"But where will I get a pretty little boy, That will win hose and shoon; That will go quickly to Strawberry Castle, And bid my lord come doun?" 30
"O here am I, a pretty little boy, That will win hose and shoon; That will rin quickly to Strawberry Castle, And bid thy lord come doun."
O when he cam to broken brigs, 35 He bent his bow and swam; And when he cam to gude dry land, He set doun his foot and ran.
When he cam to Strawberry Castle, He tirled at the pin; 40 Nane was sae ready as the gay lord himsell To open and let him in.
"O is there any of my towers burnt, Or any of my castles won?
Or is Lady Marjorie brought to bed, 45 Of a daughter or a son?"
"O there is nane of thy towers burnt, Nor nane of thy castles broken; But Lady Marjorie is condemned to die, To be burnt in a fire of oaken." 50
"O gar saddle to me the black," he says, "Gar saddle to me the broun; Gar saddle to me the swiftest steed That e'er carried a man frae toun!"
He left the black into the slap, 55 The broun into the brae; But fair fa' that bonnie apple-gray That carried this gay lord away!
"Beet on, beet on, my brother dear, I value you not one straw; 60 For yonder comes my ain true luve, I hear his horn blaw.
"Beet on, beet on, my father dear, I value you not a pin; For yonder comes my ain true luve, 65 I hear his bridle ring."
He took a little horn out of his pocket, And he blew't baith loud and schill; And wi' the little life that was in her, She hearken'd to it full weel. 70
But when he came into the place, He lap unto the wa'; He thought to get a kiss o' her bonnie lips, But her body fell in twa!
"O vow! O vow! O vow!" he said, 75 "O vow! but ye've been cruel: Ye've taken the timber out of my ain wood, And burnt my ain dear jewel!
"Now for thy sake, Lady Marjorie, I'll burn baith father and mother; 80 And for thy sake, Lady Marjorie, I'll burn baith sister and brother.
"And for thy sake, Lady Marjorie, I'll burn baith kith and kin; But I'll aye remember the pretty little boy 85 That did thy errand rin."
LEESOME BRAND.
Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 38. This is properly a tragic story, as may be perceived by comparing the present corrupted version (evidently made up from several different sources) with the Danish and Swedish ballads. See _Herr Medelvold_, _Danske Viser_, iii. 361, _Die wahrsagenden Nachtigallen_, in Grimm's _Altdanische Heldenlieder_, p. 88, _Fair Midel and Kirsten Lyle_, translated by Jamieson, _Illustrations_, p. 377; and _Herr Redevall_, _Svenska Folkvisor_, ii. 189, _Krist' Lilla och Herr Tideman_, Arwidsson, i. 352, _Sir Wal and Lisa Lyle_, translated by Jamieson, p. 373.
My boy was scarcely ten years auld, Whan he went to an unco land, Where wind never blew, nor cocks ever crew, Ohon! for my son, Leesome Brand.
Awa' to that king's court he went, 5 It was to serve for meat an' fee; Gude red gowd it was his hire, And lang in that king's court stay'd he.
He hadna been in that unco land, But only twallmonths twa or three; 10 Till by the glancing o' his ee, He gain'd the love o' a gay ladye.
This ladye was scarce eleven years auld, When on her love she was right bauld; She was scarce up to my right knee, 15 When oft in bed wi' men I'm tauld.
But when nine months were come and gane, This ladye's face turn'd pale and wane; To Leesome Brand she then did say, "In this place I can nae mair stay. 20
"Ye do you to my father's stable, Where steeds do stand baith wight and able; Strike ane o' them upo' the back, The swiftest will gie his head a wap.
"Ye take him out upo' the green, 25 And get him saddled and bridled seen; Get ane for you, anither for me, And lat us ride out ower the lee.
"Ye do you to my mother's coffer, And out of it ye'll take my tocher; 30 Therein are sixty thousand pounds, Which all to me by right belongs."
He's done him to her father's stable, Where steeds stood baith wicht and able; Then he strake ane upon the back, 35 The swiftest gae his head a wap.
He's ta'en him out upo' the green, And got him saddled and bridled seen; Ane for him, and another for her, To carry them baith wi' might and virr. 40
He's done him to her mother's coffer, And there he's taen his lover's tocher; Wherein were sixty thousand pounds, Which all to her by right belong'd.
When they had ridden about six mile, 45 His true love then began to fail; "O wae's me," said that gay ladye, "I fear my back will gang in three!
"O gin I had but a gude midwife,[L49]
Here this day to save my life, 50 And ease me o' my misery, O dear, how happy I wou'd be!"
"My love, we're far frae ony town; There is nae midwife to be foun'; But if ye'll be content wi' me, 55 I'll do for you what man can dee."
"For no, for no, this maunna be,"
Wi' a sigh, replied this gay ladye; "When I endure my grief and pain, My companie ye maun refrain. 60
"Ye'll take your arrow and your bow, And ye will hunt the deer and roe; Be sure ye touch not the white hynde, For she is o' the woman kind."
He took sic pleasure in deer and roe, 65 Till he forgot his gay ladye; Till by it came that milk-white hynde, And then he mind on his ladye syne.
He hasted him to yon greenwood tree, For to relieve his gay ladye; 70 But found his ladye lying dead, Likeways her young son at her head.
His mother lay ower her castle wa', And she beheld baith dale and down; And she beheld young Leesome Brand, 75 As he came riding to the town.
"Get minstrels for to play," she said, "And dancers to dance in my room; For here comes my son, Leesome Brand, And he comes merrilie to the town." 80
"Seek nae minstrels to play, mother, Nor dancers to dance in your room; But tho' your son comes, Leesome Brand, Yet he comes sorry to the town.
"O I hae lost my gowden knife, 85 I rather had lost my ain sweet life; And I hae lost a better thing, The gilded sheath that it was in."
"Are there nae gowdsmiths here in Fife, Can make to you anither knife? 90 Are there nae sheath-makers in the land, Can make a sheath to Leesome Brand?"
"There are nae gowdsmiths here in Fife, Can make me sic a gowden knife; Nor nae sheath-makers in the land, 95 Can make to me a sheath again.
"There ne'er was man in Scotland born, Ordain'd to be so much forlorn; I've lost my ladye I lov'd sae dear, Likeways the son she did me bear." 100
"Put in your hand at my bed head, There ye'll find a gude grey horn; In it three draps o' Saint Paul's ain blude, That hae been there sin' he was born.
"Drap twa o' them o' your ladye, 105 And ane upo' your little young son; Then as lively they will be As the first night ye brought them hame."
He put his hand at her bed head, And there he found a gude grey horn; 110 Wi' three draps o' Saint Paul's ain blude, That had been there sin' he was born.
Then he drapp'd twa on his ladye, And ane o' them on his young son; And now they do as lively be, 115 As the first day he brought them hame.