He made address to her, and she Did grant him love immediately; But when her father came to hear, 15 He parted her and her poor dear.
Forty miles distant was she sent, Unto his brother's, with intent That she should there so long remain, Till she had changed her mind again. 20
Hereat this young man sadly grieved, But knew not how to be relieved; He sighed and sobbed continually That his true love he could not see.
She by no means could to him send, 25 Who was her heart's espoused friend; He sighed, he grieved, but all in vain, For she confined must still remain.
He mourned so much, that doctor's art Could give no ease unto his heart, 30 Who was so strangely terrified, That in short time for love he died.
She that from him was sent away Knew nothing of his dying day, But constant still she did remain, 35 And loved the dead, although in vain.
After he had in grave been laid A month or more, unto this maid He came in middle of the night, Who joyed to see her heart's delight. 40
Her father's horse, which well she knew, Her mother's hood and safe-guard too, He brought with him to testify Her parents order he came by.
Which when her uncle understood, 45 He hoped it would be for her good, And gave consent to her straightway, That with him she should come away.
When she was got her love behind, They passed as swift as any wind, 50 That in two hours, or little more, He brought her to her father's door.
But as they did this great haste make, He did complain his head did ake; Her handkerchief she then took out, 55 And tied the same his head about.
And unto him she thus did say: "Thou art as cold as any clay; When we come home a fire we'll have;"
But little dreamed he went to grave. 60
Soon were they at her father's door, And after she ne'er saw him more; "I'll set the horse up," then he said, And there he left this harmless maid.
She knocked, and straight a man he cried, 65 "Who's there?" "'Tis I," she then replied; Who wondred much her voice to hear, And was possessed with dread and fear.
Her father he did tell, and then He stared like an affrighted man: 70 Down stairs he ran, and when he see her, Cried out, "My child, how cam'st thou here?"
"Pray, sir, did you not send for me, By such a messenger?" said she: Which made his hair stare on his head, 75 As knowing well that he was dead.
"Where is he?" then to her he said; "He's in the stable," quoth the maid.
"Go in," said he, "and go to bed; I'll see the horse well littered." 80
He stared about, and there could he No shape of any mankind see, But found his horse all on a sweat; Which made him in a deadly fret.
His daughter he said nothing to, 85 Nor none else, (though full well they knew That he was dead a month before,) For fear of grieving her full sore.
Her father to the father went Of the deceased, with full intent 90 To tell him what his daughter said; So both came back unto this maid.
They ask'd her, and she still did say 'Twas he that then brought her away; Which when they heard they were amazed, 95 And on each other strangely gazed.
A handkerchief she said she tied About his head, and that they tried; The sexton they did speak unto, That he the grave would then undo. 100
Affrighted then they did behold His body turning into mould, And though he had a month been dead, This handkerchief was about his head.
This thing unto her then they told, 105 And the whole truth they did unfold; She was thereat so terrified And grieved, that she quickly died.
Part not true love, you rich men, then; But, if they be right honest men 110 Your daughters love, give them their way, For force oft breeds their lives decay.
From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 124.
This fragment, Motherwell tells us, was communicated to him by an ingenious friend, who remembered having heard it sung in his youth. He does not vouch for its antiquity, and we have little or no hesitation in pronouncing it a modern composition.
Whan he cam to his ain luve's bouir, He tirled at the pin, And sae ready was his fair fause luve To rise and let him in.
"O welcome, welcome, Sir Roland," she says, 5 "Thrice welcome thou art to me; For this night thou wilt feast in my secret bouir, And to-morrow we'll wedded be."
"This night is hallow-eve," he said, "And to-morrow is hallow-day; 10 And I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, That has made my heart fu' wae.
"I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, And I wish it may cum to gude: I dreamed that ye slew my best grew hound, 15 And gied me his lappered blude."
"Unbuckle your belt, Sir Roland," she said, "And set you safely down."
"O your chamber is very dark, fair maid, And the night is wondrous lown." 20
"Yes, dark, dark is my secret bowir, And lown the midnight may be; For there is none waking in a' this tower, But thou, my true love, and me."
She has mounted on her true love's steed, 25 By the ae light o' the moon; She has whipped him and spurred him, And roundly she rade frae the toun.
She hadna ridden a mile o' gate, Never a mile but ane, 30 Whan she was aware of a tall young man, Slow riding o'er the plain.
She turned her to the right about, Then to the left turn'd she; But aye, 'tween her and the wan moonlight, 35 That tall knight did she see.
And he was riding burd alane, On a horse as black as jet; But tho' she followed him fast and fell, No nearer could she get. 40
"O stop! O stop! young man," she said, "For I in dule am dight; O stop, and win a fair lady's luve, If you be a leal true knight."
But nothing did the tall knight say, 45 And nothing did he blin; Still slowly rode he on before, And fast she rade behind.
She whipped her steed, she spurred her steed, Till his breast was all a foam; 50 But nearer unto that tall young knight, By Our Ladye, she could not come.
"O if you be a gay young knight, As well I trow you be, Pull tight your bridle reins, and stay 55 Till I come up to thee."
But nothing did that tall knight say, And no whit did he blin, Until he reached a broad river's side, And there he drew his rein. 60
"O is this water deep," he said, "As it is wondrous dun?
Or it is sic as a saikless maid And a leal true knight may swim?"