A Collection of Ballads - Andrew Lang (books like beach read TXT) 📗

mane: “Oh, shall I gang to Broomfield Hills, Or shall I stay at hame?

“If I do gang to Broomfield Hills A maid I’ll not return; But if I stay from Broomfield Hills, I’ll be a maid mis-sworn.”

Then out it speaks an auld witch wife, Sat in the bower aboon: “O ye shall gang to Broomfield Hills, Ye shall not stay at hame.

“But when ye gang to Broomfield Hills, Walk nine times round and round; Down below a bonny burn bank, Ye’ll find your love sleeping sound.

“Ye’ll pu the bloom frae off the broom, Strew’t at his head and feet, And aye the thicker that ye do strew, The sounder he will sleep.

“The broach that is on your napkin, Put it on his breast bane, To let him know, when he does wake, That’s true love’s come and gane.

“The rings that are on your fingers, Lay them down on a stane, To let him know, when he does wake, That’s true love’s come and gane.

“And when he hae your work all done, Ye’ll gang to a bush o’ broom, And then you’ll hear what he will say, When he sees ye are gane.”

When she came to Broomfield Hills, She walked it nine times round, And down below yon burn bank, She found him sleeping sound.

She pu’d the bloom frae off the broom, Strew’d it at ‘s head and feet, And aye the thicker that she strewd, The sounder he did sleep.

The broach that was on her napkin, She put it on his breast-bane, To let him know, when he did wake, His love was come and gane.

The rings that were on her fingers, She laid upon a stane, To let him know, when he did wake, His love was come and gane.

Now when she had her work all dune, She went to a bush o’ broom, That she might hear what he did say, When he saw that she was gane.

“O where were ye my guid grey hound, That I paid for sae dear, Ye didna waken me frae my sleep When my true love was sae near?”

“I scraped wi’ my foot, master, Till a’ my collars rang, But still the mair that I did scrape, Waken woud ye nane.”

“Where were ye, my bony brown steed, That I paid for sae dear, That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep When my love was sae near?”

“I patted wi my foot, master, Till a’ my bridles rang, But the mair that I did patt, Waken woud ye nane.”

“O where were ye, my gay goss-hawk That I paid for sae dear, That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep When ye saw my love near?”

“I flapped wi my wings, master, Till a’ my bells they rang, But still, the mair that I did flap, Waken woud ye nane.”

“O where were ye, my merry young men That I pay meat and fee, That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep When my love ye did see?”

“Ye’ll sleep mair on the night, master, And wake mair on the day; Gae sooner down to Broomfield Hills When ye’ve sic pranks to play.

“If I had seen any armed men Come riding over the hill— But I saw but a fair lady Come quietly you until.”

“O wae mat worth yow, my young men, That I pay meat and fee, That ye woudna waken me frae sleep When ye my love did see?

“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.”

 

Ballad: 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.

 

Ballad: 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 Cristiante.”

“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.

“Hit is a fourtnet and more,” seyd hee, “Syn I my Sauyour see; To day will I to Notyngham,” seid Robyn, “With the myght of mylde Mary.”

Then spake Moche the mylner sune, Euer more wel hym betyde, “Take xii thi wyght zemen Well weppynd be thei side. Such on wolde thi selfe slon That xii dar not abyde.”

“Off alle my mery men,” seid Robyne, “Be my feithe I wil non haue; But Litulle Johne shall beyre my bow Til that me list to drawe.”

 

*

 

“Thou shalle beyre thin own,” seid Litulle Jon, “Maister, and I wil beyre myne, And we wille shete a peny,” seid Litulle Jon, “Vnder the grene wode lyne.”

“I wil not shete a peny,” seyde Robyn Hode, “In feith, Litulle Johne, with thee, But euer for on as thou shetes,” seid Robyn, “In feith I holde the thre.”

Thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too, Bothe at buske and brome, Til Litulle Johne wan of his maister V s. to hose and shone.

A ferly strife fel them betwene, As they went bi the way; Litull Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs, And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.

With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jone, And smote him with his honde; Litul John waxed wroth therwith, And pulled out his bright bronde.

“Were thou not my maister,” seid Litulle Johne, “Thou shuldis by hit ful sore; Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn, For thou getes me no more.”

Then Robyn goes to Notyngham, Hymselfe mornynge allone, And Litulle Johne to mery Scherewode, The pathes he knowe alkone.

Whan Robyn came to Notyngham, Sertenly withoutene layne, He prayed to God and myld Mary To brynge hym out saue agayne.

He gos into seynt Mary chirche, And knelyd downe before the rode; Alle that euer were the churche within Beheld wel Robyne Hode.

Beside hym stode a gret-hedid munke, I pray to God woo he be; Full sone he knew gode Robyn As sone as he hym se.

Out at the durre he ran Ful sone and anon; Alle the zatis of Notyngham He made to be sparred euerychone.

“Rise vp,” he seid, “thou prowde schereff, Buske the and make the bowne; I haue spyed the kynges felone, For sothe he is in this towne.

“I haue spyed the false felone, As he stondes at his masse; Hit is longe of the,” seide the munke, “And euer he fro vs passe.

“This traytur[s] name is Robyn Hode; Vnder the grene wode lynde, He robbyt me onys of a C pound, Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.”

Vp then rose this prowd schereff, And zade towarde hym zare; Many was the modur son To the kyrk with him can fare.

In at the durres thei throly thrast With staves ful gode ilkone, “Alas, alas,” seid Robin Hode, “Now mysse I Litulle Johne.”

But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde That hangit down be his kne; Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust, Thidurward wold he.

Thryes thorow at them he ran, Then for sothe as I yow say, And woundyt many a modur sone, And xii he slew that day.

Hys sworde vpon the schireff hed Sertanly he brake in too; “The smyth that the made,” seid Robyn, “I pray God wyrke him woo.

“For now am I weppynlesse,” seid Robyne, “Alasse, agayn my wylle; But if I may fle these traytors fro, I wot thei wil me kylle.”

Robyns men to the churche ran Throout hem euerilkon; Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede, And lay still as any stone.