A Collection of Ballads by Andrew Lang (little red riding hood read aloud .txt) 📕

as he could drie, Till he came to the Coultart Cleugh And there he shouted baith loud and hie.

Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve— “Wha’s this that brings the fray to me?” “It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead, A harried man I trow I be.

“There’s naething left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife and bairnies three, And sax poor ca’s stand in the sta’, A’ routing loud for their minnie.”

“Alack a wae!” quo’ auld Jock Grieve, “Alack! my heart is sair for thee! For I was married on the elder sister, And you on the youngest of a’ the three.”

Then he has ta’en out a bonny black, Was right weel fed wi’ corn and hay, And he’s set Jamie Telfer on his back, To the Catslockhill to tak’ the fray.

And whan he cam to the Catslockhill, He shouted loud and weel cried he, Till out and spak him William’s Wat— “O wha’s this brings the fraye to me?”

“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead, A harried man I think I be! The captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear; For God’s sake rise, and succour me!”

“Alas for wae!” quo’ William’s Wat, “Alack, for thee my heart is sair! I never cam by the fair Dodhead, That ever I fand thy basket bare.”

He’s set his twa sons on coal-black steeds, Himsel’ upon a freckled gray, And they are on wi, Jamie Telfer, To Branksome Ha to tak the fray.

And whan they cam to Branksome Ha’, They shouted a’ baith loud and hie, Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch, Said—“Wha’s this brings the fray to me?

“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead, And a harried man I think I be! There’s nought left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife and bairnies three.”

“Alack for wae!” quoth the gude auld lord, “And ever my heart is wae for thee! But fye gar cry on Willie, my son, And see that he come to me speedilie!

“Gar warn the water, braid and wide, Gar warn it soon and hastily! They that winna ride for Telfer’s kye, Let them never look in the face o’ me!

“Warn Wat o’ Harden, and his sons, Wi’ them will Borthwick water ride; Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh, And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside.

“Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire, And warn the Currors o’ the Lee; As ye come down the Hermitage Slack, Warn doughty Willie o’ Gorrinbery.”

The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran, Sae starkly and sae steadilie! And aye the ower-word o’ the thrang, Was—“Rise for Branksome readilie!”

The gear was driven the Frostylee up, Frae the Frostylee unto the plain, Whan Willie has looked his men before, And saw the kye right fast driving.

“Wha drives thir kye?” ‘gan Willie say, “To mak an outspeckle o’ me?” “It’s I, the captain o’ Bewcastle, Willie; I winna layne my name for thee.”

“O will ye let Telfer’s kye gae back, Or will ye do aught for regard o’ me? Or, by the faith o’ my body,” quo’ Willie Scott, “I se ware my dame’s cauf’s-skin on thee!”

“I winna let the kye gae back, Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear, But I will drive Jamie Telfer’s kye, In spite of every Scot that’s here.”

“Set on them, lads!” quo’ Willie than, “Fye, lads, set on them cruellie! For ere they win to the Ritterford, Mony a toom saddle there sall be!

But Willie was stricken ower the head, And through the knapscap the sword has gane; And Harden grat for very rage, Whan Willie on the ground lay slain.

But he’s ta’en aff his gude steel-cap, And thrice he’s waved it in the air— The Dinlay snaw was ne’er mair white, Nor the lyart locks of Harden’s hair.

“Revenge! revenge!” auld Wat ‘gan cry; “Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie! We’ll ne’er see Tiviotside again, Or Willie’s death revenged shall be.”

O mony a horse ran masterless, The splintered lances flew on hie; But or they wan to the Kershope ford, The Scots had gotten the victory.

John o’ Brigham there was slain, And John o’ Barlow, as I hear say; And thirty mae o’ the captain’s men, Lay bleeding on the grund that day.

The captain was run thro’ the thick of the thigh— And broken was his right leg bane; If he had lived this hundred year, He had never been loved by woman again.

“Hae back thy kye!” the captain said; “Dear kye, I trow, to some they be! For gin I suld live a hundred years, There will ne’er fair lady smile on me.”

Then word is gane to the captain’s bride, Even in the bower where that she lay, That her lord was prisoner in enemy’s land, Since into Tividale he had led the way.

“I wad lourd have had a winding-sheet, And helped to put it ower his head, Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot, When he ower Liddel his men did lead!”

There was a wild gallant amang us a’, His name was Watty wi’ the Wudspurs, Cried—“On for his house in Stanegirthside, If ony man will ride with us!”

When they cam to the Stanegirthside, They dang wi’ trees, and burst the door; They loosed out a’ the captain’s kye, And set them forth our lads before.

There was an auld wife ayont the fire, A wee bit o’ the captain’s kin— “Wha daur loose out the captain’s kye, Or answer to him and his men?”

“It’s I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye, I winna layne my name frae thee! And I will loose out the captain’s kye, In scorn of a’ his men and he.”

When they cam to the fair Dodhead, They were a wellcum sight to see! For instead of his ain ten milk-kye, Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three.

And he has paid the rescue shot, Baith wi’ goud, and white monie; And at the burial o’ Willie Scott, I wot was mony a weeping e’e.

 

Ballad: The Douglas Tragedy

 

(Child, vol. ii. Early Edition.)

“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 be spy’d her seven brethren bold, Come riding o’er 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 make 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, “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 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. Marie’s kirk, Lady Margaret in Marie’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 by and rade the Black Douglas, And wow but he was rough! For he pull’d up the bonny brier, An flang’t in St. Marie’s Loch.

 

Ballad: The Bonny Hind

 

(Child, vol. ii.)

O May she comes, and may she goes, Down by yon gardens green, And there she spied a gallant squire As squire had ever been.

And may she comes, and may she goes, Down by yon hollin tree, And there she spied a brisk young squire, And a brisk young squire was he.

“Give me your green manteel, fair maid, Give me your maidenhead; Gif ye winna gie me your green manteel, Gi me your maidenhead.”

He has taen her by the milk-white hand, And softly laid her down, And when he’s lifted her up again Given her a silver kaim.

“Perhaps there may be bairns, kind sir, Perhaps there may be nane; But if you be a courtier, You’ll tell to me your name.”

“I am na courtier, fair maid, But new come frae the sea; I am nae courtier, fair maid, But when I court’ith thee.

“They call me Jack when I’m abroad, Sometimes they call me John; But when I’m in my father’s bower Jock Randal is my name.”

“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad, Sae loud’s I hear ye lee! For I’m Lord Randal’s yae daughter, He has nae mair nor me.”

“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny may, Sae loud’s I hear ye lee! For I’m Lord Randal’s yae yae son, Just now come oer the sea.”

She’s putten her hand down by her spare And out she’s taen a knife, And she has putn’t in her heart’s bluid, And taen away her life.

And he’s taen up his bonny sister, With the big tear in his een, And he has buried his bonny sister Amang the hollins green.

And syne he’s hyed him oer the dale, His father dear to see: “Sing O and O for my bonny hind, Beneath yon hollin tree!”

“What needs you care for your bonny hyn? For it you needna care; There’s aught score hyns in yonder park, And five score hyns to spare.

“Fourscore of them are siller-shod, Of thae ye may get three;” “But O and O for my bonny hyn, Beneath yon hollin tree!”

“What needs you care for your bonny hyn? For it you needna care; Take you the best, gi me the warst, Since plenty is to spare.”

“I care na for your hyns, my lord, I care