Part 25

“Put on, put on, my wighty men, As fast as ye can drie; For he that is hindmost of the thrang Shall ne’er get gude of me!”

Then some they rade, and some they ran, Full fast out o’er the bent; But ere the foremost could win up, Baith ladye and babes were brent.

And after the Gordon he has gane, Sae fast as he might drie; And soon in the Gordon’s foul heart’s bluid He’s wroken {96b} his dear layde.]

And mony were the mudie {97} men Lay gasping on the green; And mony were the fair ladyes Lay lemanless at hame.

And mony were the mudie men Lay gasping on the green; For of fifty men the Gordon brocht, There were but five gaed hame.

And round, and round the walls he went, Their ashes for to view; At last into the flames he flew, And bade the world adieu.

LADY ANNE BOTHWELL’S LAMENT

(Child, vol. iv. Early Edition.)

BALOW, my boy, ly still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee weep, If thou’lt be silent, I’ll be glad, Thy mourning makes my heart full sad. Balow, my boy, thy mother’s joy, Thy father bred one great annoy. Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

Balow, my darling, sleep a while, And when thou wak’st then sweetly smile; But smile not as thy father did, To cozen maids, nay, God forbid; For in thine eye his look I see, The tempting look that ruin’d me. Balow, my boy, etc.

When he began to court my love, And with his sugar’d words to move, His tempting face, and flatt’ring chear, In time to me did not appear; But now I see that cruel he Cares neither for his babe nor me. Balow, my boy, etc.

Fareweel, fareaeel, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman’s mouth. Let never any after me Submit unto thy courtesy! For, if hey do, O! cruel thou Wilt her abuse and care not how! Balow, my boy, etc.

I was too cred’lous at the first, To yield thee all a maiden durst. Thou swore for ever true to prove, Thy faith unchang’d, unchang’d thy love; But quick as thought the change is wrought, Thy love’s no mair, thy promise nought. Balow, my boy, etc.

I wish I were a maid again! From young men’s flatt’ry I’d refrain; For now unto my grief I find They all are perjur’d and unkind; Bewitching charms bred all my harms;— Witness my babe lies in my arms. Balow, my boy, etc.

I take my fate from bad to worse, That I must needs be now a nurse, And lull my young son on my lap: From me, sweet orphan, take the pap. Balow, my child, thy mother mild Shall wail as from all bliss exil’d. Balow, my boy, etc.

Balow, my boy, weep not for me, Whose greatest grief’s for wronging thee. Nor pity her deserved smart, Who can blame none but her fond heart; For, too soon tursting latest finds With fairest tongues are falsest minds. Balow, my boy, etc.

Balow, my boy, thy father’s fled, When he the thriftless son has played; Of vows and oaths forgetful, he Preferr’d the wars to thee and me. But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine Make him eat acorns with the swine. Balow, my boy, etc.

But curse not him; perhaps now he, Stung with remorse, is blessing thee: Perhaps at death; for who can tell Whether the judge of heaven or hell, By some proud foe has struck the blow, And laid the dear deceiver low? Balow, my boy, etc.

I wish I were into the bounds Where he lies smother’d in his wounds, Repeating, as he pants for air, My name, whom once he call’d his fair; No woman’s yet so fiercely set But she’ll forgive, though not forget. Balow, my boy, etc.

If linen lacks, for my love’s sake Then quickly to him would I make My smock, once for his body meet, And wrap him in that winding-sheet. Ah me! how happy had I been, If he had ne’er been wrapt therein. Balow, my boy, etc.

Balow, my boy, I’ll weep for thee; Too soon, alake, thou’lt weep for me: Thy griefs are growing to a sum, God grant thee patience when they come; Born to sustain thy mother’s shame, A hapless fate, a bastard’s name. Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

JOCK O THE SIDE

(Child, Part VI., p. 479.)

NOW Liddisdale has ridden a raid, But I wat they had better staid at hame; For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead, And my son Johnie is prisner tane? With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle.

For Mangerton house auld Downie is gane, Her coats she has kilted up to her knee; And down the water wi speed she rins, While tears in spaits fa fast frae her eie.

Then up and bespake the lord Mangerton: “What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?” “Bad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton; Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son Johnie.”

“Neer fear, sister Downie,” quo Mangerton; “I hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie, My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a’ weel filld, And I’ll part wi them a’ ere Johnie shall die.

“Three men I’ll take to set him free, Weel harnessd a’ wi best of steel; The English rogues may hear, and drie The weight o their braid swords to feel