Then up bespoke a good Scotch lord, I wat a good Scotch lord was he: 'I would rather have foughten to the knees in blood, Than they had hanged James Hatelie.'

Then up bespoke the king's eldest son: 'Come in, James Hatelie, and dine with me; For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true-- You'se be my captain by land and sea.'

Then up bespoke the king's eldest daughter: 'Come in, James Hatelie, and dine with me; For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true-- I'll never marrie a man but thee.'

Here is love, and here is innocence in difficulties--two things of high moral interest; yet how homely is the whole narration; how unlike the strains of the ballads which have been pa.s.sed before the reader's view!

And be it observed, the theory as to our ballads is, that they have been transmitted from old time, undergoing modifications from the minds of nurses, and other humble reciters, as they came along. If so, they ought to have presented the same plebeian strain of ideas and phraseology as _James Hatelie_; but we see they do not: they are, on the contrary, remarkably poetical, pure, and dignified.

Here I may, once for all, in opposition to Professor Aytoun and others, express my belief that the ballads in question are for the most part printed nearly, and, in some instances, entirely, in the condition in which they were left by the author. In _Edward_, I question if a line has been corrupted or a word altered. _Sir Patrick Spence_ and _Gilderoy_ are both so rounded and complete, so free, moreover, from all vulgar terms, that I feel nearly equally confident about them.

All those which Percy obtained in ma.n.u.scripts from Scotland, are neat finished compositions, as much so as any ballad of Tickell or Shenstone. Those from Mrs Brown's ma.n.u.script have also an author's finish clearly impressed on them. It is a mere a.s.sumption that they have been sent down, with large modifications, from old times. Had it been true, the ballads would have been full of vulgarisms, as we find to be the condition of certain of them which Peter Buchan picked up among the common people, after (shall we say) seventy or eighty years of traditionary handling. Now, no such depravation appears in the versions printed by Percy, Scott, and Jamieson.

It may be objected to the arguments founded on the great number of parallel pa.s.sages, that these are but the stock phraseology of all ballad-mongers, and form no just proof of unity of authorship. If this were true, it might be an objection of some force; but it is not true.

The _formulae_ in question are to be found hardly at all in any of the rustic or homely ballads. They are not to be found in any ballads which there is good reason to believe so old as the early part of the seventeenth century. They are to be found in no ballads which may even doubtfully be affiliated to England. All this, of course, can only be fully ascertained by a careful perusal of some large collection of ballads. Yet, even in such a case, a few examples may be viewed with interest, and not unprofitably. Of the plebeian ballads, a specimen has just been adduced. Let us proceed, then, to exemplify the ballads of the seventeenth century. First, take _Fair Margaret and Sweet William_, which Percy brought forward from a stall copy as, apparently, the ballad quoted in Fletcher's _Knight of the Burning Pestle_; though subjected to some alteration during the intermediate century and a half. It is as follows:

As it fell out on a long summer day, Two lovers they sat on a hill; They sat together that long summer day, And could not take their fill.

'I see no harm by you, Margaret, And you see none by me; Before to-morrow at eight o'clock, A rich wedding you shall see.'

Fair Margaret sat in her bouir window, Combing her yellow hair; There she spied sweit William and his bride, As they were a-riding near.

Then doun she layed her ivorie combe, And braided her hair in twain: She went alive out of her bouir, But never cam alive in't again.

When day was gone, and nicht was come, And all men fast asleip, Then came the spirit of fair Margaret, And stood at William's feet.

'Are you awake, sweit William?' she said; 'Or, sweit William, are you asleip?

G.o.d give you joy of your gay bride-bed, And me of my winding-sheet!'

When day was come, and nicht was gone, And all men waked from sleip, Sweit William to his lady said: 'My deir, I have cause to weep.

'I dreimt a dreim, my dear ladye; Such dreims are never good: I dreimt my bouir was full of red swine, And my bride-bed full of blood.'

'Such dreims, such dreims, my honoured sir, They never do prove good; To dreim thy bouir was full of red swine, And thy bride-bed full of blood.'

He called up his merry-men all, By one, by two, and by three; Saying: 'I'll away to fair Margaret's bouir, By the leave of my ladye.'

And when he came to fair Margaret's bouir, He knockit at the ring; And who so ready as her seven brethren To let sweit William in.

Then he turned up the covering sheet: 'Pray, let me see the deid; Methinks, she looks all pale and wan; She hath lost her cherry red.

'I'll do more for thee, Margaret, Than any of thy kin, For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, Though a smile I cannot win.'

With that bespake the seven brethren, Making most piteous moan: 'You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, And let our sister alone.'

'If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, I do but what is right; I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, By day nor yet by night.

'Deal on, deal on, my merry-men all; Deal on your cake and your wine: For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.'

Fair Margaret died to-day, to-day, Sweit William died to-morrow; Fair Margaret died for pure true love, Sweit William died for sorrow.

Margaret was buried in the lower chancel, And William in the higher; Out of her breast there sprang a rose, And out of his a brier.

They grew till they grew unto the church-top, And then they could grow no higher; And there they tied in a true lovers' knot, Which made all the people admire.

Then came the clerk of the parish, As you the truth shall hear, And by misfortune cut them down, Or they had now been there.

Here, it will be observed, beyond the expression, 'my merry-men all,'

there is no trace of the phraseology so marked in the group of ballads under our notice. Take, also, a ballad which, from the occurrences referred to, may be considered as antecedent to the epoch of _Hardyknute_, and we shall observe an equal, if not more complete, absence of the phraseology and manner of this cla.s.s of ballads. It relates to a tragic love-story of 1631, as ascertained from the grave-stone of the heroine in the kirk-yard of Fyvie, Aberdeenshire:

Lord Fyvie had a trumpeter, His name was Andrew Lammie; He had the art to gain the heart Of Mill-o'-Tifty's Annie.

She sighed sore, but said no more, Alas, for bonny Annie!

She durst not own her heart was won By the trumpeter of Fyvie.

At night when they went to their beds, All slept full sound but Annie; Love so opprest her tender breast, Thinking on Andrew Lammie.

'Love comes in at my bed-side, And love lies down beyond me, Love has possessed my tender breast, And wastes away my body.

'At Fyvie yetts there grows a flower, It grows baith braid and bonny; There is a daisy in the midst o' it.

And it's ca'd by Andrew Lammie.

'O gin that flower were in my breast, For the love I bear the laddie, I wad kiss it, and I wad clap it, And daut it for Andrew Lammie.

'The first time I and my love met Was in the woods of Fyvie; His lovely form and speech so sweet Soon gained the heart of Annie.

'Oh, up and down, in Tifty's den, Where the burns run clear and bonny, I've often gone to meet my love, My bonny Andrew Lammie.

'He kissed my lips five thousand times, And aye he ca'd me bonny; And a' the answer he gat frae me, Was, "My bonny Andrew Lammie!"'

But now, alas! her father heard That the trumpeter of Fyvie Had had the art to gain the heart Of Tifty's bonny Annie.

And he has syne a letter wrote, And sent it on to Fyvie, To tell his daughter was bewitched By his servant, Andrew Lammie.

When Lord Fyvie this letter read, O dear, but he was sorry; 'The bonniest la.s.s in Fyvie's land Is bewitched by Andrew Lammie.'

Then up the stair his trumpeter He called soon and shortly; 'Pray tell me soon what's this you've done To Tifty's bonny Annie?'

'In wicked art I had no part, Nor therein am I canny; True love alone the heart has won Of Tifty's bonny Annie.

'Woe betide Mill-o'-Tifty's pride, For it has ruined many; He'll no hae't said that she should wed The trumpeter of Fyvie.'

'Love, I maun gang to Edinburgh; Love, I maun gang and leave thee.'

She sighed sore, and said no more, But, 'Oh, gin I were wi' ye!'

'I'll buy to thee a bridal goun; My love, I'll buy it bonny!'