66

Gin we be missed out o' our place,

A sair pain we maun bide.

'Fare ye weel, my mother dear!

Fareweel to barn and byre!

And fare ye weel, the bonny lass,
That kindles my mother's fire."

*

*

*

Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord.

44

48

THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY

"RISE up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, "And put on your armour so bright; Let it never be said that a daughter of thine Was married to a lord under night.

"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,

And put on your armour so bright, And take better care of your youngest sister, For your eldest 's awa' the last night."

He's mounted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on a dapple grey,

With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And lightly they rode away.

Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder,

To see what he could see,

And there he spied her seven brethren bold, 15 Come riding o'er the lee.

"Light down, light down, Lady Marg’ret,”, he said,

"And hold my steed in your hand,

Until that against your seven brethren bold,
And your father, I mak a stand."

She held his steed in her milk-white hand,
And never shed one tear,

Until that she saw her seven brethren fa',

J

20

And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.

"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, 25 "For your strokes they are wond'rous sair; True lovers I can get many a ane,

But a father I can never get mair."

O she's ta'en out her handkerchief,
It was o' the holland sae fine,

And aye she dighted her father's bloody
wounds,

That were redder than the wine.

"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margret," he said, "O whether will ye gang or bide?”

I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, 35

"For

ye

have left me no other guide."

He's lifted her on a milk-white steed,

And himself on a dapple grey,

With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And slowly they baith rade away.

40

O they rade on, and on they rade,

And a' by the light of the moon, Until they came to yon wan water, And there they lighted down.

They lighted down to tak a drink

Of the spring that ran sae clear;

And down the stream ran his gude heart's

blood,

And sair she 'gan to fear.

"Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, "For I fear that you are slain!"

"'T is naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak,

That shines in the water sae plain.”

O they rade on, and on they rade,

And a' by the light of the moon,

Until they cam to his mother's ha' door,,

55

And there they lighted down.

“Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "Get up, and let me in!

Get up, get up, lady mother!” he says, "For this night my fair lady I've win,

60

"O mak my bed, lady mother," he says,
"O mak it braid and deep!

And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back,
And the sounder I will sleep."

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
Lady Margret lang ere day-

And all true lovers that go thegither,
May they have mair luck than they!

Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk,
Lady Margaret in Mary's quire;

65

Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And out o' the knight's a brier.

And they twa met, and they twa plat,
And fain they wad be near;

And a' the warld might ken right weel,
They were twa lovers dear.

But bye and rade the Black Douglas,
And wow but he was rough!

For he pulled up the bonny brier,

70

75

And flang 't in St. Mary's Loch.

80

Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord.

THE TWA CORBIES

As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the t' other say,

"Whar sall we gang and dine to-day?".

"-In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new slain knight;

And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,

His lady 's ta'en another mate,

So we may mak our dinner sweet.

'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,

And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair

8

12

"We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. 16

Mony a one for him makes mane,..
But nane sall ken whare he is gane:
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,

The wind sall blaw for evermair."

Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord,

20

THE BRAES OF YARROW

LATE at een, drinkin' the wine,
Or early in a mornin',
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawnin'.'

"O stay at hame, my noble lord!
O stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray,
On the dowie houmis o' Yarrow."

8