But when they see his deadlye face, And eyes soe hollow in his head, I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes, This man were alive as hee is dead: Yett for the manfull part hee playd, Which fought soe well with heart and hand, His men shall have twelvepence a day, Till they come to my brother kings high land.



MAY COLLIN

May Collin ... ... was her father's heir, And she fell in love with a false priest, And she rued it ever mair.

He followd her butt, he followd her benn, He followd her through the hall, Till she had neither tongue nor teeth Nor lips to say him naw.

"We'll take the steed out where he is, The gold where eer it be, And we'll away to some unco land, And married we shall be."

They had not riden a mile, a mile, A mile but barely three, Till they came to a rank river, Was raging like the sea.

"Light off, light off now, May Collin, It's here that you must die; Here I have drownd seven king's daughters, The eight now you must be.

"Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, Your gown that's of the green; For it's oer good and oer costly To rot in the sea-stream.

"Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, Your coat that's of the black; For it's oer good and oer costly To rot in the sea-wreck.

"Cast off, cast off now, May Collin, Your stays that are well laced; For thei'r oer good and costly In the sea's ground to waste.

"Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,] Your sark that's of the holland; For [it's oer good and oer costly] To rot in the sea-bottom."

"Turn you about now, falsh Mess John, To the green leaf of the tree; It does not fit a mansworn man A naked woman to see."

He turnd him quickly round about, To the green leaf of the tree; She took him hastly in her arms And flung him in the sea.

"Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John, My mallasin go with thee! You thought to drown me naked and bare, But take your cloaths with thee, And if there be seven king's daughters there Bear you them company"

She lap on her milk steed And fast she bent the way, And she was at her father's yate Three long hours or day.

Up and speaks the wylie parrot, So wylily and slee: "Where is the man now, May Collin, That gaed away wie thee?"

"Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot, And tell no tales of me, And where I gave a pickle befor It's now I'll give you three."



THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN

PART THE FIRST

Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; And many a gallant brave suiter had shee, For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.

And though shee was of favour most faire, Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.

Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say, Good father, and mother, let me goe away To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee. This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.

Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night From father and mother alone parted shee; Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.

Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow; Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: With teares shee lamented her hard destinie, So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.

Shee kept on her journey untill it was day, And went unto Rumford along the hye way; Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee; Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.

Shee had not beene there a month to an end, But master and mistress and all was her friend: And every brave gallant, that once did her see, Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee.

Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, And in their songs daylye her love was extold; Her beawtye was blazed in every degree; Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.

The young men of Rumford in her had their joy; Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; And at her commandment still wold they bee; Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee.

Foure suitors att once unto her did goe; They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee. Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee.

The first of them was a gallant young knight, And he came unto her disguisde in the night; The second a gentleman of good degree, Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.

A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small, He was the third suiter, and proper withall: Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.

And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle, That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.

The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee, As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee: My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee; And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee.

Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay; My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.

Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say, My father and mother I meane to obey; First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.

To every one this answer shee made, Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; But where dwells thy father, my prettye Besse?

My father, shee said, is soone to be seene: The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene, That daylye sits begging for charitie, He is the good father of pretty Bessee.

His markes and his tokens are knowen very well; He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee, Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.

Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee: Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree, And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!

Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse, And bewtye is bewtye in every degree; Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee.

With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe. Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe; A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee.

But soone after this, by breake of the day, The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away. The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee, Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee.

As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene, Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene; And as the knight lighted most courteouslie, They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.

But rescew came speedilye over the plaine, Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. This fray being ended, then straitway he see His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee.

Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore, Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle.

And then, if my gold may better her birthe, And equall the gold that you lay on the earth, Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.

But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne, The gold that you drop shall all be your owne. With that they replyed, Contented bee wee. Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee.

With that an angell he cast on the ground, And dropped in angels full three thousand pound; And oftentime itt was proved most plaine, For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne:

Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt, With gold it was covered every whitt. The gentlemen then having dropt all their store, Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more.

Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright. Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.

The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene: And all those, that were her suitors before, Their fleshe for very anger they tore.

Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight, And then made a ladye in others despite: A fairer ladye there never was seene, Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene.

But of their sumptuous marriage and feast, What brave lords and knights thither were prest, The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.

PART THE SECOND

Off a blind beggars daughter most bright, That late was betrothed unto a younge knight; All the discourse therof you did see; But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.

Within a gorgeous palace most brave, Adorned with all the cost they cold have, This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie, And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.

All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.

This marriage through England was spread by report, Soe that a great number therto did resort Of nobles and gentles in every degree; And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.

To church then went this gallant younge knight; His bride followed after, an angell most bright, With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene.

This marryage being solempnized then, With musicke performed by the skilfullest men, The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, Each one admiring the beautiful bryde.

Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, To talke, and to reason a number begunn: They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.

Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee, This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see." My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.

"The prayse of a woman in question to bringe Before her own face, were a flattering thinge; But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they, "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye."

They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee.

He had a daintye lute under his arme, He touched the strings, which made such a charme, Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee, Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee.

With that his lute he twanged straightway, And thereon begann most sweetlye to play; And after that lessons were playd two or three, He strayn'd out this song most delicatelie.

"A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, And many one called her pretty Bessee.

"Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land, But begged for a penny all day with his hand; And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three, And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.

"And if any one here her birth doe disdaine, Her father is ready, with might and with maine, To proove shee is come of noble degree: Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee."

With that the lords and the companye round With harty laughter were readye to swound; Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see, The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee.

On this the bride all blushing did rise, The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee, That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.

If this be thy father, the nobles did say, Well may he be proud of this happy day; Yett by his countenance well may wee see, His birth and his fortune did never agree:

And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say) Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee; For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.

"Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, One song more to sing, and then I have done; And if that itt may not winn good report, Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport.

"Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee; Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race.

"When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose, Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose; A leader of courage undaunted was hee, And oft-times he made their enemyes flee.

"At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine; Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!

"Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side, Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.

"Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye, Till evening drewe on of the following daye, When by a yong ladye discovered was hee; And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee!

"A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte To search for her father, who fell in the fight, And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye, Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye.

"In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, And made him glad father of prettye Bessee.

"And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.

"And here have we lived in fortunes despite, Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: Full forty winters thus have I beene A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene.

"And here, noble lordes, is ended the song Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: And thus have you learned a secrette from mee, That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee."

Now when the faire companye everye one, Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, They all were amazed, as well they might bee, Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee.

With that the faire bride they all did embrace, Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race, Thy father likewise is of noble degree, And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.

Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte, In joy and felicitie long lived hee, All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.



THOMAS THE RHYMER

Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank, A spying ferlies wi his eee, And he did spy a lady gay, Come riding down by the lang lee.

Her steed was o the dapple grey, And at its mane there hung bells nine; He thought he heard that lady say, "They gowden bells sall a' be thine."

Her mantle was o velvet green, And a' set round wi jewels fine; Her hawk and hounds were at her side, And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine.

Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap, For to salute this gay lady: "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn, And ay weel met ye save and see!"

"I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas; I never carried my head sae hee; For I am but a lady gay, Come out to hunt in my follee.

"Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas, Ye mauna miss my fair bodee; Then ye may een gang hame and tell That ye've lain wi a gay ladee."

"O gin I loe a lady fair, Nae ill tales o her wad I tell, And it's wi thee I fain wad gae, Tho it were een to heavn or hell."

"Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said, "Then harp and carp alang wi me; But it will be seven years and a day Till ye win back to yere ain countrie."

The lady rade, True Thomas ran, Until they cam to a water wan; O it was night, and nae delight, And Thomas wade aboon the knee.

It was dark night, and nae starn-light, And on they waded lang days three, And they heard the roaring o a flood, And Thomas a waefou man was he.

Then they rade on, and farther on, Untill they came to a garden green; To pu an apple he put up his hand, For the lack o food he was like to tyne.

"O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried, "And let that green flourishing be; For it's the very fruit o hell, Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie.

"But look afore ye, True Thomas, And I shall show ye ferlies three; Yon is the gate leads to our land, Where thou and I sae soon shall be.

"And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas, That lies out-owr yon lilly lee? Weel is the man yon gate may gang, For it leads him straight to the heavens hie.

"But do you see yon road, Thomas, That lies out-owr yon frosty fell? Ill is the man yon gate may gang, For it leads him straight to the pit o hell.

"Now when ye come to our court, Thomas, See that a weel-learned man ye be; For they will ask ye, one and all, But ye maun answer nane but me.

"And when nae answer they obtain, Then will they come and question me, And I will answer them again That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree.

* * * * *

"Ilka seven years, Thomas, We pay our teindings unto hell, And ye're sae leesome and sae strang That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell."



YOUNG BEICHAN

In London city was Bicham born, He longd strange countries for to see, But he was taen by a savage Moor, Who handld him right cruely.

For thro his shoulder he put a bore, An thro the bore has pitten a tree, An he's gard him draw the carts o wine, Where horse and oxen had wont to be.

He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep, Where he coud neither hear nor see; He's shut him up in a prison strong, An he's handld him right cruely.

O this Moor he had but ae daughter, I wot her name was Shusy Pye; She's doen her to the prison-house, And she's calld Young Bicham one word

"O hae ye ony lands or rents, Or citys in your ain country, Coud free you out of prison strong, An coud mantain a lady free?"

"O London city is my own, An other citys twa or three, Coud loose me out o prison strong, An coud mantain a lady free."

O she has bribed her father's men Wi meikle goud and white money, She's gotten the key o the prison doors, An she has set Young Bicham free.

She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread, But an a flask o Spanish wine, An she bad him mind on the ladie's love That sae kindly freed him out o pine.

"Go set your foot on good ship-board, An haste you back to your ain country, An before that seven years has an end, Come back again, love, and marry me."

It was long or seven years had an end She longd fu sair her love to see; She's set her foot on good ship-board, And turnd her back on her ain country.

She's saild up, so has she doun, Till she came to the other side; She's landed at Young Bicham's gates, An I hop this day she sal be his bride.

"Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she, "Or is that noble prince within?" "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride, An monny a lord and lady wi him."

"O has he taen a bonny bride, An has he clean forgotten me!" An sighing said that gay lady, I wish I were in my ain country!

But she's pitten her han in her pocket, An gin the porter guineas three; Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter, An bid the bridegroom speak to me.

O whan the porter came up the stair, He's fa'n low down upon his knee: "Won up, won up, ye proud porter, An what makes a' this courtesy?"

"O I've been porter at your gates This mair nor seven years an three, But there is a lady at them now The like of whom I never did see.

"For on every finger she has a ring, An on the mid-finger she has three, An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow As woud buy an earldome o lan to me."

Then up it started Young Bicham, An sware so loud by Our Lady, "It can be nane but Shusy Pye, That has come oer the sea to me."

O quickly ran he down the stair, O fifteen steps he has made but three; He's tane his bonny love in his arms, An a wot he kissd her tenderly.

"O hae you tane a bonny bride? An hae you quite forsaken me? An hae ye quite forgotten her That gae you life an liberty? " She's lookit oer her left shoulder To hide the tears stood in her ee; "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says, "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee."

"Take back your daughter, madam," he says, "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi; For I maun marry my first true love, That's done and suffered so much for me."

He's take his bonny love by the ban, And led her to yon fountain stane; He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye, An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.



BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY

The fifteenth day of July, With glistering spear and shield, A famous fight in Flanders Was foughten in the field: The most couragious officers Were English captains three; But the bravest man in battel Was brave Lord Willoughbey.

The next was Captain Norris, A valiant man was hee: The other Captain Turner, From field would never flee. With fifteen hundred fighting men, Alas! there were no more, They fought with fourteen thousand then, Upon the bloody shore.

Stand to it, noble pikemen, And look you round about: And shoot you right, you bow-men, And we will keep them out: You musquet and calliver men, Do you prove true to me, I'le be the formost man in fight, Says brave Lord Willoughbey.

And then the bloody enemy They fiercely did assail, And fought it out most furiously, Not doubting to prevail: The wounded men on both sides fell Most pitious for to see, Yet nothing could the courage quell Of brave Lord Willoughbey.

For seven hours to all mens view This fight endured sore, Until our men so feeble grew That they could fight no more; And then upon dead horses Full savourly they eat, And drank the puddle water, They could no better get.

When they had fed so freely, They kneeled on the ground, And praised God devoutly For the favour they had found; And beating up their colours, The fight they did renew, And turning tow'rds the Spaniard, A thousand more they slew.

The sharp steel-pointed arrows, And bullets thick did fly, Then did our valiant soldiers Charge on most furiously; Which made the Spaniards waver, They thought it best to flee, They fear'd the stout behaviour Of brave Lord Willoughbey.

Then quoth the Spanish general, Come let us march away, I fear we shall be spoiled all If here we longer stay; For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey With courage fierce and fell, He will not give one inch of way For all the devils in hell.

And then the fearful enemy Was quickly put to flight, Our men persued couragiously, And caught their forces quite; But at last they gave a shout, Which ecchoed through the sky, God, and St. George for England! The conquerors did cry.

This news was brought to England With all the speed might be, And soon our gracious queen was told Of this same victory. O this is brave Lord Willoughbey, My love that ever won, Of all the lords of honour 'Tis he great deeds hath done.

To the souldiers that were maimed, And wounded in the fray, The queen allowed a pension Of fifteen pence a day; And from all costs and charges She quit and set them free: And this she did all for the sake Of brave Lord Willoughbey.

Then courage, noble Englishmen, And never be dismaid; If that we be but one to ten, We will not be afraid To fight with foraign enemies, And set our nation free. And thus I end the bloody bout Of brave Lord Willoughbey.



THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE

Will you hear a Spanish lady, How shed wooed an English man? Garments gay and rich as may be Decked with jewels she had on. Of a comely countenance and grace was she, And by birth and parentage of high degree.

As his prisoner there he kept her, In his hands her life did lye! Cupid's bands did tye them faster By the liking of an eye. In his courteous company was all her joy, To favour him in any thing she was not coy.

But at last there came commandment For to set the ladies free, With their jewels still adorned, None to do them injury. Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me; O let me still sustain this kind captivity!

Gallant captain, shew some pity To a ladye in distresse; Leave me not within this city, For to dye in heavinesse: Thou hast this present day my body free, But my heart in prison still remains with thee.

"How should'st thou, fair lady, love me, Whom thou knowest thy country's foe? Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: Serpents lie where flowers grow." All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight, God grant the same upon my head may fully light. Blessed be the time and season, That you came on Spanish ground; If our foes you may be termed, Gentle foes we have you found: With our city, you have won our hearts eche one, Then to your country bear away, that is your owne.

"Rest you still, most gallant lady; Rest you still, and weep no more; Of fair lovers there is plenty, Spain doth yield a wonderous store." Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind.

Leave me not unto a Spaniard, You alone enjoy my heart: I am lovely, young, and tender, Love is likewise my desert: Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; The wife of every Englishman is counted blest. "It wold be a shame, fair lady, For to bear a woman hence; English soldiers never carry Any such without offence." I'll quickly change myself, if it be so, And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go.

"I have neither gold nor silver To maintain thee in this case, And to travel is great charges, As you know in every place." My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.

"On the seas are many dangers, Many storms do there arise, Which wil be to ladies dreadful, And force tears from watery eyes." Well in troth I shall endure extremity, For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.

"Courteous ladye, leave this fancy, Here comes all that breeds the strife; I in England have already A sweet woman to my wife: I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain."

O how happy is that woman That enjoys so true a friend! Many happy days God send her; Of my suit I make an end: On my knees I pardon crave for my offence, Which did from love and true affection first commence.

Commend me to thy lovely lady, Bear to her this chain of gold; And these bracelets for a token; Grieving that I was so bold: All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.

I will spend my days in prayer, Love and all her laws defye; In a nunnery will I shroud mee Far from any companye: But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.

Thus farewell, most gallant captain! Farewell too my heart's content! Count not Spanish ladies wanton, Though to thee my love was bent: Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee! "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie."



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 'playning 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 ne'er 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 comliest 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 so, 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-loves 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 own 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.



CLERK COLVILL



Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame Were walking in the garden green; The belt around her stately waist Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen.

"O promise me now, Clerk Colvill, Or it will cost ye muckle strife, Ride never by the wells of Slane, If ye wad live and brook your life."

"Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, Now speak nae mair of that to me; Did I neer see a fair woman, But I wad sin with her body?"

He's taen leave o his gay lady, Nought minding what his lady said, And he's rode by the wells of Slane, Where washing was a bonny maid.

"Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, That wash sae clean your sark of silk;" "And weel fa you, fair gentleman, Your body whiter than the milk."

* * * * *

Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill, "O my head it pains me sair;" "Then take, then take," the maiden said, "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare."

Then she's gied him a little bane-knife, And frae her sark he cut a share; She's ty'd it round his whey-white face, But ay his head it aked mair.

Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville, "O sairer, sairer akes my head;" "And sairer, sairer ever will," The maiden crys, "till you be dead."

Out then he drew his shining blade, Thinking to stick her where she stood, But she was vanished to a fish, And swam far off, a fair mermaid.

"O mother, mother, braid my hair; My lusty lady, make my bed; O brother, take my sword and spear, For I have seen the false mermaid."



SIR ALDINGAR

Our king he kept a false stewarde, Sir Aldingar they him call; A falser steward than he was one, Servde not in bower nor hall.

He wolde have layne by our comelye queene, Her deere worshippe to betraye: Our queene she was a good woman, And evermore said him naye.

Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind, With her hee was never content, Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, In a fyer to have her brent.

There came a lazar to the kings gate, A lazar both blinde and lame: He tooke the lazar upon his backe, Him on the queenes bed has layne.

"Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest, Looke thou goe not hence away; He make thee a whole man and a sound In two howers of the day."

Then went him forth Sir Aldingar, And hyed him to our king: "If I might have grace, as I have space, Sad tydings I could bring."

Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar, Saye on the soothe to mee. "Our queene hath chosen a new new love, And shee will have none of thee.

"If shee had chosen a right good knight, The lesse had beene her shame; But she hath chose her a lazar man, A lazar both blinde and lame."

If this be true, thou Aldingar, The tyding thou tellest to me, Then will I make thee a rich rich knight, Rich both of golde and fee.

But if it be false, Sir Aldingar, As God nowe grant it bee! Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood, Shall hang on the gallows tree.

He brought our king to the queenes chamber, And opend to him the dore. A lodlye love, King Harry says, For our queene dame Elinore!

If thou were a man, as thou art none, Here on my sword thoust dye; But a payre of new gallowes shall be built, And there shalt thou hang on hye.

Forth then hyed our king, I wysse, And an angry man was hee; And soone he found Queen Elinore, That bride so bright of blee.

Now God you save, our queene, madame, And Christ you save and see; Heere you have chosen a newe newe love, And you will have none of mee.

If you had chosen a right good knight, The lesse had been your shame; But you have chose you a lazar man, A lazar both blinde and lame.

Therfore a fyer there shalt be built, And brent all shalt thou bee.— Now out alacke! said our comly queene, Sir Aldingar's false to mee.

Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene, My heart with griefe will brast. I had thought swevens had never been true; I have proved them true at last.

I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve, In my bed whereas I laye. I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast Had carryed my crowne awaye;

My gorgett and my kirtle of golde, And all my faire head-geere: And he wold worrye me with his tush And to his nest y-beare:

Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke, A merlin him they call, Which untill the grounde did strike the grype, That dead he downe did fall.

Giffe I were a man, as now I am none, A battell wold I prove, To fight with that traitor Aldingar, Att him I cast my glove.

But seeing Ime able noe battell to make, My liege, grant me a knight To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar, To maintaine me in my right.

"Now forty dayes I will give thee To seeke thee a knight therein: If thou find not a knight in forty dayes Thy bodye it must brenn."

Then shee sent east, and shee sent west, By north and south bedeene: But never a champion colde she find, Wolde fight with that knight soe keene.

Now twenty dayes were spent and gone, Noe helpe there might be had; Many a teare shed our comelye queene And aye her hart was sad.

Then came one of the queenes damselles, And knelt upon her knee, "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, I trust yet helpe may be:

And here I will make mine avowe, And with the same me binde; That never will I return to thee, Till I some helpe may finde."

Then forth she rode on a faire palfraye Oer hill and dale about: But never a champion colde she finde, Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.

And nowe the daye drewe on a pace, When our good queene must dye; All woe-begone was that faire damselle, When she found no helpe was nye.

All woe-begone was that faire damselle, And the salt teares fell from her eye: When lo! as she rode by a rivers side, She met with a tinye boye.

A tinye boye she mette, God wot, All clad in mantle of golde; He seemed noe more in mans likenesse, Then a childe of four yeere old.

Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd, And what doth cause you moane? The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, But fast she pricked on.

Yet turne againe, thou faire damselle And greete thy queene from mee: When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest, Nowe helpe enoughe may bee.

Bid her remember what she dreamt In her bedd, wheras shee laye; How when the grype and grimly beast Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,

Even then there came the little gray hawke, And saved her from his clawes: Then bidd the queene be merry at hart, For heaven will fende her cause.

Back then rode that faire damselle, And her hart it lept for glee: And when she told her gracious dame A gladd woman then was shee:

But when the appointed day was come, No helpe appeared nye: Then woeful, woeful was her hart, And the teares stood in her eye.

And nowe a fyer was built of wood; And a stake was made of tree; And now Queene Elinor forth was led, A sorrowful sight to see.

Three times the herault he waved his hand, And three times spake on hye: Giff any good knight will fende this dame, Come forth, or shee must dye.

No knight stood forth, no knight there came, No helpe appeared nye: And now the fyer was lighted up, Queen Elinor she must dye.

And now the fyer was lighted up, As hot as hot might bee; When riding upon a little white steed, The tinye boy they see.

"Away with that stake, away with those brands, And loose our comelye queene: I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar, And prove him a traitor keene."

Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar, But when he saw the chylde, He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, And weened he had been beguylde.

"Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar, And eyther fighte or flee; I trust that I shall avenge the wronge, Thoughe I am so small to see."

The boy pulld forth a well good sworde So gilt it dazzled the ee; The first stroke stricken at Aldingar, Smote off his leggs by the knee.

"Stand up, stand up, thou false traitor, And fight upon thy feete, For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st, Of height wee shall be meete."

A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar, While I am a man alive. A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar, Me for to houzle and shrive.

I wolde have laine by our comlie queene, Bot shee wolde never consent; Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge In a fyer to have her brent.

There came a lazar to the kings gates, A lazar both blind and lame: I tooke the lazar upon my backe, And on her bedd had him layne.

Then ranne I to our comlye king, These tidings sore to tell. But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar, Falsing never doth well.

Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, The short time I must live. "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, As freely I forgive."

Here take thy queene, our king Harrye, And love her as thy life, For never had a king in Christentye. A truer and fairer wife.

King Henrye ran to claspe his queene, And loosed her full sone: Then turned to look for the tinye boye; —The boye was vanisht and gone.

But first he had touched the lazar man, And stroakt him with his hand: The lazar under the gallowes tree All whole and sounde did stand.

The lazar under the gallowes tree Was comelye, straight and tall; King Henrye made him his head stewarde To wayte withinn his hall.



EDOM O' GORDON



It fell about the Martinmas, Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld, Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, We maun draw till a hauld.

And quhat a hauld sall we draw till, My mirry men and me? We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes, To see that fair ladie.

The lady stude on her castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down: There she was ware of a host of men Cum ryding towards the toun.

O see ze nat, my mirry men a'? O see za nat quhat I see? Methinks I see a host of men: I marveil quha they be.

She weend it had been hir luvely lord, As he cam ryding hame; It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon, Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.

She had nae sooner buskit hirsel, And putten on hir goun, But Edom o' Gordon and his men Were round about the toun.

They had nae sooner supper sett, Nae sooner said the grace, But Edom o' Gordon and his men Were light about the place.

The lady ran up to hir towir head, Sa fast as she could hie, To see if by hir fair speeches She could wi' him agree.

But quhan he see this lady saif, And hir yates all locked fast, He fell into a rage of wrath, And his look was all aghast.

Cum doun to me, ze lady gay, Cum doun, cum doun to me: This night sall ye lig within mine armes, To-morrow my bride sall be.

I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordon, I winnae cum doun to thee; I winna forsake my ain dear lord, That is sae far frae me.

Give owre zour house, ze lady fair, Give owre zour house to me, Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, Bot and zour babies three.

I winnae give owre, ze false Gordon, To nae sik traitor as zee; And if ze brenn my ain dear babes, My lord sall make ze drie.

But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man, And charge ze weil my gun: For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, My babes we been undone.

She stude upon hir castle wa', And let twa bullets flee: She mist that bluidy butchers hart, And only raz'd his knee.

Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordon, All wood wi' dule and ire: Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid, As ze bren in the fire.

Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man, I paid ze weil zour fee; Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, Lets in the reek to me?

And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man, I paid ze weil zour hire; Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, To me lets in the fire?

Ze paid me weil my hire, lady; Ze paid me weil my fee: But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man, Maun either doe or die.

O than bespaik hir little son, Sate on the nurses knee: Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house, For the reek it smithers me.

I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, Say wald I a' my fee, For ane blast o' the western wind, To blaw the reek frae thee.

O then bespaik hir dochter dear, She was baith jimp and sma; O row me in a pair o' sheits, And tow me owre the wa.

They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits, And towd hir owre the wa: But on the point of Gordons spear She gat a deadly fa.

O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth, And cherry were her cheiks, And clear clear was hir zellow hair, Whereon the reid bluid dreips.

Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre, O gin hir face was wan! He sayd, Ze are the first that eir I wisht alive again.

He turnd hir owre and owre againe, O gin hir skin was whyte! I might ha spared that bonnie face To hae been sum mans delyte.

Busk and boun, my merry men a', For ill dooms I doe guess; I cannae luik in that bonnie face, As it lyes on the grass.

Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir, Then freits wil follow thame: Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon Was daunted by a dame.

But quhen the ladye see the fire Cum flaming owre hir head, She wept and kist her children twain, Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead.

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

O then bespyed hir ain dear lord, As hee cam owr the lee; He sied his castle all in blaze Sa far as he could see.

Then sair, O sair his mind misgave, And all his hart was wae; Put on, put on, my wighty men, So fast as ze can gae.

Put on, put on, my wighty men, Sa fast as ze can drie; For he that is hindmost of the thrang Sall neir get guid o' me.

Than sum they rade, and sum they rin, Fou fast out-owr the bent; But eir the foremost could get up, Baith lady and babes were brent.

He wrang his hands, he rent his hair, And wept in teenefu' muid: O traitors, for this cruel deid Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid.

And after the Gordon he is gane, Sa fast as he might drie. And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid He's wroken his dear ladie.



CHEVY CHASE



God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safetyes all; A woefull hunting once there did In Chevy-Chace befall;

To drive the deere with hound and horne, Erle Percy took his way, The child may rue that is unborne, The hunting of that day.

The stout Erle of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summers days to take;

The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace To kill and beare away. These tydings to Erle Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay:

Who sent Erle Percy present word, He wold prevent his sport. The English erle, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold; All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of neede To ayme their shafts arright.

The galland greyhounds swiftly ran, To chase the fallow deere: On munday they began to hunt, Ere day-light did appeare;

And long before high noone they had An hundred fat buckes slaine; Then having dined, the drovyers went To rouze the deare againe.

The bow-men mustered on the hills, Well able to endure; Theire backsides all, with speciall care, That day were guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deere to take, That with their cryes the hills and dales An eccho shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughter'd deere; Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised This day to meet me heere:

But if I thought he wold not come, Noe longer wold I stay. With that, a brave younge gentleman Thus to the Erle did say:

Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, His men in armour bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish speres All marching in our sight;

All men of pleasant Tivydale, Fast by the river Tweede: O cease your sports, Erle Percy said, And take your bowes with speede:

And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance; For there was never champion yett, In Scotland nor in France,

That ever did on horsebacke come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spere.

Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede, Most like a baron bolde, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armour shone like gold.

Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, That hunt soe boldly heere, That, without my consent, doe chase And kill my fallow-deere.

The first man that did answer make Was noble Percy hee; Who sayd, Wee list not to declare, Nor shew whose men wee bee: Yet wee will spend our deerest blood, Thy cheefest harts to slay. Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, And thus in rage did say,

Ere thus I will out-braved bee, One of us two shall dye: I know thee well, an erle thou art; Lord Percy, soe am I.

But trust me, Percy, pittye it were, And great offence to kill Any of these our guiltlesse men, For they have done no ill.

Let thou and I the battell trye, And set our men aside. Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd, By whome this is denyed.

Then stept a gallant squier forth, Witherington was his name, Who said, I wold not have it told To Henry our king for shame,

That ere my captaine fought on foote, And I stood looking on. You be two erles, sayd Witherington, And I a squier alone:

He doe the best that doe I may, While I have power to stand: While I have power to weeld my sword He fight with hart and hand.

Our English archers bent their bowes, Their harts were good and trew; Att the first flight of arrowes sent, Full four-score Scots they slew.

Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, As Chieftain stout and good. As valiant Captain, all unmov'd The shock he firmly stood.

His host he parted had in three, As Leader ware and try'd, And soon his spearmen on their foes Bare down on every side.

To drive the deere with hound and horne, Douglas bade on the bent Two captaines moved with mickle might Their speres to shivers went.

Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound: But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground:

And throwing strait their bows away, They grasp'd their swords so bright: And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, On shields and helmets light.

They closed full fast on every side, Noe slackness there was found: And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground.

O Christ! it was a griefe to see; And likewise for to heare, The cries of men lying in their gore, And scattered here and there.

At last these two stout erles did meet, Like captaines of great might: Like lyons wood, they layd on lode, And made a cruell fight:

They fought untill they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steele; Untill the blood, like drops of rain, They tricklin downe did feele.

Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd In faith I will thee bringe, Where thou shalt high advanced bee By James our Scottish king:

Thy ransome I will freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most couragious knight, That ever I did see.

Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then, Thy proffer I doe scorne; I will not yeelde to any Scott, That ever yett was borne.

With that, there came an arrow keene Out of an English bow, Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, A deepe and deadlye blow:

Who never spake more words than these, Fight on, my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end; Lord Percy sees my fall.

Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke The dead man by the hand; And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life Wold I had lost my land.

O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure, a more redoubted knight Mischance cold never take.

A knight amongst the Scotts there was Which saw Erle Douglas dye, Who streight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percye:

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, Who, with a spere most bright, Well-mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight;

And past the English archers all, Without all dread or feare; And through Earl Percyes body then He thrust his hatefull spere;

With such a vehement force and might He did his body gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth-yard and more.

So thus did both these nobles dye, Whose courage none could staine: An English archer then perceiv'd The noble erle was slaine;

He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long Up to the head drew hee:

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, So right the shaft he sett, The grey goose-winge that was thereon, In his harts bloode was wette.

This fight did last from breake of day, Till setting of the sun; For when they rang the evening-bell, The battel scarce was done.

With stout Erle Percy there was slaine Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James that bold barron:

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, Whose prowesse did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wayle, As one in doleful dumpes; For when his leggs were smitten off, He fought upon his stumpes.

And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine Sir Hugh Montgomerye, Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld One foote wold never flee.

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, His sisters sonne was hee; Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, Yet saved cold not bee.

And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Erle Douglas dye: Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, Scarce fifty-five did flye.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, Under the greene woode tree.

Next day did many widowes come, Their husbands to bewayle; They washt their wounds in brinish teares, But all wold not prevayle.

Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore, They bare with them away: They kist them dead a thousand times, Ere they were cladd in clay.

The news was brought to Eddenborrow, Where Scottlands king did raigne, That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye Was with an arrow slaine:

O heavy newes, King James did say, Scotland may witnesse bee, I have not any captaine more Of such account as hee.

Like tydings to King Henry came, Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:

Now God be with him, said our king, Sith it will noe better bee; I trust I have, within my realme, Five hundred as good as hee:

Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take: I'll be revenged on them all, For brave Erle Percyes sake.

This vow full well the king perform'd After, at Humbledowne; In one day, fifty knights were slayne, With lords of great renowne:

And of the rest, of small acount, Did many thousands dye: Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, Made by the Erle Percy.

God save our king, and bless this land With plenty, joy, and peace; And grant henceforth, that foule debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease.





SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE



When Arthur first in court began, And was approved king, By force of armes great victorys wanne, And conquest home did bring,

Then into England straight he came With fifty good and able Knights, that resorted unto him, And were of his round table:

And he had justs and turnaments, Whereto were many prest, Wherein some knights did far excell And eke surmount the rest.

But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, Who was approved well, He for his deeds and feats of armes All others did excell.

When he had rested him a while, In play, and game, and sportt, He said he wold goe prove himselfe In some adventurous sort.

He armed rode in a forrest wide, And met a damsell faire, Who told him of adventures great, Whereto he gave great eare.

Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott: For that cause came I hither. Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good, And I will bring thee thither.

Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell, That now is of great fame: Therefore tell me what wight thou art, And what may be thy name.

"My name is Lancelot du Lake." Quoth she, it likes me than: Here dwelles a knight who never was Yet matcht with any man:

Who has in prison threescore knights And four, that he did wound; Knights of King Arthurs court they be, And of his table round.

She brought him to a river side, And also to a tree, Whereon a copper bason hung, And many shields to see.

He struck soe hard, the bason broke; And Tarquin soon he spyed: Who drove a horse before him fast, Whereon a knight lay tyed.

Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett, Bring me that horse-load hither, And lay him downe, and let him rest; Weel try our force together:

For, as I understand, thou hast, So far as thou art able, Done great despite and shame unto The knights of the Round Table.

If thou be of the Table Round, Quoth Tarquin speedilye, Both thee and all thy fellowship I utterly defye.

That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho, Defend thee by and by. They sett their speares unto their steeds, And eache att other flie.

They coucht theire speares (their horses ran, As though there had beene thunder), And strucke them each immidst their shields, Wherewith they broke in sunder.

Their horsses backes brake under them, The knights were both astound: To avoyd their horsses they made haste And light upon the ground.

They tooke them to their shields full fast, Their swords they drewe out than, With mighty strokes most eagerlye Each at the other ran.

They wounded were, and bled full sore, They both for breath did stand, And leaning on their swords awhile, Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,

And tell to me what I shall aske. Say on, quoth Lancelot tho. Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight That ever I did know:

And like a knight, that I did hate: Soe that thou be not hee, I will deliver all the rest, And eke accord with thee.

That is well said, quoth Lancelott; But sith it must be soe, What knight is that thou hatest thus I pray thee to me show.

His name is Lancelot du Lake, He slew my brother deere; Him I suspect of all the rest: I would I had him here.

Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, I am Lancelot du Lake, Now knight of Arthurs Table Round; King Hauds son of Schuwake;

And I desire thee to do thy worst. Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho' One of us two shall ende our lives Before that we do go.

If thou be Lancelot du Lake, Then welcome shalt thou bee: Wherfore see thou thyself defend, For now defye I thee.

They buckled them together so, Like unto wild boares rashing; And with their swords and shields they ran At one another slashing:

The ground besprinkled was with blood: Tarquin began to yield; For he gave backe for wearinesse, And lowe did beare his shield.

This soone Sir Lancelot espyde, He leapt upon him then, He pull'd him downe upon his knee, And rushing off his helm,

Forthwith he strucke his necke in two, And, when he had soe done, From prison threescore knights and four Delivered everye one.



GIL MORRICE

Gil Morrice was an erles son, His name it waxed wide; It was nae for his great riches, Nor zet his mickle pride; Bot it was for a lady gay, That livd on Carron side.

Quhair sail I get a bonny boy, That will win hose and shoen; That will gae to Lord Barnards ha', And bid his lady cum? And ze maun rin my errand, Willie; And ze may rin wi' pride; Quhen other boys gae on their foot On horse-back ze sail ride.

O no! Oh no! my master dear! I dare nae for my life; I'll no gae to the bauld barons, For to triest furth his wife. My bird Willie, my boy Willie; My dear Willie, he sayd: How can ze strive against the stream? For I sall be obeyd.

Bot, O my master dear! he cryd, In grene wod ze're zour lain; Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede, For fear ze should be tain. Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha', Bid hir cum here wi speid: If ze refuse my heigh command, Ill gar zour body bleid.

Gae bid hir take this gay mantel, 'Tis a' gowd hot the hem; Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, And bring nane bot hir lain: And there it is a silken sarke, Hir ain hand sewd the sleive; And bid hir cum to Gill Morice, Speir nae bauld barons leave.

Yes, I will gae zour black errand, Though it be to zour cost; Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, In it ze sail find frost. The baron he is a man of might, He neir could bide to taunt, As ze will see before its nicht, How sma' ze hae to vaunt.

And sen I maun zour errand rin Sae sair against my will, I'se mak a vow and keip it trow, It sall be done for ill. And quhen he came to broken brigue, He bent his bow and swam; And quhen he came to grass growing, Set down his feet and ran.

And quhen he came to Barnards ha', Would neither chap nor ca': Bot set his bent bow to his breist, And lichtly lap the wa'. He wauld nae tell the man his errand, Though he stude at the gait; Bot straiht into the ha' he cam, Quhair they were set at meit.

Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! My message winna waite; Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod Before that it be late. Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel, Tis a' gowd bot the hem: Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, Ev'n by your sel alane.

And there it is, a silken sarke, Your ain hand sewd the sleive; Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice: Speir nae bauld barons leave. The lady stamped wi' hir foot, And winked wi' hir ee; Bot a' that she coud say or do, Forbidden he wad nae bee.

Its surely to my bow'r-woman; It neir could be to me. I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; I trow that ze be she. Then up and spack the wylie nurse, (The bairn upon hir knee) If it be cum frae Gill Morice, It's deir welcum to mee.

Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, Sae loud I heird zee lee; I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady; I trow ze be nae shee. Then up and spack the bauld baron, An angry man was hee; He's tain the table wi' his foot, Sae has he wi' his knee; Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish In flinders he gard flee.

Gae bring a robe of zour cliding, That hings upon the pin; And I'll gae to the gude grene wode, And speik wi' zour lemman. O bide at hame, now Lord Barnard, I warde ze bide at hame; Neir wyte a man for violence, That neir wate ze wi' nane.

Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, He whistled and he sang: O what mean a' the folk coming, My mother tarries lang. His hair was like the threeds of gold, Drawne frae Minerva's loome: His lipps like roses drapping dew, His breath was a' perfume.

His brow was like the mountain snae Gilt by the morning beam: His cheeks like living roses glow: His een like azure stream. The boy was clad in robes of grene, Sweete as the infant spring: And like the mavis on the bush, He gart the vallies ring.

The baron came to the grene wode, Wi' mickle dule and care, And there he first spied Gill Morice Kameing his zellow hair: That sweetly wavd around his face, That face beyond compare: He sang sae sweet it might dispel A' rage but fell despair.

Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice, My lady loed thee weel, The fairest part of my bodie Is blacker than thy heel. Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice, For a' thy great beautie, Ze's rew the day ze eir was born; That head sall gae wi' me.

Now he has drawn his trusty brand, And slaited on the strae; And thro' Gill Morice' fair body He's gar cauld iron gae. And he has tain Gill Morice's head And set it on a speir; The meanest man in a' his train Has gotten that head to bear.

And he has tain Gill Morice up, Laid him across his steid, And brocht him to his painted bowr, And laid him on a bed. The lady sat on castil wa', Beheld baith dale and doun; And there she saw Gill Morice' head Cum trailing to the toun.

Far better I loe that bluidy head, Both and that zellow hair, Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands, As they lig here and thair. And she has tain her Gill Morice, And kissd baith mouth and chin: I was once as fow of Gill Morice, As the hip is o' the stean.

I got ze in my father's house, Wi' mickle sin and shame; I brocht thee up in gude grene wode, Under the heavy rain. Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, And fondly seen thee sleip; But now I gae about thy grave, The saut tears for to weip.

And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, And syne his bluidy chin: O better I loe my Gill Morice Than a' my kith and kin! Away, away, ze ill woman, And an il deith mait ze dee: Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son, He'd neir bin slain for mee.

Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard! Obraid me not for shame! Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart! And put me out o' pain. Since nothing bot Gill Morice head Thy jelous rage could quell, Let that saim hand now tak hir life, That neir to thee did ill.

To me nae after days nor nichts Will eir be saft or kind; I'll fill the air with heavy sighs, And greet till I am blind. Enouch of blood by me's been spilt, Seek not zour death frae mee; I rather lourd it had been my sel Than eather him or thee.

With waefo wae I hear zour plaint; Sair, sair I rew the deid, That eir this cursed hand of mine Had gard his body bleid. Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, Ze neir can heal the wound; Ze see his head upon the speir, His heart's blude on the ground.

I curse the hand that did the deid, The heart that thocht the ill; The feet that bore me wi' sik speid, The comely zouth to kill. I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, As gin he were mine ain; I'll neir forget the dreiry day On which the zouth was slain.



The CHILD of ELLE

On yondre hill a castle standes With walles and towres bedight, And yonder lives the Child of Elle, A younge and comely knighte.

The Child of Elle to his garden went, And stood at his garden pale, Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page Come trippinge downe the dale.

The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, Y-wis he stoode not stille, And soone he mette faire Emmelines page Come climbinge up the hille.

Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, Now Christe thee save and see! Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, And what may thy tydinges bee?

My ladye shee is all woe-begone, And the teares they falle from her eyne; And aye she laments the deadlye feude Betweene her house and thine.

And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe Bedewde with many a teare, And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, Who loved thee so deare.

And here shee sends thee a ring of golde The last boone thou mayst have, And biddes thee weare it for her sake, Whan she is layde in grave.

For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, And in grave soone must shee bee, Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, And forbidde her to think of thee.

Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, Sir John of the north countraye, And within three dayes she must him wedde, Or he vowes he will her slaye.

Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And greet thy ladye from mee, And telle her that I her owne true love Will dye, or sette her free.

Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And let thy fair ladye know This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe, Betide me weale or woe.

The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, He neither stint ne stayd Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, Whan kneeling downe he sayd,

O ladye, I've been with thine own true love, And he greets thee well by mee; This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windowe, And dye or sett thee free.

Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, And all were fast asleepe, All save the Ladye Emmeline, Who sate in her bowre to weepe:

And soone shee heard her true loves voice Lowe whispering at the walle, Awake, awake, my deare ladye, Tis I thy true love call.

Awake, awake, my ladye deare, Come, mount this faire palfraye: This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe He carrye thee hence awaye.

Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, Nowe nay, this may not bee; For aye shold I tint my maiden fame, If alone I should wend with thee.

O ladye, thou with a knighte so true Mayst safelye wend alone, To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, Where marriage shall make us one.

"My father he is a baron bolde, Of lynage proude and hye; And what would he saye if his daughter Awaye with a knight should fly

"Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, Nor his meate should doe him no goode, Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle, And scene thy deare hearts bloode."

O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And a little space him fro, I would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that he could doe.

O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And once without this walle, I would not care for thy cruel father Nor the worst that might befalle.

Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe: At length he seized her lilly-white hand, And downe the ladder he drewe:

And thrice he clasped her to his breste, And kist her tenderlie: The teares that fell from her fair eyes Ranne like the fountayne free.

Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, And her on a fair palfraye, And slung his bugle about his necke, And roundlye they rode awaye.

All this beheard her owne damselle, In her bed whereas shee ley, Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, Soe I shall have golde and fee.

Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! Awake, my noble dame! Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle To doe the deede of shame.

The baron he woke, the baron he rose, And called his merrye men all: "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte, Thy ladye is carried to thrall."

Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, A mile forth of the towne, When she was aware of her fathers men Come galloping over the downe:

And foremost came the carlish knight, Sir John of the north countraye: "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure, Nor carry that ladye awaye.

"For she is come of hye lineage, And was of a ladye borne, And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne, To carrye her hence to scorne."

Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, Nowe thou doest lye of mee; A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, Soe never did none by thee

But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, Light downe, and hold my steed, While I and this discourteous knighte Doe trye this arduous deede.

But light now downe, my deare ladye, Light downe, and hold my horse; While I and this discourteous knight Doe trye our valour's force.

Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe, While twixt her love and the carlish knight Past many a baleful blowe.

The Child of Elle hee fought so well, As his weapon he waved amaine, That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, And layd him upon the plaine.

And nowe the baron and all his men Full fast approached nye: Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe Twere nowe no boote to flye.

Her lover he put his horne to his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill, And soone he saw his owne merry men Come ryding over the hill.

"Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, I pray thee hold thy hand, Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts Fast knit in true love's band.

Thy daughter I have dearly loved Full long and many a day; But with such love as holy kirke Hath freelye sayd wee may.

O give consent, shee may be mine, And blesse a faithfull paire: My lands and livings are not small, My house and lineage faire:

My mother she was an earl's daughter, And a noble knyght my sire— The baron he frowned, and turn'd away With mickle dole and ire.

Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, And did all tremblinge stand: At lengthe she sprang upon her knee, And held his lifted hand.

Pardon, my lorde and father deare, This faire yong knyght and mee: Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, I never had fled from thee.

Oft have you called your Emmeline Your darling and your joye; O let not then your harsh resolves Your Emmeline destroye.

The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, And turned his heade asyde To whipe awaye the starting teare He proudly strave to hyde.

In deepe revolving thought he stoode, And mused a little space; Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde, With many a fond embrace.

Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, And gave her lillye white hand; Here take my deare and only child, And with her half my land:

Thy father once mine honour wrongde In dayes of youthful pride; Do thou the injurye repayre In fondnesse for thy bride.

And as thou love her, and hold her deare, Heaven prosper thee and thine: And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, My lovelye Emmeline.



CHILD WATERS

Childe Waters in his stable stoode And stroakt his milke white steede: To him a fayre yonge ladye came As ever ware womans weede.

Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters; Sayes, Christ you save, and see: My girdle of gold that was too longe, Is now too short for mee.

And all is with one chyld of yours, I feel sturre att my side: My gowne of greene it is too straighte; Before, it was too wide.

If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd, Be mine, as you tell mee; Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, Take them your owne to bee.

If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd, Be mine, as you doe sweare; Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, And make that child your heyre.

Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse, Child Waters, of thy mouth; Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, That laye by north and south.

And I had rather have one twinkling, Childe Waters, of thine ee; Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, To take them mine owne to bee.

To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde Farr into the north countrie; The fairest lady that I can find, Ellen, must goe with mee.

'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre, 'Yet let me go with thee:' And ever I pray you, Child Waters, Your foot-page let me bee.

If you will my foot-page be, Ellen, As you doe tell to mee; Then you must cut your gowne of greene, An inch above your knee:

Soe must you doe your yellow lockes, An inch above your ee: You must tell no man what is my name; My foot-page then you shall bee.

Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, Ran barefoote by his side; Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte, To say, Ellen, will you ryde?

Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode, Ran barefoote thorow the broome; Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, To say, put on your shoone.

Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters, Why doe you ryde soe fast? The childe, which is no mans but thine, My bodye itt will brast.

Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen, That flows from bank to brimme?— I trust to God, O Child Waters, You never will see mee swimme.

But when shee came to the waters side, Shee sayled to the chinne: Except the Lord of heaven be my speed, Now must I learne to swimme.

The salt waters bare up her clothes; Our Ladye bare upp her chinne: Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord, To see faire Ellen swimme.

And when shee over the water was, Shee then came to his knee: He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellen, Loe yonder what I see.

Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? Of redd gold shines the yate; Of twenty foure faire ladyes there, The fairest is my mate.

Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? Of redd gold shines the towre: There are twenty four fair ladyes there, The fairest is my paramoure.

I see the hall now, Child Waters, Of redd golde shines the yate: God give you good now of yourselfe, And of your worthye mate.

I see the hall now, Child Waters, Of redd gold shines the towre: God give you good now of yourselfe, And of your paramoure.

There twenty four fayre ladyes were A playing att the ball: And Ellen the fairest ladye there, Must bring his steed to the stall.

There twenty four fayre ladyes were A playinge at the chesse; And Ellen the fayrest ladye there, Must bring his horse to gresse.

And then bespake Childe Waters sister, These were the wordes said shee: You have the prettyest foot-page, brother, That ever I saw with mine ee.

But that his bellye it is soe bigg, His girdle goes wonderous hie: And let him, I pray you, Childe Wateres, Goe into the chamber with mee.

It is not fit for a little foot-page, That has run throughe mosse and myre, To go into the chamber with any ladye, That weares soe riche attyre.

It is more meete for a litle foot-page, That has run throughe mosse and myre, To take his supper upon his knee, And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.

But when they had supped every one, To bedd they tooke theyr waye: He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, And hearken what I saye.

Goe thee downe into yonder towne, And low into the street; The fayrest ladye that thou can finde,

Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe, And take her up in thine armes twaine, For filinge of her feete.

Ellen is gone into the towne, And low into the streete: The fairest ladye that she cold find, Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; And tooke her up in her armes twayne, For filing of her feete.

I pray you nowe, good Child Waters, Let mee lye at your bedds feete: For there is noe place about this house, Where I may 'saye a sleepe.

'He gave her leave, and faire Ellen 'Down at his beds feet laye:' This done the nighte drove on apace, And when it was neare the daye,

Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page, Give my steede corne and haye; And soe doe thou the good black oats, To carry mee better awaye.

Up then rose the faire Ellen, And gave his steede corne and hay: And soe shee did the good blacke oats, To carry him the better away.

Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, And grievouslye did groane: Shee leaned her backe to the manger side, And there shee made her moane.

And that beheard his mother deere, Shee heard her there monand. Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Waters, I think thee a cursed man.

For in thy stable is a ghost, That grievouslye doth grone: Or else some woman laboures of childe, She is soe woe-begone.

Up then rose Childe Waters soon, And did on his shirte of silke; And then he put on his other clothes, On his body as white as milke.

And when he came to the stable dore, Full still there he did stand, That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellen Howe shee made her monand.

Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child, Lullabye, dere child, dere; I wold thy father were a king, Thy mother layd on a biere.

Peace now, he said, good faire Ellen, Be of good cheere, I praye; And the bridal and the churching both Shall bee upon one day.



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KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH

In summer time, when leaves grow greene, And blossoms bedecke the tree, King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, Some pastime for to see.

With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, With horne, and eke with bowe; To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye, With all his lordes a rowe.

And he had ridden ore dale and downe By eight of clocke in the day, When he was ware of a bold tanner, Come ryding along the waye.

A fayre russet coat the tanner had on Fast buttoned under his chin, And under him a good cow-hide, And a marc of four shilling.

Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, Under the grene wood spraye; And I will wend to yonder fellowe, To weet what he will saye.

God speede, God speede thee, said our king. Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee. "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset I praye thee to shew to mee."

"To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe, Fro the place where thou dost stand? The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, Turne in upon thy right hand."

That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king, Thou doest but jest, I see; Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, And I pray thee wend with mee.

Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner: I hold thee out of thy witt: All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare, And I am fasting yett.

"Go with me downe to Drayton Basset, No daynties we will spare; All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, And I will paye thy fare."

Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde, Thou payest no fare of mine: I trowe I've more nobles in my purse, Than thou hast pence in thine.

God give thee joy of them, sayd the king, And send them well to priefe. The tanner wolde faine have beene away, For he weende he had beene a thiefe.

What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe, Of thee I am in great feare, For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back, Might beseeme a lord to weare.

I never stole them, quoth our king, I tell you, Sir, by the roode. "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, And standest in midds of thy goode."

What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge, As you ryde farre and neare? "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse, But that cowe-hides are deare."

"Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? I marvell what they bee?" What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; I carry one under mee.

What craftsman art thou, said the king, I pray thee tell me trowe. "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade; Nowe tell me what art thou?"

I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he, That am forth of service worne; And faine I wolde thy prentise bee, Thy cunninge for to learne.

Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, That thou my prentise were: Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne By fortye shilling a yere.

Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king, If thou wilt not seeme strange: Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, Yet with thee I fain wold change.

"Why if with me thou faine wilt change, As change full well maye wee, By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe I will have some boot of thee."

That were against reason, sayd the king, I sweare, so mote I thee: My horse is better than thy mare, And that thou well mayst see.

"Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild, And softly she will fare: Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss; Aye skipping here and theare."

What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd; Now tell me in this stound. "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye, But a noble in gold so round.

"Here's twentye groates of white moneye, Sith thou will have it of mee." I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, Thou hadst not had one pennie.

But since we two have made a change, A change we must abide, Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare, Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.

I will not have it, sayd the kynge, I sweare, so mought I thee; Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare, If thou woldst give it to mee.

The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, That of the cow was bilt; And threwe it upon the king's sadelle, That was soe fayrelye gilte. "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe, 'Tis time that I were gone: When I come home to Gyllian my wife, Sheel say I am a gentilmon."

The king he tooke him up by the legge; The tanner a f——- lett fall. Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king, Thy courtesye is but small.

When the tanner he was in the kinges sadelle, And his foote in the stirrup was; He marvelled greatlye in his minde, Whether it were golde or brass.

But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge, And eke the blacke cowe-horne; He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, As the devill had him borne.

The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, And held by the pummil fast: At length the tanner came tumbling downe; His necke he had well-nye brast.

Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, With mee he shall not byde. "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.

Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, As change full well may wee, By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tanner, I will have some boote of thee."

What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd, Nowe tell me in this stounde. "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye, But I will have twentye pound."

"Here's twentye groates out of my purse; And twentye I have of thine: And I have one more, which we will spend Together at the wine."

The king set a bugle home to his mouthe, And blewe both loude and shrille: And soone came lords, and soone came knights, Fast ryding over the hille.

Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, That ever I sawe this daye! Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes Will beare my cowe-hide away.

They are no thieves, the king replyde, I sweare, soe mote I thee: But they are the lords of the north countrey, Here come to hunt with mee.

And soone before our king they came, And knelt downe on the grounde: Then might the tanner have beene awaye, He had lever than twentye pounde.

A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, A coller he loud gan crye: Then woulde he lever than twentye pound, He had not beene so nighe.

A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, I trowe it will breed sorrowe: After a coller cometh a halter, I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.

Be not afraid, tanner, said our king; I tell thee, so mought I thee, Lo here I make thee the best esquire That is in the North countrie.

For Plumpton-parke I will give thee, With tenements faire beside: 'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.

Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, For the favour thou hast me showne; If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth, Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.



SIR PATRICK SPENS

The king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: O quhar will I get guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine.

Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the kings richt kne: Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, That sails upon the se.

The king has written a braid letter, And signd it wi' his hand; And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he: The next line that Sir Patrick red, The teir blinded his ee.

O quha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me; To send me out this time o' the zeir, To sail upon the se.

Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne, O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme.

Late late yestreen I saw the new moone Wi' the auld moone in hir arme; And I feir, I feir, my deir master, That we will com to harme.

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild schoone; Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit Wi' thair fans into their hand, Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang, may the ladies stand Wi' thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords, For they'll se thame na mair.

Have owre, have owre to Aberdour, It's fiftie fadom deip: And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.



THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER

It was intill a pleasant time, Upon a simmer's day, The noble Earl of Mar's daughter Went forth to sport and play.

As thus she did amuse hersell, Below a green aik tree, There she saw a sprightly doo Set on a tower sae hie.

"O cow-me-doo, my love sae true, If ye'll come down to me, Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd Instead o simple tree:

"I'll put growd hingers roun your cage, And siller roun your wa; I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird As ony o them a'."

But she hadnae these words well spoke, Nor yet these words well said, Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower And lighted on her head.

Then she has brought this pretty bird Hame to her bowers and ba, And made him shine as fair a bird As ony o them a'.

When day was gane, and night was come, About the evening tide, This lady spied a sprightly youth Stand straight up by her side.

"From whence came ye, young man?" she said; "That does surprise me sair; My door was bolted right secure, What way hae ye come here?"

"O had your tongue, ye lady fair, Lat a' your folly be; Mind ye not on your turtle-doo Last day ye brought wi thee?"

"O tell me mair, young man," she said, "This does surprise me now; What country hae ye come frae? What pedigree are you?"

"My mither lives on foreign isles, She has nae mair but me; She is a queen o wealth and state, And birth and high degree.

"Likewise well skilld in magic spells, As ye may plainly see, And she transformd me to yon shape, To charm such maids as thee.

"I am a doo the live-lang day, A sprightly youth at night; This aye gars me appear mair fair In a fair maiden's sight.

"And it was but this verra day That I came ower the sea; Your lovely face did me enchant; I'll live and dee wi thee."

"O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae; That's never my intent, my luve, As ye said, it shall be sae."

"O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, It's time to gae to bed;" "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow, It's be as ye hae said."

Then he has staid in bower wi her For sax lang years and ane, Till sax young sons to him she bare, And the seventh she's brought hame.

But aye as ever a child was born He carried them away, And brought them to his mither's care, As fast as he coud fly.

Thus he has staid in bower wi her For twenty years and three; There came a lord o high renown To court this fair ladie.

But still his proffer she refused, And a' his presents too; Says, I'm content to live alane Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo.

Her father sware a solemn oath Amang the nobles all, "The morn, or ere I eat or drink, This bird I will gar kill."

The bird was sitting in his cage, And heard what they did say; And when he found they were dismist, Says, Wae's me for this day!

"Before that I do langer stay, And thus to be forlorn, I'll gang unto my mither's bower, Where I was bred and born."

Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew Beyond the raging sea, And lighted near his mither's castle, On a tower o gowd sae hie.