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Bot of that sort quhilk I report
I knaw nane in this ring;
Glaidly baith dance and sing.
Quhen his wyfe taks the fling.
Eftir thair husband's deid,
Gif thay micht beir grit laid.
Ramukloch in thair bed.
Than wad scho say, Alace ! this day
For him that wan this geir : Quhen I him had I skairsly said,
My hairt anis mak gud cheir. Or I had lettin him spend a plak, I lever haif wittin him brokin his bak; Or ellis his craig had gottin a crak
Our the heicht of the stair. Ye neigartis then example tak, And leir to spend your
That it may be weil knawin
Thy honesty may be shawin.
The ill wyfis of this toun;
Gif thay micht put me down.
Gif ye wald know quha maid this sang
In place, or in quhat toun.
This, and the following Ballad, seem to be of one age, and very much of one spirit; but whether they are the production of the same writer, or not, I have been unable to discover. The writer, by engrossing his name in his “ Ballat,” has taken care that it shall be as lasting as his work, but there is nothing known concerning him, further, than that he lived some time in the 16th century. It may not be improper to notice, for the sake of any luckless individual who may have caught a Tartar, or termagant, no uncommon thing in the lottery of matrimony, that the green sting, or goad, spoken of in the Ballad, is, in the hand of the husband, according to the law of Scotland, a perfectly legal instrument of correction, provided it be not thicker than his thumb.
BALLAT OF GUDE FALLOWIS.
I mar it kend he that will spend,
And luve God lait and air,
Quhen catyvis sall haif cair.
Of geir, and nocht till spair :
Away nakit and bair.
Ane wrech sall haif na mair,
For all his wrek and wair.
For all the wrak a wrech can pak,
And in his baggis imbrace,
And gar him cry, Allace!
And wat nocht to quhat place;
That maist of his gud hais.
With an O, and an I,
tyme and space, Mak we gud cheir quhyle we are heir,
And thank God of his grace. Were thair ane king to rax and ring
Amang gude fallowis cround,
For dule thay sald be dround.
Gar hoy him out and hound:
Be glaid, and mak gude sound.
Now or we furder found :
And let the cop go round.
Or he were clos'd in clay,
And de lang or thair day.
Thou sall beir hyne away,
Full few will for the pray.
Gude fallowis, quhill we may,
And sing on tway and tway.
His name it waxed wide;
Nor yit his meikle pride,
Wha liv'd on Carron side.
Whar sall I get a bonny boy,
“That will win hose and shoen, "That will gae to lord Barnard's ha',
. And bid his lady come?
And ye maun rin ane errand Willie,
And maun rin wi' speid; • When ither boys gang on their feet
• Ye sall ha prancing steid.' “ Oh no! oh no! my master deir !
“ I dar na for my life; “ I'll no gae to the bauld baron's,
« For to triest furth his wife."
My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My deir Willie," he said, • How can ye strive against the streim?
* For I sall be obey'd.' “ But O my master deir !” he cry'd,
“ In grenewode ye're your lane; « Gi owr sic thochts I wald ye red,
“ For feir ye sold be tane."
Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha,
• Bid her come here wi' speid; * If ye refuse my hie command,
! I'll gar your body bleid. • Gae bid her tak this gay mantel,
' 'Tis a gowd but the hem: • Bid her come to the gude grenewode,
Ein by hersel alane:
• And there it is, a silken sarke,
• Her ain hand sew'd the sleeve; • And bid her come to Child Maurice;
Speir nae bauld baron's leive.'
« Yes I will gae your black errands
“ Thouch it be to your cost; “ Sen ye will nae be warn’d by me,
“ In it ye sall find frost.
“ He neir cold bide to taunt:
“ Sma cause ye ha to vaunt.
“ Sae sair against my will, “ I'se mak a vow and keip it trow,
« It sall be done for ill."
When he cam to the broken brig,
He bent his bow and swam;
Set down his feet and ran.
And whan he cam to Barnard's yeat
Wold neither chap nor ca,
And lichtly lap the wa'.
Thoch he stude at the yeat;
Whar they were set at meat.
• Hail ! bail! my gentle sire and dame!
‘My message winna wait, • Dame ye maun to the grenewode gae,
• Afore that it be late.
• Ye're bidden tak this gay mantel,
" 'Tis a' gowd bot the hem: • Ye maun haste to the gude grenewode,
• Ein by yoursell alane.