That wizard mickle of lear;
They have sodden the bones of his body,
To be their better cheer.
They buried his bones on the Ninestane rigs
But the flesh was a’ clean gane;
There was great joy in a’ that border
That Lord Soulis was well slain.
LORD SCALES
LORD RANDAL lay in low prison,
He looked against the wa’;
Gin the big wa’ stanes were linen bands,
I’d win weel through them a’.
Lord Randal sat by a low lattice,
He looked against the sea;
Gin the foul bed straws were bonny ships,
I wot weel wad I be.
Lord Randal stood by a strang window
He looked against his hand;
Gin my twa wrist chains were hempen threads,
I’d win weel to the sand.
Ye’ll take the rings frae my fingers,
The silk knot frae my hair:
Ye’ll gie them to the bonny knight
That cries on me sae sair.
Ye’ll take the gowd bands frae my back,
The covers frae my bed:
Ye’ll gie them to the Lord Randal,
To put beneath his head.
Hae silk into your hands, Randal,
And gowd twine to your feet:
And braw pillows about your head
To keep your lang hair sweet
For the rain rins through the rank bed straw,
And the wet drips in the wa’;
And the wee red worms in this prison
Wad gar your gowd hair fa’.
I had liefer hae my ain twa hands,
And keep my body cold;
I had liefer hae my own twa feet
Than twa sic shoon of gold.
But I had liefer hae my lady’s mouth
Than the silk and the siller bands;
But I had liefer hae her sweet body
Than a’ the gowd in land.
I had liefer kiss my lady dead
Than a live woman should kiss me:
I had liefer hae my lady dead
Than a fair woman’s live body.
O ye’se hae twine o’ gowd for hemp,
And twine o’ silk for thread;
And ye shall hae her fair body,
But no’ her body dead.
She’s loosed the knot upon his back,
The knot upon his throat:
She’s clad him with a suit of samite.
And red silk to his coat
She’s washed him well wi’ sweet waters,
Put spice into his hair;
She’s set his feet in a narrow side chamber,
Upon a sideway stair.
He’s ta’en him to her, Lady Helen,
Where she sat by a bed,
The least cloth upon her body,
It was of the noble red.
The insides of her bed curtains,
The gold was gone them through;
The outsides of her bed curtains,
They were full merry and blue.
The silk side of her bed pillows,
It was of the summer green;
The gold was bound in her gold hair,
That now should tell them twa between.
O came ye for my lord’s land,
O for my lord’s fee;
Or came ye for my lord’s hate,
Or yet for the love of me?
O gin ye come like a land robber,
Full soon shall ye hang;
But gin ye come like a woman’s lover,
Full sweetly ye shall gang.
O it was never for no hate,
For lord’s love nor for fee:
But a’ the weird that is me on
It was a’ for your body.
Gin ye set nae scorn by me, Randal,
To dree a weird and a pain,
It’s no Lord Scales my auld husband
That shall depart us twain.
Gin this be sooth of you, Randal,
That ye have good will to play;
It’s no Lord Scales my auld husband
Shall be better of us twey.
For I hae reapers to the land,
And sailors to the sea;
And I hae maidens to my bower
That wait by three and three;
And it’s no Lord Scales my auld husband
Shall part my will and me.
The first draw rapes upon the ship
Between the sea and the sea sand;
The neist they lie in the lang corn,
Wi’ the reaphooks to their hand;
And between the lang beds and the wa’,
It’s there the maidens stand.
She’s had him to her bonnie bed,
She’s laid it warm and wide;
He’s clipped that lady by the middle waist,
And by the middle side.
There was neither light nor fire them by,
And they twain were set to sleep,
When she’s turned her chin to the pillow side
Made her a space to weep.
He kissed her on her fair twa breasts,
And hard upon her chin;
He’s kissed her by her white halse-bane
The little salt tears fell in.
The small tears fell about her face
Between her lips and his;
From side to side of her gold hair
Her face was full sad to kiss.
Lie down, lie down now, Lady Helen,
Lie still into my hand;
I wadna gie ane o’ the pillow-beres
For ten measures of land.
Lie still into mine arms, Helen,
Betwixen sheet and sheet:
I wadna gie ane o’ the cods of silk
For ten measures of wheat.
Lie still into mine arms, Helen,
The gold side of the bed;
I wadna gie ane o’ thy kaims o’ lammer
For the gold on the queen’s head.
It’s I lie saft the night, Randal,
With my head against your face;
But gin ye had slept in my stables,
It had been the sweeter place.
It’s I lie saft the night, Randal,
But ye’ll lie hard the morn;
For I hear a mouse rin by the straw,
And a bird rin by the corn.
O whatten a bird is that, Helen,
I wad fain ken what it ails?
It’s an auld bird and an ill, Randal,
Gin it be no Lord Scales.
Then in and came her auld husband,
I wot a fu’ lean bird was he;
It’s wake ye or sleep ye now, madame,
Ye’se gar mak room for me.
O are ye sick the night, Lord Scales,
In the head or else the side?
Or are ye fain to sleep, Lord Scales,
For the fear ye have to ride?
Randal’s taen out her girdle knife,
He’s stricken him amang his een;
It was mair for the lady’s love
Than it was for his proper teen.
Out came a’ her bower maidens,
In their night smocks and night rails;
It was a’ for sorrow of their lady,
It was naething for Lord Scales.
Out came a’ her bower maidens,
In their sma’ coats green and white;
With a red rose wrought for the left breast,
And a rose wrought for the right
Lord Scales had on a goodly coat,
It was a’ bound wi’ steel thickly;
Lord Randal had but a little shirt
Between the wind and his body.
The first good straik Lord Randal strak,
The red blood sprang upon his face;
It was mair for his lady’s love
Than it was for her lord’s grace.
The neist
good straik Lord Randal strak,
The bright blood sprang upon his nails;
It was mair for love of Lady Helen
Than pity of Lord Scales.
Lord Scales he strak a fix’ straight straik,
But Randal strak a sair;
Lord Scales had a little joy of it,
But Lady Helen had mair.
Gar set my ships into the sea
And my hooks into the corn;
For gin I have lost a man the night,
I’ll get a man the morn.
BURD MARGARET
“O WHA will get me wheaten bread
And wha will get me wine?
And wha will build me a gold cradle
To rock this child of mine?
“There’s nane will drink of bitter wine,
Nor eat of bitter bread;
There’s nane will ca’ me a clean maiden
When my body is dead.
“Nae silk maun come upon my feet,
Nae gowd into my hair;
My brothers smite me on the mouth,
Where nae man shall kiss mair.”
She held her hands in the wan water
Till the fingers were a’ red;
Her face was like nae fair burd’s face
That has her maidenhead.
She’s streekit the water on her hair,
She’s signed it owre her chin,
She’s streekit the water on her lips
To let the draps gang in.
The tears ran through her fair sma’ mouth;
The white bones small and thin
Were waxen sharper in her lang throat,
And in her wrist and chin.
“Gin my mither had wist o’ this
When she was left wi’ me,
I wot these arms that are waxen lean
Had ne’er gaun round a man’s body.
“Gin my mither had dreamed a dream
That sic a kail should fall on me,
She had bound me between her smock and her kirtle
And cast me ower the sea.
“She had row’d me between her smock and her kirtle,
Let me to swim or sink;
And I had drunken o’ the saut water
Instead of tears to drink.
“The bairn that is waxen me within,
It is waxen a pain to me;
But weel lie he and ever weel
That made my bairn’s body.
“The white that was in my twa brows,
I wot it is waxen red;
But weel lie he and ever weel
That had my maidenhead.
“O weel be to the fair red roses
Stood high against my chin;
But ill be to the good green leaves,
For they were half the sin.
“O weel be to the little bird
Sang low against my knee;
But ill be to my fause nourice,
She had sma’ reck of me.
“O weel be to the fair red roses
Stood high against my face;
But ill be to the bonny rowan,
I wish it never grace.”
Burd Margaret lay in the rank water-grass
By the fairest ford in Tyne;
And between the grass and the aspen leaf,
She saw their armour shine.
The first of them had fair Milan coats,
The second had but pikes and jacks;
The third had coats of fair scarlet,
And gold across their caps.
There were three and three wi’ bits of steel,
And three and three wi’ siller fine,
And three and three wi’ bits of gold,
Was red as fair new wine.
“Whatten men be these that rin,” she said,
“Or whatten men be these that ride?
Either ye be thieves frae the north border,
Or men that look a bride.”
“Gin I be rid frae the north border
And my braw bride won south,
I’ll gar her clip me round the body
And kiss me on the mouth.”
“I think ye be nae knight,” she said,
“Nae knight that wons about;
There was never man but a devil
That had sae lang a snout.
“Gin I should kiss your mouth,” she said.
“I wis I had kissed a loon;
I think ye be some clouted carter,
Albeit ye wear steel shoon.”
“I am Lord Hugh of Bumieshaw,
Ye may weel ken the face o’ me;
And I wad hae back the bonnie lad bairn
That I left here wi’ thee.”
“Gin ye be Hughie of Bumieshaw,
As I trow a better may have been,
Tell me what words I said to you,
When the rowans were green.”
“O first ye pu’d the green berry,
And syne ye pu’d the red;
And the first word that ever ye spak
Was to complain your maidenhead.
“O first ye pu’d the red hollin,
And syne ye pu’d the green:
And the first word ye spak to me
Ye grat fu’ sair between.”
“Gin ye be Hughie of Burnieshaw,
As I think weel ye’ll never be,
Here have ye back your bonny lad bairn,
That sair has troubled me.”
She’s caught her hand to his bridle-rein,
Held up her mouth to touch his chin;
“Ye garred me pu’ the girdle straight
That the fair knave bairn was in.”
“What needs ye flur and mock, Margaret?
What needs ye scorn at me?
Ye never gat harm of your fause brothers,
But ye gat aye the mair gude o’ me.”
He’s put his hands to her body,
He’s laid her thwart his selle;
And ye that hae gotten a bonny sitter
Gar keep the neist yoursell.
Aye they rode weel, and aye better,
Until the moon was nigh to sheen;
And aye the tears ran in her breast,
And aye in the gold between.
“O whether is yon a cry of carlies,
Or men that cry on me?”
“Bide still, bide still now, Burd Margaret,
For ye hear naething but the sea.”
“O whatten is yonder noise,” she said,
“That I hear cry on us behind?”
“Haud ye by my sleeve now, Burd Margaret,
For ye hear naething but the wind.”
Aye they rode weel, and aye better,
Until the moon was waxen weak;
And aye she laid her face to his,
And her tears ran by his cheek.
Aye when he kissed her bonny een,
I wot they grat fu’ sair;
Aye when she laid her head to his,
I wot the tears ran through his hair.
Aye they rode slow, and aye slower,
Till the moon’s time was a’ done;
Between the road and the saddle
She thought to bear a son.
There she saw her first brother,
Stood back to a fair tree;
Said “Grace go with our bonny sister
To ride in sic a companie.”
Said “Grace go with our bonnie sister,
To wear her gown aside;
It is not meet for a good woman
To set her girdle wide.”
He’s stricken the first across the neck,
Shorn clean his beard and hair;
“How haud ye weel, my fair brother,
Ye’se get of me nae mair.”
He’s cloven the second through the chin,
The third upon the knee;
“Now haud ye weel, my three brothers,
Ye’se get nae mair of me.”
They set her in a fair bride-bed,
And between the silk and the braw geld claith,
The fair knave bairn was born.
THE WORM OF SPINDLESTONHEUGH
LADY HELEN sat in Spindlestonheugh
With gold across her hair;
For every plait was on her head,
I wot a gold piece was there.
Lady Helen sat in Spindlestonheugh
With gold across her head;
The green gown on her fair body
Was woven with gold thread.
Lady Helen sat in Spindlestonheugh
Wi’ silk below her breast;
The best pearl in the queen’s girdle
Was lesser than her least.
Lady Helen sat in Spindlestonheugh
With silk upon her feet;
The seams were sewn wi’ cloth of scarlet
To keep them frae the weet
“O wha will keep the keys for me
Until the lord be hame?
Or wha will ca’ his kye for me,
To see gin ony be lame?”
She hadna bided a month but three
With silk bands to her side,
When word is come to Lady Helen
To meet her father’s ae new bride.
“Ye’ll bring the owsen and the sheep to stall,
Ye’ll bring the kye to stand;
Ye’ll set the first key in my girdle,
The neist key at my hand.”
“But gin he has wedded a witch woman
To work sic teen on me,
I’ll come nae mair to Spindlestonheugh
Till green grow in a dry tree.”
And she’s done on her braw girdle,
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 158