But whan the lady saw the fire She weip'd, and kist her children twain; The Gordon than his bugil blew, 'Sen Towie House is a' in a flame, O than bespied her ain deir lord, He saw his castle in a blaze Then sair, O sair, his mind misgave, "Put on, put on, my wichty men, Than sum they rode, and sum they ran, But eir the formost could win up He wrang his hands, he rent his hair, And after the Gordon he has gane, He has wrekin his deir ladie. The story upon which this Ballad is founded, is as follows-Sir Ada Gordon of Auchindowne, brother to the Earl of Huntly, was an acti partisan for Queen Mary, under the shadow of whose authority, Bish Spotswood says, he "committed divers oppressions, especially upon th Forbeses." In 1571, he sent "one Captain Ker with a party on foot summon the castle of Towie (or Tavoy as Spotswood calls it) in th queen's name. The owner, Alexander Forbes, was not at home, and h lady confiding too much in her sex, not only refused to surrender, b gave Ker very injurious language; upon which, unreasonably transpor ed with fury, he ordered his men to set fire to the castle, and barbarous burnt the unfortunate gentlewoman, with her whole family amounting thirty-seven persons. Nor was he ever so much as cashiered for this i human action, which made Gordon share both in the scandal and th guilt." The hand of a master is visible throughout this whole performanc and there are particular passages, inimitably touching, and tender. might adduce, as examples of the most powerful pathos, the lady's expo tulation with her old servant setting fire to the house, the speech of th infant, sitting on the nurse's knee, "O mither deir, gi owr this hous for the reik it smithers me," &c. &c. but who telis another the sun is shi ing, when he illuminates earth and heaven with meridian splendour. WILLIAM'S GHOST. THERE came a ghost to Marg❜ret's door, But answer made she none. Is that my father Philip? Or is't my brother John? From Scotland now come home? 'Tis not thy father Philip, Nor yet thy brother John; But 'tis thy true love Willie, From Scotland new come home. O sweet Margret! O dear Marg❜ret! I pray thee speak to me, Give me my faith and troth, Marg❜ret! As I gave it to thee. Thy faith and troth thou's never get, Nor yet will I thee lend, Till that thou come within my bower, If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man; And should I kiss thy rosy lips, Thy days would not be lang. O sweet Marg❜ret! O dear Marg❜ret! Give me my faith and troth, Marg❜ret! Thy faith and troth thou's never get, Till you take me to yon kirk-yard, My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard, She stretched out her lily-white hand, And for to do her best; Hae, there's your faith and troth, Willie; God send your saul good rest! Now she has kilted her robes of green And a' the live long winter night The dead corpse follow'd she. Is there any room at your head, Willie, There's no room at my head, Margʼret, There's no room at my side, Marg❜ret, Then up and crew the red cock, No more the ghost to Margret said, O stay, my only true love, stay, ANE BALLAT OF EVILL WYFFIS BE mirry bretheren ane and all, And set all sturt on syd; And every ane togidder call To God to be our gyd: For als lang leivis the mirry man As dois the wrech for ocht he can, Quhen deid him streks, he wait nocht quhan, The riche then sall nocht sparit be, Can nocht that chairge ganestand: Quhairfoir my counsaill, brethir is, And all to loif that Lord of bliss, That is of hevinis king. Quha knawis the secreit thochts and dowt Of all our hairtes round about; And he wha thinks him nevir so stout Mone thoill that punissing. Quhat man but stryf, in all his lyfe, For quhen distress dois him oppress, To call and nocht refrain. express The myrriest man that leivis on lyfe For he knawis nowdir sturt nor stryfe, Hes sturt and sorrow all his lyfe: And that man quhilk levis ay in strife How can he mirry be? Ane evill wyfe is the werst aucht That ony man can haif; Onless he be hir sklaif. Bot of that sort I knaw nane uder Becaus thair wyfis hes maistery That thay dar nawayis cheip, Bot gif it be in privity, Quhan thair wyfis ar on sleip. Ane mirry in thair cumpanie Were to thame worth baith gold and fie; Ane menstrall could nocht bocht be, Thair mirth gif he could beit. |