The Book of Old English Ballads Part 15

Late at e'en, drinking the wine, And ere they paid the lawing, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawing.

"What though ye be my sister's lord, We'll cross our swords to-morrow."

"What though my wife your sister be, I'll meet ye then on Yarrow."

"O stay at hame, my ain gude lord!

O stay, my ain dear marrow!

My cruel brither will you betray On the dowie banks o' Yarrow."

"O fare ye weel, my lady dear!

And put aside your sorrow; For if I gae, I'll sune return Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow."

She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, As oft she'd done before, O; She belted him wi' his gude brand, And he's awa' to Yarrow.

When he gaed up the Tennies bank, As he gaed mony a morrow, Nine armed men lay in a den, On the dowie braes o' Yarrow.

"O come ye here to hunt or hawk The bonny Forest thorough?

Or come ye here to wield your brand Upon the banks o' Yarrow?"

"I come not here to hunt or hawk, As oft I've dune before, O, But I come here to wield my brand Upon the banks o' Yarrow.

"If ye attack me nine to ane, Then may G.o.d send ye sorrow!-- Yet will I fight while stand I may, On the bonny banks o' Yarrow."

Two has he hurt, and three has slain, On the b.l.o.o.d.y braes o' Yarrow; But the stubborn knight crept in behind, And pierced his body thorough.

"Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John, And tell your sister sorrow,-- To come and lift her leafu' lord On the dowie banks o' Yarrow."

Her brither John gaed ower yon hill, As oft he'd dune before, O; There he met his sister dear, Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow.

"I dreamt a dream last night," she says, "I wish it binna sorrow; I dreamt I pu'd the heather green Wi' my true love on Yarrow."

"I'll read your dream, sister," he says, "I'll read it into sorrow; Ye're bidden go take up your love, He's sleeping sound on Yarrow."

She's torn the ribbons frae her head That were baith braid and narrow; She's kilted up her lang claithing, And she's awa' to Yarrow.

She's ta'en him in her arms twa, And gi'en him kisses thorough; She sought to bind his mony wounds, But he lay dead on Yarrow.

"O haud your tongue," her father says, "And let be a' your sorrow; I'll wed you to a better lord Than him ye lost on Yarrow."

"O haud your tongue, father," she says, "Far wa.r.s.e ye mak' my sorrow; A better lord could never be Than him that lies on Yarrow."

She kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair, As aft she had dune before, O; And there wi' grief her heart did break, Upon the banks o' Yarrow.

Hugh of Lincoln

SHOWING THE CRUELTY OF A JEW'S DAUGHTER

Four and twenty bonny boys Were playing at the ba', And up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh, The flower among them a'.

He kicked the ba' there wi' his foot, And keppit it wi' his knee, Till even in at the Jew's window He gart the bonny ba' flee.

"Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, Cast out the ba' to me."

"Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter, Till ye come up to me."

"Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, Come up and get the ba'."

"I winna come, I mayna come, Without my bonny boys a'."

She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden, Where the gra.s.s grew lang and green, She's pu'd an apple red and white, To wyle the bonny boy in.

She's wyled him in through ae chamber, She's wyled him in through twa, She's wyled him into the third chamber, And that was the warst o' a'.

She's tied the little boy, hands and feet, She's pierced him wi' a knife, She's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup, And twinn'd him o' his life.

She row'd him in a cake o' lead, Bade him lie still and sleep, She cast him in a deep draw-well Was fifty fathom deep.

When bells were rung, and ma.s.s was sung, And every bairn went hame, Then ilka lady had her young son, But Lady Helen had nane.

She row'd her mantle her about, And sair, sair 'gan she weep; And she ran unto the Jew's house, When they were all asleep.

"My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh, I pray thee to me speak!"

"Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-well 'Gin ye your son wad seek."

Lady Helen ran to the deep draw-well, And knelt upon her knee: "My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here, I pray thee speak to me!"

"The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, The well is wondrous deep; A keen penknife sticks in my heart, It is hard for me to speak.

"Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, Fetch me my winding-sheet; And at the back o' merry Lincoln, It's there we twa sall meet."

Now Lady Helen she's gane hame, Made him a winding-sheet; And at the back o' merry Lincoln, The dead corpse did her meet.

And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln Without men's hands were rung; And a' the books o' merry Lincoln Were read without men's tongue: Never was such a burial Sin' Adam's days begun.

Sir Patrick Spens

The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, To sail this new s.h.i.+p of mine?"