"Where will I find a boy so kind, "Here you shall find a boy so kind, And gi'e 't to thy love Annie.' "It's Tifty he has daughters three, "It's up and down in Tifty's den, Where the burn rins clear and bonnie, There wilt thou come and meet thy love, Thy bonnie Andrew Lammie. "When wilt thou come, and I'll attend, My love, I long to greet thee?" "Thou may'st come to the Bridge of Sleugh, And there I'll come and meet thee." And for a while must leave thee." She sighed sore, and said no more, But "I wish that I were with thee." "I'll buy to thee a bridal gown, My love, I'll buy it bonnie." "But I'll be dead ere you come back 66 To see your bonnie Annie." 'If you'll be true and constant too, "I will be true, and constant too, To thee, my Andrew Lammie ; "Our time is gone and now comes on, "I now for ever bid adieu To thee, my Andrew Lammie ; Ere ye come back, I will be laid In the green churchyard of Fyvie." He hied him to the head of the house, Her father locked the door at night, And when he heard the trumpet sound, "My father dear, I pray forbear, And reproach no more your Annie; For I'd rather hear that cow to low, Than hae a' the kye in Fyvie. "I would not for my braw new gown, "But if you strike me, I will cry, And gentlemen will hear me ; Lord Fyvie will be riding by, And he'll come in and see me." At this same time my lord came in ; He said "What ails thee, Annie ?" """Tis all for love now I must die, For bonnie Andrew Lammie." "Pray, Mill o' Tifty, gi'e consent, "If she were come of as high a kind I would take her unto myself, And make her mine own Ladye." "It's Fyvie's lands are fair and wide, Her father struck her wond'rous sore, As also did her mother; Her sisters both they did her scorn- Her brother struck her wond'rous sore, "Alas! my father and mother dear, "Oh, mother dear, make ye my bed, For my love Andrew Lammie! "Ye neighbours dear, both far and near, Ye'll pity Tifty's Annie ; Who dies for love of one poor lad, For bonnie Andrew Lammie. "No kind of vice e'er stained my life, But death will me exoner. Her mother then she made her bed, But the tidings soon went up and down, That she was dead and buriéd, Lord Fyvie he did wring his hands ;— "Oh, woe betide Mill o' Tifty's pride! Her father sorely now laments Her mother grieves both ear' and late, But now, alas! it was too late, For they could not recall her; Because they did control her. When Andrew hame from Edinbro' came, "Now I will on to Tifty's den, Where the burn runs clear and bonnie; "Then will I speed to the churchyard, Ye parents grave, who children have, Chevy Chase. This rude, but graphic, old heroic ballad has commanded alike the admiration of the illiterate and the learned. Ben Jonson envied its author, and Sir Philip Sidney confessed how his own soul was moved by its vigorous strains. "I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas," said Sir Philip, "that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet; and yet it is sung by some blind crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style, which being so evil apparelled in the dirt and cobweb of that uncivil age, what |