"Away with thee, thou false traytor, 45 No pardon will I grant to thee, But to-morrow morning by eight of the clock, I will hang up thy eightscore men and thee."
Then Johnny look'd over his left shoulder, And to his merry men thus said he, 50 "I have asked grace of a graceless face, No pardon there is for you and me."
Then John pull'd out his good broad sword, That was made of the mettle so free; Had not the King moved his foot as he did, 55 John had taken his head from his fair body.
"Come, follow me, my merry men all, We will scorn one foot for to fly; It shall never be said we were hang'd like dogs; We will fight it out most manfully." 60
Then they fought on like champions bold, For their hearts were sturdy, stout, and free; 'Till they had kill'd all the King's good guard,-- There were none left alive but one, two, or three.
But then rose up all Edenborough, 65 They rose up by thousands three; A cowardly Scot came John behind, And run him through the fair body.
Said John, "Fight on, my merry men all, I am a little wounded, but am not slain; 70 I will lay me down to bleed a while, Then I'll rise and fight with you again."
Then they fought on like mad men all, Till many a man lay dead on the plain, For they were resolved before they would yield, 75 That every man would there be slain.
So there they fought couragiously, 'Till most of them lay dead there and slain, But little Musgrave, that was his foot-page, With his bonny Grissel got away unta'n. 80
But when he came to Giltnock-Hall, The Lady spy'd him presently; "What news, what news, thou little foot-page, What news from thy master, and his company?"
"My news is bad, Lady," he said, 85 "Which I do bring, as you may see, My master Johnny Armstrong is slain, And all his gallant company.
"Yet thou are welcome home, my bonny Grissel, Full oft thou hast been fed with corn and hay, 90 But now thou shalt be fed with bread and wine, And thy sides shall be spurr'd no more, I say."
O then bespake his little son, As he sat on his nurse's knee, "If ever I live to be a man, 95 My father's death reveng'd shall be."
JOHNIE ARMSTRANG.
From Ramsay's _Evergreen_, ii. 190.
Sum speiks of lords, sum speiks of lairds, And sicklike men of hie degrie; Of a gentleman I sing a sang, Sumtyme calld Laird of Gilnockie.
The King he wrytes a luving letter, 5 With his ain hand sae tenderly, And he hath sent it to Johny Armstrang, To cum and speik with him speidily.
The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene, They were a gallant company-- 10 "We'il ryde and meit our lawfull King, And bring him safe to Gilnockie.
"Make kinnen and capon ready, then, And venison in great plenty; "We'il welcome hame our royal King; 15 I hope he'il dyne at Gilnockie!"
They ran their horse on the Langholme howm,[L17]
And brake their speirs with mekle main; The ladys lukit frae their loft windows-- "God bring our men weil back again!" 20
When Johny came before the King, With all his men so brave to see, The King he movit his bonnet to him; He wein'd he was a King as well as he.
"May I find grace, my sovereign liege, 25 Grace for my loyal men and me?
For my name it is Johny Armstrang, And subject of yours, my liege," said he.
"Away, away, thou traytor strang!
Out of my sicht sune mayst thou be![L30] 30 I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee."
"Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King!
And a bonny gift I will give to thee-- Full four-and-twenty milk-whyt steids, 35 Were a' foald in a yeir to me.
"I'll gie thee all these milk-whyt steids, That prance and nicher at a speir; With as mekle gude Inglis gilt, As four of their braid backs dow beir." 40
"Away, away, thou traytor strang!
Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be!
I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee!"
"Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King! 45 And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee-- Gude four-and-twenty ganging mills, That gang throw a' the yeir to me.
"These four-and-twenty mills complete Sall gang for thee throw all the yeir; 50 And as mekle of gude reid wheit, As all thair happers dow to bear."
"Away, away, thou traytor strang!
Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be!
I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, 55 And now I'll not begin with thee."
"Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King!
And a great gift I'll gie to thee-- Bauld four-and-twenty sisters' sons, Sall for thee fecht, tho all sould flee!" 60
"Away, away, thou traytor strang!
Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be!
I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee."
"Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King! 65 And a brave gift I'll gie to thee-- All betwene heir and Newcastle town Sall pay their yeirly rent to thee."
"Away, away, thou traytor strang!
Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! 70 I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee."
"Ye lied, ye lied, now, King," he says, "Althocht a king and prince ye be!
For I luid naithing in all my lyfe, 75 I dare well say it, but honesty--
"But a fat horse, and a fair woman, Twa bonny dogs to kill a deir; But Ingland suld haif found me meil and malt, Gif I had livd this hundred yeir! 80
"Scho suld haif found me meil and malt, And beif and mutton in all plentie; But neir a Scots wyfe could haif said, That eir I skaithd her a pure flie.
"To seik het water beneth cauld yce, 85 Surely it is a great folie; I haif asked grace at a graceles face, But there is nane for my men and me!
"But had I kend, or I came frae hame, How thou unkind wadst bene to me, 90 I wad haif kept the Border syde, In spyte of all thy force and thee.
"Wist Englands King that I was tane, O gin a blyth man wald he be!
For anes I slew his sisters son, 95 And on his breist-bane brak a tree."
John wore a girdle about his midle, Imbroidred owre with burning gold, Bespangled wi' the same mettle Maist beautifull was to behold. 100
Ther hang nine targats at Johnys hat, And ilka an worth three hundred pound-- "What wants that knave that a King suld haif, But the sword of honour and the crown?