Ballad Book Part 9

"I might hae had a king's daughter Far, far ayont the sea, I might hae had a king's daughter, Had it nae been for love o' thee."

"If ye might hae had a king's daughter, Yoursel' ye hae to blame; Ye might hae taken the king's daughter, For ye kenn'd that I was nane."

"O fause be the vows o' womankind, But fair is their fause bodie; I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground Had it nae been for love o' thee."

"If I was to leave my husband dear, And my twa babes also, O where is it ye would tak' me to, If I with thee should go?"

"I hae seven s.h.i.+ps upon the sea, The eighth brouct me to land, Wi' four-and-twenty bold mariners, And music of ilka hand."

She has taken up her twa little babes, Kiss'd them baith cheek and chin; "O fare ye weel, my ain twa babes, For I'll never see you again."

She set her foot upon the s.h.i.+p, No mariners could she behold; But the sails were o' the taffetie, And the masts o' the beaten gold.

"O how do you love the s.h.i.+p?" he said, "O how do you love the sea?

And how do you love the bold mariners That wait upon thee and me?"

"O I do love the s.h.i.+p," she said, "And I do love the sea; But wae to the dim mariners That naewhere I can see!"

They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When dismal grew his countenance, And drumly grew his e'e.

The masts that were like the beaten gold, Bent not on the heaving seas; The sails that were o' the taffetie Fill'd not in the east land breeze.

They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, Until she espied his cloven hoof, And she wept right bitterlie.

"O haud your tongue o' your weeping," he says: "O' your weeping now let me be; I will show you how the lilies grow On the banks of Italy."

"O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, That the sun s.h.i.+nes sweetly on?"

"O yon are the hills o' heaven," he said "Where you will never won."

"O what'n a mountain's yon," she said, "Sae dreary wi' frost an' snow?"

"O yon is the mountain o' h.e.l.l," he cried, "Where you and I maun go!"

And aye when she turn'd her round about, Aye taller he seemed for to be; Until that the tops o' that gallant s.h.i.+p Nae taller were than he.

He strack the tapmast wi' his hand, The foremast wi' his knee; And he brak that gallant s.h.i.+p in twain, And sank her i' the sea.

RIDDLES WISELY EXPOUNDED.

There was a knicht riding frae the east, _Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree_.

Who had been wooing at monie a place, _As the dew flies ower the mulberry tree_.

He cam' unto a widow's door, And speird whare her three dochters were.

The auldest ane's to a was.h.i.+ng gane, The second's to a baking gane.

The youngest ane's to a wedding gane, And it will be nicht or she be hame.

He sat him doun upon a stane, Till thir three la.s.ses cam' tripping hame.

The auldest ane she let him in, And pin'd the door wi' a siller pin.

The second ane she made his bed, And laid saft pillows unto his head.

The youngest ane was bauld and bricht, And she tarried for words wi' this unco knicht.

"Gin ye will answer me questions ten, The morn ye sall be made my ain.

"O what is heigher nor the tree?

And what is deeper nor the sea?

"Or what is heavier nor the lead?

And what is better nor the breid?

"O what is whiter nor the milk?

Or what is safter nor the silk?

"Or what is sharper nor a thorn?

Or what is louder nor a horn?

"Or what is greener nor the gra.s.s?

Or what is waur nor a woman was?"

"O heaven is higher nor the tree, And h.e.l.l is deeper nor the sea.

"O sin is heavier nor the lead, The blessing's better nor the breid.

"The snaw is whiter nor the milk, And the down is safter nor the silk.

"Hunger is sharper nor a thorn, And shame is louder nor a horn.

"The pies are greener nor the gra.s.s, And Clootie's waur nor a woman was."

As sune as she the fiend did name, _Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree_, He flew awa in a blazing flame, _As the dew files ower the mulberry tree_.

BALLADS OF TRADITION.

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

The King sits in Dunfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O whaur shall I get a skeely skipper, To sail this gude s.h.i.+p of mine?"

Then up an' spake an eldern knight, Sat at the King's right knee; "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea."