Poems & Ballads Volume III Part 14

Weary fa' the windward rocks, And weary fa' the lee: They might hae sunken sevenscore s.h.i.+ps, And let my love's gang free.

And weary fa' ye, mariners a', And weary fa' the sea: It might hae taken an hundred men, And let my ae love be.

A LYKE-WAKE SONG

Fair of face, full of pride, Sit ye down by a dead man's side.

Ye sang songs a' the day: Sit down at night in the red worm's way.

Proud ye were a' day long: Ye'll be but lean at evensong.

Ye had gowd kells on your hair: Nae man kens what ye were.

Ye set scorn by the silken stuff: Now the grave is clean enough.

Ye set scorn by the rubis ring: Now the worm is a saft sweet thing.

Fine gold and blithe fair face, Ye are come to a grimly place.

Gold hair and glad grey een, Nae man kens if ye have been.

A REIVER'S NECK-VERSE

Some die singing, and some die swinging, And weel mot a' they be: Some die playing, and some die praying, And I wot sae winna we, my dear, And I wot sae winna we.

Some die sailing, and some die wailing, And some die fair and free: Some die flyting, and some die fighting, But I for a fause love's fee, my dear, But I for a fause love's fee.

Some die laughing, and some die quaffing, And some die high on tree: Some die spinning, and some die sinning, But f.a.ggot and fire for ye, my dear, f.a.ggot and fire for ye.

Some die weeping, and some die sleeping, And some die under sea: Some die ganging, and some die hanging, And a twine of a tow for me, my dear, A twine of a tow for me.

THE WITCH-MOTHER

"O where will ye gang to and where will ye sleep, Against the night begins?"

"My bed is made wi' cauld sorrows, My sheets are lined wi' sins.

"And a sair grief sitting at my foot, And a sair grief at my head; And dule to lay me my laigh pillows, And teen till I be dead.

"And the rain is sair upon my face, And sair upon my hair; And the wind upon my weary mouth, That never may man kiss mair.

"And the snow upon my heavy lips, That never shall drink nor eat; And shame to cledding, and woe to wedding, And pain to drink and meat.

"But woe be to my bairns' father, And ever ill fare he: He has tane a braw bride hame to him, Cast out my bairns and me."

"And what shall they have to their marriage meat This day they twain are wed?"

"Meat of strong crying, salt of sad sighing, And G.o.d restore the dead."

"And what shall they have to their wedding wine This day they twain are wed?"

"Wine of weeping, and draughts of sleeping, And G.o.d raise up the dead."

She's tane her to the wild woodside, Between the flood and fell: She's sought a rede against her need Of the fiend that bides in h.e.l.l.

She's tane her to the wan burnside, She's wrought wi' sang and spell: She's plighted her soul for doom and dole To the fiend that bides in h.e.l.l.

She's set her young son to her breast, Her auld son to her knee: Says, "Weel for you the night, bairnies, And weel the morn for me."

She looked fu' lang in their een, sighing, And sair and sair grat she: She has slain her young son at her breast, Her auld son at her knee.

She's sodden their flesh wi' saft water, She's mixed their blood with wine: She's tane her to the braw bride-house, Where a' were boun' to dine.

She poured the red wine in his cup, And his een grew fain to greet: She set the baked meats at his hand, And bade him drink and eat.

Says, "Eat your fill of your flesh, my lord, And drink your fill of your wine; For a' thing's yours and only yours That has been yours and mine."

Says, "Drink your fill of your wine, my lord, And eat your fill of your bread: I would they were quick in my body again, Or I that bare them dead."

He struck her head frae her fair body, And dead for grief he fell: And there were twae mair sangs in heaven, And twae mair sauls in h.e.l.l.

THE BRIDE'S TRAGEDY

"The wind wears roun', the day wears doun, The moon is grisly grey; There's nae man rides by the mirk muirsides, Nor down the dark Tyne's way."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"And winna ye watch the night wi' me, And winna ye wake the morn?

Foul shame it were that your ae mither Should brook her ae son's scorn."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"O mither, I may not sleep nor stay, My weird is ill to dree; For a fause faint lord of the south seaboard Wad win my bride of me."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"The winds are strang, and the nights are lang, And the ways are sair to ride: And I maun gang to wreak my wrang, And ye maun bide and bide."

In, in, out and in, Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.