Part 47

“O had I waked when she was nigh, And o her got my will, I shoudna cared upon the morn The sma birds o her were fill.”

When she went out, right bitter she wept, But singing came she hame; Says, “I hae been at Broomfield Hills, And maid returned again.”

WILLIE’S LADYE

WILLIE has ta’en him o’er the faem, He’s wooed a wife, and brought her hame; He’s wooed her for her yellow hair, But his mother wrought her meikle care;

And meikle dolour gar’d her dree, For lighter she can never be; But in her bow’r she sits with pain, And Willie mourns o’er her in vain.

And to his mother he has gane, That vile rank witch, of vilest kind! He says—“My lady has a cup, With gowd and silver set about; This gudely gift shall be your ain, And let her be lighter of her bairn.”

“Of her bairn she’s never be lighter, Nor in her bow’r to shine the brighter But she shall die, and turn to clay, And you shall wed another may.”

“Another may I’ll never wed, Another may I’ll never bring hame.” But, sighing, said that weary wight— “I wish my life were at an end.”

“Yet gae ye to your mother again, That vile rank witch, of vilest kind And say, your ladye has a steed, The like of him’s no in the land of Leed.

“For he is silver shod before, And he is gowden shod behind; At every tuft of that horse mane There’s a golden chess, and a bell to ring. This gudely gift shall be her ain, And let me be lighter of my bairn.”

“Of her young bairn she’s ne’er be lighter, Nor in her bow’r to shine the brighter; But she shall die, and turn to clay, And ye shall wed another may.”

“Another may I’ll never wed, Another may I’ll never bring hame.” But, sighing, said that weary wight— “I wish my life were at an end!”

“Yet gae ye to your mother again, That vile rank witch, of rankest kind! And say, your ladye has a girdle, It’s all red gowd to the middle;

“And aye, at ilka siller hem, Hang fifty siller bells and ten; This gudely gift shall be her ain, And let me be lighter of my bairn.”

“Of her young bairn she’s ne’er be lighter, Nor in your bow’r to shine the brighter; For she shall die, and turn to clay, And thou shall wed another may.”

“Another may I’ll never wed, Another may I’ll never bring hame.” But, sighing, said that weary wight— “I wish my days were at an end!”

Then out and spak the Billy Blind, He spak aye in good time [his mind]:— “Yet gae ye to the market place, And there do buy a loaf of wace; Do shape it bairn and bairnly like, And in it two glassen een you’ll put.

“Oh, wha has loosed the nine witch-knots That were amang that ladye’s locks? And wha’s ta’en out the kames of care, That were amang that ladye’s hair?

“And wha has ta’en down that bush of woodbine That hung between her bow’r and mine? And wha has kill’d the master kid That ran beneath that ladye’s bed? And wha has loosed her left foot shee, And let that ladye lighter be?”

Syne, Willie’s loosed the nine witch-knots That were amang that ladye’s locks; And Willie’s ta’en out the kames of care That were into that ladye’s hair; And he’s ta’en down the bush of woodbine, Hung atween her bow’r and the witch carline.

And he has killed the master kid That ran beneath that ladye’s bed; And he has loosed her left foot shee, And latten that ladye lighter be; And now he has gotten a bonnie son, And meikle grace be him upon.

ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK

IN somer when the shawes be sheyne, And leves be large and longe, Hit is full mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song.

To se the dere draw to the dale, And leve the hilles hee, And shadow hem in the leves grene, Vndur the grene-wode tre.

Hit befell on Whitsontide, Erly in a may mornyng, The son vp fayre can shyne, And the briddis mery can syng.

“This is a mery mornyng,” seid Litulle Johne, “Be hym that dyed on tre; A more mery man than I am one Lyves not in Cristianté.”

“Pluk vp thi hert, my dere mayster,” Litulle Johne can sey, “And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme In a mornynge of may.”

“Ze on thynge greves me,” seid Robyne, “And does my hert mych woo, That I may not so solem day To mas nor matyns goo.