The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
I did not think it could be gone so soone!

-Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke.

Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbùry;
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.

The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.

Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee:

And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,

Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.

4.

THE DOUGLAS 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 his 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 Marg'ret," 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 wondrous 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 Marg’ret," he said, "O whether will ye gang or bide?"

"I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, have left me no other guide."

"For

ye

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,
66 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!

66

And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back,
And the sounder I will sleep."

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,

Lady Marg❜ret 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.

5.

THE TWA CORBIES.

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 naebody 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 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."

6.

EDWARD OF THE BLOODY BRAND.

"WHY does your brand so drop with blood? Edward! Edward!

Why does your brand so drop with blood,
And why so sad go ye, O?"

"O! I have killed my hawk so good,

Mother! Mother!

O! I have killed my hawk so good,
And I have no more but he, O!"

"Your hawk's blood was never so red,
Edward! Edward!

Your hawk's blood was never so red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O!"

K