A Collection of Ballads Part 24

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle, Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.

When thou from hence away art paste, Every nighte and alle, To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, Every nighte and alle, Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thye saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane, Every nighte and alle, The whinnes sall p.r.i.c.ke thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

From Whinny-muir when thou mayst pa.s.se, Every nighte and alle, To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at laste, And Christe receive thye saule.

From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst pa.s.se, Every nighte and alle, To Purgatory fire thou comest at last, And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink, Every nighte and alle, The fire sall never make thee shrinke; And Christe receive thye saule.

If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane, Every nighte and alle, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle, Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.

Ballad: The Laird Of Waristoun

(Child, vol. iii. Early Edition.)

Down by yon garden green, Sae merrily as she gaes; She has twa weel-made feet, And she trips upon her taes.

She has twa weel-made feet; Far better is her hand; She's as jimp in the middle As ony willow wand.

"Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, It's I will make you lady Of a' the lands you see."

He spak a word in jest; Her answer was na good; He threw a plate at her face, Made it a' gush out o' blood.

She wasna frae her chamber A step but barely three, When up and at her richt hand There stood Man's Enemy.

"Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, I'll learn you a wile, Avenged for to be."

The foul thief knotted the tether; She lifted his head on hie; The nourice drew the knot That gar'd lord Waristoun die.

Then word is gane to Leith, Also to Edinburgh town That the lady had kill'd the laird, The laird o' Waristoun.

Tak aff, tak aff my hood But lat my petticoat be; Pat my mantle o'er my head; For the fire I downa see.

Now, a' ye gentle maids, Tak warning now by me, And never marry ane But wha pleases your e'e.

"For he married me for love, But I married him for fee; And sae brak out the feud That gar'd my dearie die."

Ballad: May Colven

(Child, Part I., p. 56.)

False Sir John a wooing came To a maid of beauty fair; May Colven was this lady's name, Her father's only heir.

He wood her b.u.t.t, he wood her ben, He wood her in the ha, Until he got this lady's consent To mount and ride awa.

He went down to her father's bower, Where all the steeds did stand, And he's taken one of the best steeds That was in her father's land.

He's got on and she's got on, As fast as they could flee, Until they came to a lonesome part, A rock by the side of the sea.

"Loup off the steed," says false Sir John, "Your bridal bed you see; For I have drowned seven young ladies, The eighth one you shall be.

"Cast off, cast off, my May Colven, All and your silken gown, For it's oer good and oer costly To rot in the salt sea foam.

"Cast off, cast off, my May Colven.

All and your embroiderd shoen, For oer good and oer costly To rot in the salt sea foam."

"O turn you about, O false Sir John, And look to the leaf of the tree, For it never became a gentleman A naked woman to see."

He turned himself straight round about, To look to the leaf of the tree, So swift as May Colven was To throw him in the sea.

"O help, O help, my May Colven, O help, or else I'll drown; I'll take you home to your father's bower, And set you down safe and sound."

"No help, no help, O false Sir John, No help, nor pity thee; Tho' seven kings' daughters you have drownd, But the eighth shall not be me."

So she went on her father's steed, As swift as she could flee, And she came home to her father's bower Before it was break of day.

Up then and spoke the pretty parrot: "May Colven, where have you been?

What has become of false Sir John, That woo'd you so late the streen?

"He woo'd you b.u.t.t, he woo'd you ben, He woo'd you in the ha, Until he got your own consent For to mount and gang awa."

"O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot, Lay not the blame upon me; Your cup shall be of the flowered gold, Your cage of the root of the tree."

Up then spake the king himself, In the bed-chamber where he lay: "What ails the pretty parrot, That prattles so long or day?"

"There came a cat to my cage door, It almost a worried me, And I was calling on May Colven To take the cat from me."

Ballad: Johnie Faa