'If I had killed a man to-night,

Jacke, I would tell it thee:

But if I have not killed a man to-night,
Jacke, thou hast killed three.'

And he puld out his bright browne sword,
And dryed it on his sleeve,

And he smote off that lither ladds head,
Who did his ladye grieve.

He sett the swords poynt till his brest,
The pummil until a stone:

Throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd,
These three lives were all gone

THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.

[This ballad exists in Denmark, and in other European countries. The Scotch have localised it, and point out Blackhouse, on the wild Douglas Burn, a tributary of the Yarrow, as the scene of the 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 is left shoulder,

To see what he could see,

And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold,
Come riding over the lee.

'Light down, light down, Lady Margret,' he said,
And hold my steed in your hand,

Until that against your seven brothers 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',

And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear

'O hold your hand, Lord William!' she said, '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,
'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.

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 !'

"Tis 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,
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 ladye I've win

'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;

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 pull'd up the bonny brier,
And flang'd in St. Mary's loch.

THE TWA CORBIES1.

[An English version makes the lady faithful,→

'She lifted up his bloody head,

And kissed his wounds that were so red;
She buried him before the prime,

She was dead herself ere evensong time."]

As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say,
'Where sall we gang and dine to-day?”

'In behint yon auld fail dyke,

I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And nae body 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 make our dinner sweet.

'Ye'll sit on his white hause bane,

And I'll pike out his bonny blue een:

Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,

We'll theek 2 our nest when it grows bare.

'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.'

WALY, WALY.

[This fragment, variously corrupted, is often printed as part of a rather dull ballad, concerned with events in the history of Lord James Douglas. of the Laird of Blackwood, and of the lady who utters the beautiful lament here printed.]

VOL. I.

O waly, waly, up the bank,

O waly, waly, doun the brae,

And waly, waly, yon burn-side,

Where I and my love were wont to gae!

I lean'd my back unto an aik,

I thocht it was a trustie tree,

But first it bow'd and syne it brak',

Sae my true love did lichtlie me.

O waly, waly, but love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when it's auld it waxeth cauld,

--

And fadeth awa' like the morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my heid,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he'll never lo'e me mair.

Noo Arthur's Seat sall be my bed,

The sheets sall ne'er be press'd by me;
Saint Anton's well sall be my drink;

Since my true love's forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie.

"Tis not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;
But my love's heart grown cauld to me.