THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. RISE up, rise up now, Lord Douglas, she says, Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, And put on your armour so bright; And take better care of your youngest sister, He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, With a buglet horn hung down by his side, Lord William looked over his left shoulder, To see what he could see, And there he 'spied her seven brethren bold, Come riding over the lee. Light down, light down, Lady Margaret, he said, And hold my steed in your hand, Until that against your seven brethren bold, And your father, I make a stand. She held his steed in her milk-white hand, Until that she saw her seven brethren fall, And her father hard fighting, that she loved so dear. O hold your hand, Lord William, she said, For your strokes they are wondrous sore; True lovers I can get many a one, But a Father I can never get more. O she 's taken out her handkerchief, And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, O choose, O choose, Lady Margaret, he said, I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William, she said, For ye have left me no other guide. He has lifted her on a milk-white steed, With a buglet horn hung down by his side, O they rode on, and on they rode, They lighted down to take a drink Of the spring that ran so clear, And down the stream ran his good heart's blood, Hold up, hold up, Lord William, she For I fear that you are slain! says, "T is nothing but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, That shines in the water so plain. O they rode on, and on they rode, And all by the light of the moon, Get up, get up, lady mother, he says, Get up, get up, lady mother, he says, For this night my fair Lady I have won. O make my bed, lady mother, he says, And lay Lady Margaret close at my back, Lord William was dead lang ere midnight Lady Margaret, long ere day: And all true lovers that go together, May they have more luck than they ! Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk, Out of the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And they two met, and they two plait, And all the world might ken right well, But bye and rade the black Douglas, And wow, but he was rough! For he pull'd up the bonny brier, And flang 't in St. Marie's loch. JAMIESON. THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. O WALY, Waly, my gay goss-hawk, O have ye tint at tournament Your sword, or yet your spear; Or mourn ye for the southern lass, Whom ye may not win near? I have not tint at tournament My sword, nor yet my spear; But sore I mourn for my true love, With many a bitter tear. But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, Ye shall carry a letter to my true love, But how shall I your true love find, I bear a tongue ne'er with her spake, * But. O weel shall ye my true love ken, For, of all the flowers of fair England, The red that's on my true love's cheek And even at my love's bower door And four-and-twenty fair ladies But well may ye my true love ken, The fairest lady there. Lord William has written a love letter, And even at that lady's bower There grew a flowering birk; And he sat down and sang thereon, And when he kent that lady fair Among her maidens free ; For the flower that springs in May morning Was never so fair as she;— He lighted at that lady's gate, And sat him on a pin; And sang full sweet the notes of love, Till all was still within. K |