Ballads

The Ballad

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 * The Unquiet Grave[[image:ballad grave.jpg width="414" height="272" align="right"]]**

"The wind doth blow today, my love, And a few small drops of rain; I never had but one true-love, In cold grave she was lain.

"I'll do as much for my true-love As any young man may; I'll sit and mourn all at her grave For a twelvemonth and a day."

The twelvemonth and a day being up, The dead began to speak:

"Oh who sits weeping on my grave, And will not let me sleep?" "'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave, And will not let you sleep;

For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips, And that is all I seek." "You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips; But the call of death is strong; If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips, Your time will not be long.

Love, where we used to walk, The finest flower that ere was seen Is withered to a stalk.

"The stalk is withered dry, my love, So will our hearts decay; So make yourself content, my love, Till God calls you away."

The ballad The Unquiet Grave appears in Volume II of The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, edited by Francis James Child. These volumes are in the public domain.


 * Sir Patrick Spens**

The king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: "O whar will I get guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine?"

Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the kings richt kne: "Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor That sails upon the se".

The king has written a braid letter, And signed it wi his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he; The next line that Sir Patrick red, The teir blinded his ee.

"O wha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me, To send me out this time o' the yeir, To sail upon the se!

"Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:" "O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme.

"Late late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi the auld moone in hir arme, And I feir, I feir, my deir master, That we will cum to harme."

O our Scots nobles were richt laith To weet their cork-heild schoone; Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, Their hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi' thair fans into their hand, Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lord, For they'll se thame na mair.

Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, It's fiftie fadom deip, And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi the Scots lords at his feit.

The ballad Sir Patrick Spens appears in Volume II of The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, edited by Francis James Child. These volumes are in the public domain.


 * Gude Wallace[[image:wallace.jpg width="420" height="304" align="right"]]**

Woud ye hear of William Wallace, An sek him as he goes, Into the lan of Lanark, Amang his mortel faes?

There was fyften English sogers Unto his ladi cam, Said, Gie us William Wallace, That we may have him slain.

Woud ye gie William Willace, That we may have him slain, And ye's be wedded to a lord, The best in Christendeem.

'This verra nicht at seven, Brave Wallace will come in, And he'll come to my chamber-door, Without or dread or din.'

The fyften English sogersmedia type="custom" key="22356120" width="120" height="120" align="right" Around the house did wait, And four brave southron foragers Stood hie upon the gait.

That verra nicht at seven Brave Wallace he came in, And he came to his ladie's bouir, Withouten dread or din.

When she beheld him Wallace, She star'd him in the face; "Ohon, alas!' said that ladie, 'This is a woful case.

'For I this nicht have sold you, This nicht you must be taen, And I'm to be wedded to a lord, The best in Christendeem.'

Do you repent,' said Wallace, 'The ill you've dane to me?'media type="custom" key="22356132" align="right" 'Ay, that I do,' said that ladie, 'And will do till I die.'

'Ay, that I do,' said that ladie, 'And will do ever still, And for the ill I've dane to you, Let me burn upon a hill.'

'Now God forfend,' says brave Wallace, 'I shoud be so unkind; Whatever I am to Scotland's faes, I'm aye a woman's friend.

'Will ye gie me your gown, your gown, Your gown but and your kirtle, Your petticoat of bonny brown, And belt about my middle?

'I'll take a pitcher in ilka hand, And do me to the well; They'll think I'm one of your maidens, Or think it is yoursell.'

She has gien him her gown, her gown, Her petticoat and kirtle, Her broadest belt, wi silver clasp, To bind about his middle.

He's taen a pitcher in ilka hand, And dane him to the well; They thought him one of her maidens, They kend it was nae hersell.

Said one of the southron foragers, See ye yon lusty dame? I woud nae gie muckle to thee, neebor, To bring her back agen.

Then all the southrons followd him, And sure they were but four; But he has drawn his trusty brand, And slew them pair by pair.

He threw the pitchers frae his hands, And to the hills fled he, Until he cam to a fair may, Was washin on yon lea.

'What news, what news, ye weel-far'd may? What news hae ye to gie?' 'Ill news, ill news,' the fair may said, 'Ill News I hae to thee.

'There is fyften English sogers Into that thatched inn, Seeking Sir William Wallace; I fear that he is slain.'

'Have ye any money in your pocket? Pray lend it unto me, And when I come this way again, Repaid ye weel shall be.'

She's put her hand in her pocket, And taen out shillings three; He turnd him right and round about, And thankd the weel-far'd may.

He had not gone a long rig length, A rig length and a span, Until he met a bold beggar, As sturdy as coud gang.

'What news, what news, ye bold beggar? What news hae ye to gie?' 'O heavy news,' the beggar said, 'I hae to tell to thee.

'There is ffyten English sogers, I heard them in yon inn, Vowing to kill him Wallace; I fear the chief is slain.'

'Will ye change apparell wi me, auld man? Change your apparell for mine? And when I come this way again, Ye'll be my ain poor man.'

When he got on the beggar's coat, The pike-staff in his hand, He's dane him down to yon tavern, Where they were drinking wine.

'What news, what news, ye staff-beggar? What news hae ye to gie?' 'I hae nae news, I heard nae news, As few I'll hae frae thee.'

'I think your coat is ragged, auld man; But woud you wages win, And tell where William Wallace is, We'll lay gold in your hand.'

'Tel down, tell down, your good red gold, Upon the table-head, And ye sall William Wallace see, Wi the down-come of Robin Hood.'

They had nae tauld the money down, And laid it on his knee, When candles, lamps and candlesticks, He on the floor gard flee.

And he has drawn his trusty brand, And slew them one by one, Then sat down at the table-head, And called for some wine.

The goodwife she ran but, ran but, The goodman he ran ben, The verra bairns about the fire Were a' like to gang brain.

'Now if there be a Scotsman here, He'll come and drink wi me; But if there be an English loun, It is his time to flee.'

The goodman was an Englishman, And to the hills he ran; The goodwife was a Scots woman, And she came to his hand.

The ballad Gude Wallace appears in Volume III of The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, edited by Francis James Child. These volumes are in the public domain.

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