Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 62

Fair Annie turn'd her round about: 'Weel, sine that it be sae, May ne'er woman that has borne a son Hae a heart sae fu' o' wae!

'Tak down, tak down that mast o' gowd, Set up a mast of tree; It disna become a forsaken lady To sail sae royallie.'

When the c.o.c.k has crawn, and the day did dawn, And the sun began to peep, Up than raise Lord Gregory, And sair, sair did he weep.

'O I hae dream'd a dream, mither, I wish it may bring good!

That the bonny la.s.s of Lochroyan At my bower window stood.

'O I hae dream'd a dream, mither, The thought o't gars me greet!

That fair Annie of Lochroyan Lay dead at my bed-feet.'

'Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan That ye mak a' this mane, She stood last night at your bower-door, But I hae sent her hame.'

'O wae betide ye, ill woman, An ill death may ye die!

That wadna open the door yoursell Nor yet wad waken me.'

O he 's gane down to yon sh.o.r.e-side, As fast as he could dree, And there he saw fair Annie's bark A rowing owre the sea.

'O Annie, Annie,' loud he cried, 'O Annie, O Annie, bide!'

But ay the mair he cried 'Annie,'

The braider grew the tide.

'O Annie, Annie, dear Annie, Dear Annie, speak to me!'

But ay the louder he gan call, The louder roar'd the sea.

The wind blew loud, the waves rose hie And dash'd the boat on sh.o.r.e; Fair Annie's corpse was in the faem, The babe rose never more.

Lord Gregory tore his gowden locks And made a wafu' moan; Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet, His bonny son was gone.

'O cherry, cherry was her cheek, And gowden was her hair, And coral, coral was her lips, Nane might with her compare.'

Then first he kiss'd her pale, pale cheek, And syne he kiss'd her chin, And syne he kiss'd her wane, wane lips, There was na breath within.

'O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die!

She turn'd my true-love frae my door, Who cam so far to me.

'O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die!

She has no been the deid o' ane, But she 's been the deid of three.'

Then he 's ta'en out a little dart, Hung low down by his gore, He thrust it through and through his heart, And words spak never more.

jimp] trim. kame] comb. haw bayberry] ?a corruption for 'braw ivory': or bayberry may=laurel-wood. cramoisie] crimson. reiver]

robber. dow] can. gore] skirt, waist.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

370. The Dowie Houms of Yarrow

LATE at een, drinkin' the wine, And ere they paid the lawin', They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawin'.

'O stay at hame, my n.o.ble lord!

O stay at hame, my marrow!

My cruel brother will you betray, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'

'O fare ye weel, my lady gay!

O fare ye weel, my Sarah!

For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er return Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'

She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair, As she had done before, O; She belted on his n.o.ble brand, An' he 's awa to Yarrow.

O he 's gane up yon high, high hill-- I wat he gaed wi' sorrow-- An' in a den spied nine arm'd men, I' the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

'O are ye come to drink the wine, As ye hae doon before, O?

Or are ye come to wield the brand, On the dowie banks o' Yarrow?'

'I am no come to drink the wine, As I hae don before, O, But I am come to wield the brand, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'

Four he hurt, an' five he slew, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, An' ran his body thorrow.

'Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, An' tell your sister Sarah To come an' lift her n.o.ble lord, Who 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow.'

'Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream; I ken'd there wad be sorrow; I dream'd I pu'd the heather green, On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'

She gaed up yon high, high hill-- I wat she gaed wi' sorrow-- An' in a den spied nine dead men, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair, As oft she did before, O; She drank the red blood frae him ran, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

'O haud your tongue, my douchter dear, For what needs a' this sorrow?

I'll wed you on a better lord Than him you lost on Yarrow.'

'O haud your tongue, my father dear, An' dinna grieve your Sarah; A better lord was never born Than him I lost on Yarrow.

'Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye, For they hae bred our sorrow; I wiss that they had a' gane mad When they cam first to Yarrow.'

lawin'] reckoning. marrow] mate, husband or wife. dowie]

doleful. houms] water-meads.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

371. Clerk Saunders

CLERK SAUNDERS and may Margaret Walk'd owre yon garden green; And deep and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between.

'A bed, a bed,' Clerk Saunders said, 'A bed for you and me!'

'Fye na, fye na,' said may Margaret, 'Till anes we married be!'