mild,
Our Lord’s mother of Heaven.

‘O what are you seeking, you seven fair maids.
All under the leaves of life?
Come tell, come tell, what seek you
All under the leaves of life?’

‘We’re seeking for no leaves, Thomas,
But for a friend of thine;
We’re seeking for sweet Jesus Christ,
To be our guide and thine.’

‘Go down, go down, to yonder town,
And sit in the gallery,
And there you’ll see sweet Jesus Christ
Nail’d to a big yew-tree.’

So down they went to yonder town
As fast as foot could fall,
And many a grievous bitter tear
From the virgins’ eyes did fall.

‘O peace, Mother, O peace, Mother,
Your weeping doth me grieve:
I must suffer this,’ He said,
‘For Adam and for Eve.

‘O Mother, take you John Evangelist
All for to be your son,
And he will comfort you sometimes,
Mother, as I have done.’

‘O come, thou John Evangelist,
Thou’rt welcome unto me;
But more welcome my own dear Son,
Whom I nursed on my knee.’

Then He laid His head on His right shoulder,
Seeing death it struck Him nigh--
‘The Holy Ghost be with your soul,
I die, Mother dear, I die.’

O the rose, the gentle rose,
And the fennel that grows so green!
God give us grace in every place
To pray for our king and queen.

Furthermore for our enemies all
Our prayers they should be strong:
Amen, good Lord; your charity
Is the ending of my song.

_383._ _Two Rivers_

Says Tweed to Till--
‘What gars ye rin sae still?’
Says Till to Tweed--
‘Though ye rin with speed
And I rin slaw,
For ae man that ye droon
I droon twa.’

_384._ _Cradle Song_

O my deir hert, young Jesus sweit,
Prepare thy creddil in my spreit,
And I sall rock thee in my hert
And never mair from thee depart.

But I sall praise thee evermoir
With sangis sweit unto thy gloir;
The knees of my hert sall I bow,
And sing that richt _Balulalow_!

_385._ _The Call_

My blood so red
For thee was shed,
Come home again, come home again;
My own sweet heart, come home again!
You’ve gone astray
Out of your way,
Come home again, come home again!

_386._ _The Bonny Earl of Murray_

Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands,
O where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl of Murray,
And hae laid him on the green.

Now wae be to thee, Huntley!
And whairfore did ye sae!
I bade you bring him wi’ you.
But forbade you him to slay.

He was a braw gallant,
And he rid at the ring;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
O he might hae been a king!

He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the ba’;
And the bonny Earl of Murray
Was the flower amang them a’!

He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the gluve;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
O he was the Queen’s luve!

O lang will his Lady
Look owre the Castle Downe,
Ere she see the Earl of Murray
Come sounding through the town!

_387._ _Helen of Kirconnell_

I wish I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

O think na ye my heart was sair,
When my Love dropp’d and spak nae mair!
There did she swoon wi’ meikle care,
On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hackèd him in pieces sma’,
I hackèd him in pieces sma’,
For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I’ll mak a garland o’ thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I die!

O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, ‘Haste, and come to me!’

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I’d be blest,
Where thou lies low and taks thy rest,
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn owre my e’en,
And I in Helen’s arms lying,
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me.

_388._ _Waly, Waly_

O waly, waly, up the bank,
And waly, waly, doun the brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn-side,
Where I and my Love wont to gae!
I lean’d my back unto an aik,
I thocht it was a trustie tree;
But first it bow’d and syne it brak--
Sae my true love did lichtlie me.

O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa’ like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my heid,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he’ll never lo’e me mair.

Now Arthur’s Seat sall be my bed,
The sheets sall ne’er be ’filed by me;
Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink;
Since my true Love has forsaken me.
Marti’mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearìe.

’Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie,
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;
But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me.
When we cam in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see;
My Love was clad in the black velvèt,
And I mysel in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I had lock’d my heart in a case o’ gowd.
And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin.
And O! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse’s knee;
And I mysel were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!

_388._ cramasie] crimson.

_389._ _Barbara Allen’s Cruelty_

In Scarlet town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin’,
Made every youth cry _Well-a-way_!
Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,
When green buds they were swellin’,
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his man in to her then,
To the town where she was dwellin’,
‘O haste and come to my master dear,
If your name be Barbara Allen.’

So slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtain by--
‘Young man, I think you’re dyin’.’

‘O it’s I am sick and very very sick,
And it’s all for Barbara Allen.’
‘O the better for me ye’se never be,
Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’!

‘O dinna ye mind, young man,’ says she,
‘When the red wine ye were fillin’,
That ye made the healths go round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allen?’

He turn’d his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealin’:
‘Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allen!’

As she was walking o’er the fields,
She heard the dead-bell knellin’;
And every jow the dead-bell gave
Cried ‘Woe to Barbara Allen.’

‘O mother, mother, make my bed,
O make it saft and narrow:
My love has died for me to-day,
I’ll die for him to-morrow.

‘Farewell,’ she said, ‘ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.’

_389._ jow] beat, toll.

_390._ _Pipe and Can_

I

The Indian weed witherèd quite;
Green at morn, cut down at night;
Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high,
Think thou behold’st the vanity
Of worldly stuff, gone with a puff:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

But when the pipe grows foul within,
Think of thy soul defiled with sin,
And that the fire doth it require:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

The ashes, that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind
That unto dust return thou must:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

II

When as the chill Charokko blows,
And Winter tells a heavy tale;
When pyes and daws and rooks and crows
Sit cursing of the frosts and snows;
Then give me ale.

Ale in a Saxon rumkin then,
Such as will make grimalkin prate;
Bids valour burgeon in tall men,
Quickens the poet’s wit and pen,
Despises fate.

Ale, that the absent battle fights,
And frames the march of Swedish drum,
Disputes with princes, laws, and rights,
What’s done and past tells mortal wights,
And what’s to come.

Charokko] Scirocco.

Ale, that the plowman’s heart up-keeps
And equals it with tyrants’ thrones,
That wipes the eye that over-weeps,
And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps
Th’ o’er-wearied bones.

Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus’ daughter,
Wine’s emulous neighbour, though but stale,
Ennobling all the nymphs of water,
And filling each man’s heart with laughter--
Ha! give me ale!

_391._ _Love will find out the Way_

Over the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.

When there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie,
When there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
When the midge dares not venture
Lest herself fast she lay,
If Love come, he will enter
And will find out the way.

You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward for his flight;
But if she whom Love doth honour
Be conceal’d from the day--
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him
By having him confined;
And some do suppose him,
Poor heart! to be blind;
But if ne’er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that ye may,
Blind Love, if so ye call him,
He will find out his way.

You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The Phœnix of the east;
The lioness, you may move her
To give over her prey;
But you’ll ne’er stop a lover--
He will find out the way.

If the earth it should part him,
He would gallop it o’er;
If the seas should o’erthwart him,
He would swim to the shore;
Should his Love become a swallow,
Through the air to stray,
Love will lend wings to follow,
And will find out the way.

There is no striving
To cross his intent;
There is no contriving
His plots to prevent;
But if once the message greet him
That his True Love doth stay,
If Death should come and meet him,
Love will find out the way!

_392._ _Phillada flouts Me_

O what a plague is love!
How shall I bear it?
She will inconstant prove,
I greatly fear it.
She so torments my mind
That my strength faileth,
And wavers with the wind
As a ship saileth.
Please her the best I may,
She loves still to gainsay;
Alack and well-a-day!
Phillada flouts me.

At the fair yesterday
She did pass by me;
She look’d another way
And would not spy me:
I woo’d her for to dine,
But could not get her;
Will had her to the wine--
He might entreat her.
With Daniel she did dance,
On me she look’d askance:
O thrice unhappy chance!
Phillada flouts me.

Fair maid, be not so coy,
Do not disdain me!
I am my mother’s joy:
Sweet, entertain me!
She’ll give me, when she dies,
All that is fitting:
Her poultry and her bees,
And her goose sitting,
A pair of mattrass beds,
And a bag full of shreds;
And yet, for all this guedes,
Phillada flouts me!

She hath a clout of mine
Wrought with blue Coventry,
Which she keeps for a sign
Of my fidelity:
But i’ faith, if she flinch
She shall not wear it;
To Tib, my t’other wench,
I mean to bear it.
And yet it grieves my heart
So soon from her to part:
Death strike me with his dart!
Phillada flouts me.

Thou shalt eat crudded cream
All the year lasting,

guedes] goods, property of any kind.

And drink the crystal stream
Pleasant in tasting;
Whig and whey whilst thou lust,
And bramble-berries,
Pie-lid and pastry-crust,
Pears, plums, and cherries.
Thy raiment shall be thin,
Made of a weevil’s skin--
Yet all’s not worth a pin!
Phillada flouts me.

In the last month of May
I made her posies;
I heard her often say
That she loved roses.
Cowslips and gillyflowers
And the white lily
I brought to deck the bowers
For my sweet Philly.
But she did all disdain,
And threw them back again;
Therefore ’tis flat and plain
Phillada flouts me.

Fair maiden, have a care,
And in time take me;
I can have those as fair
If you forsake me:
For Doll the dairy-maid
Laugh’d at me lately,
And wanton Winifred
Favours me greatly.
One throws milk on my clothes,
T’other plays with my nose;
What wanting signs are those?
Phillada flouts me.

I cannot work nor sleep
At all in season:
Love wounds my heart so deep
Without all reason.
I ’gin to pine away
In my love’s shadow,
Like as a fat beast may,
Penn’d in a meadow.
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within this thousand year:
And all for that my dear
Phillada flouts me.

WILLIAM STRODE

1602-1645

_393._ _Chloris in the Snow_

I saw fair Chloris walk alone,
When feather’d rain came softly down,
As Jove descending from his Tower
To court her in a silver shower:
The wanton snow flew to her breast,
Like pretty birds into their nest,
But, overcome with whiteness there,
For grief it thaw’d into a tear:
Thence falling on her garments’ hem,
To deck her, froze into a gem.

THOMAS STANLEY

1625-1678

_394._ _The Relapse_

Turn away those cruel eyes,
The stars of my undoing!
Or death, in such a bright disguise,
May tempt a second wooing.

Punish their blind and impious pride,
Who dare contemn thy glory;
It was my fall that deified
Thy name, and seal’d thy story.

Yet no new sufferings can prepare
A higher praise to crown thee;
Though my first death proclaim thee fair,
My second will unthrone thee.

Lovers will doubt thou canst entice
No other for thy fuel,
And if thou burn one victim twice,
Both think thee poor and cruel.

THOMAS D’URFEY

1653-1723

_395._ _Chloe Divine_

Chloe’s a Nymph in flowery groves,
A Nereid in the streams;
Saint-like she in the temple moves,
A woman in my dreams.

Love steals artillery from her eyes,
The Graces point her charms;
Orpheus is rivalled in her voice,
And Venus in her arms.

Never so happily in one
Did heaven and earth combine:
And yet ’tis flesh and blood alone
That makes her so divine.

CHARLES COTTON

1630-1687

_396._ _To Cœlia_

When, Cœlia, must my old day set,
And my young morning rise
In beams of joy so bright as yet
Ne’er bless’d a lover’s eyes?
My state is more advanced than when
I first attempted thee:
I sued to be a servant then,
But now to be made free.

I’ve served my time faithful and true,
Expecting to be placed
In happy freedom, as my due,
To all the joys thou hast:
Ill husbandry in love is such
A scandal to love’s power,
We ought not to misspend so much
As one poor short-lived hour.

Yet think not, sweet, I’m weary grown.
That I pretend such haste;
Since none to surfeit e’er was known
Before he had a taste:
My infant love could humbly wait
When, young, it scarce knew how
To plead; but grown to man’s estate,
He is impatient now.

KATHERINE PHILIPS (‘ORINDA’)

1631-1664

_397._ _To One persuading a Lady to Marriage_

Forbear, bold youth; all’s heaven here,
And what you do aver
To others courtship may appear,
’Tis sacrilege to her.
She is a public deity;
And were’t not very odd
She should dispose herself to be
A petty household god?

First make the sun in private shine
And bid the world adieu,
That so he may his beams confine
In compliment to you:
But if of that you do despair,
Think how you did amiss
To strive to fix her beams which are
More bright and large than his.

JOHN DRYDEN

1631-1700

_398._ _Ode_

_To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady, Mrs. Anne
Killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of Poesy and Painting_

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new pluck’d from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll’st above us, in thy wandering race,
Or, in procession fixt and regular,
Mov’d with the heaven’s majestic pace;
Or, called to more superior bliss,
Thou tread’st with seraphims the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since Heaven’s eternal year is thine.
Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;
But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first-fruits of Poesy were given,
To make thyself a welcome inmate there;
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less, to find
A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfus’d into thy blood:
So wert thou born into the tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.
But if thy pre-existing soul
Was form’d at first with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.
If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!
Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find,
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:
Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,
New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth?
For sure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
And even the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tun’d it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth;
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clust’ring swarm of bees
On thy sweet mouth distill’d their golden dew,
’Twas that such vulgar miraclès
Heaven had not leisure to renew:
For all the blest fraternity of love
Solemniz’d there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.

O gracious God! how far have we
Profan’d thy heavenly gift of Poesy!
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas’d to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain’d above,
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!
O wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adulterate age
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own),
To increase the streaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say to excuse our second fall?
Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all!
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil’d,
Unmixt with foreign filth, and undefil’d;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

Art she had none, yet wanted none,
For Nature did that want supply:
So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,
That it seem’d borrowed, where ’twas only born.
Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred,
By great examples daily fed,
What in the best of books, her father’s life, she read.
And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest)
Was but a lambent flame which play’d about her breast,
Light as the vapours of a morning dream;
So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest,
’Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s stream....

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportion’d shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.
Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too;
But, like a hardened felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow,
And plunder’d first, and then destroyed.
O double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!
But thus Orinda died:
Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come,
Alas, thou know’st not, thou art wreck’d at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy sister’s face,
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou kenn’st from far,
Among the Pleiads a new kindl’d star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
’Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat,
The judging God shall close the book of Fate,
And there the last assizes keep
For those who wake and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly
From the four corners of the sky;
When sinews o’er the skeletons are spread,
Those cloth’d with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are cover’d with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shalt go,
As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learn’d below.

_399._ _A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day, 1687_

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
‘Arise, ye more than dead!’
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music’s power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet’s loud clangour
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, ’tis too late to retreat!

The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes, discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper’d by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion.
For the fair, disdainful dame.

But O, what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ’s praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;
But bright Cecilia rais’d the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear’d
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator’s praise
To all the Blest above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky!

_400._ _Ah, how sweet it is to love!_

Ah, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young Desire!
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach Love’s fire!
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart:
Ev’n the tears they shed alone
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart:
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse
Which in youth sincere they send:
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein;
But each tide does less supply,
Till they quite shrink in again:
If a flow in age appear,
’Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

_401._ _Hidden Flame_

I feed a flame within, which so torments me
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:
’Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it.

Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,
But they fall silently, like dew on roses.

Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel,
My heart’s the sacrifice, as ’tis the fuel;
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.
To be more happy I dare not aspire,
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.

_402._ _Song to a Fair Young Lady, going out of the Town in the Spring_

Ask not the cause why sullen Spring
So long delays her flowers to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to sing,
And winter storms invert the year:
Chloris is gone; and fate provides
To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;
She cast not back a pitying eye:
But left her lover in despair
To sigh, to languish, and to die:
Ah! how can those fair eyes endure
To give the wounds they will not cure?

Great God of Love, why hast thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,
And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst plac’d such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall;
She can restore the dead from tombs
And every life but mine recall.
I only am by Love design’d
To be the victim for mankind.

CHARLES WEBBE

c. 1678

_403._ _Against Indifference_

More love or more disdain I crave,
Sweet, be not still indifferent:
O send me quickly to my grave,
Or else afford me more content!
Or love or hate me more or less,
For love abhors all lukewarmness.

Give me a tempest if ’twill drive
Me to the place where I would be;
Or if you’ll have me still alive,
Confess you will be kind to me.
Give hopes of bliss or dig my grave:
More love or more disdain I crave.

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE

1635-1691

_404._ _Song_

Ladies, though to your conquering eyes
Love owes his chiefest victories,
And borrows those bright arms from you
With which he does the world subdue,
Yet you yourselves are not above
The empire nor the griefs of love.

Then rack not lovers with disdain,
Lest Love on you revenge their pain:
You are not free because you’re fair:
The Boy did not his Mother spare.
Beauty’s but an offensive dart:
It is no armour for the heart.

_405._ _To a Lady asking him how long he would love her_

It is not, Celia, in our power
To say how long our love will last;
It may be we within this hour
May lose those joys we now do taste;
The Blessèd, that immortal be,
From change in love are only free.

Then since we mortal lovers are,
Ask not how long our love will last;
But while it does, let us take care
Each minute be with pleasure past:
Were it not madness to deny
To live because we’re sure to die?

THOMAS TRAHERNE

1637?-1674

_406._ _News_