And he has hied him to his mother, That vilest Witch of vilest kin; And ay at every silver hem Hangs fifty silver bells and ten: Oh, let her be lighter of her young bairn, And that goodly gift shall be your ain! Of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, But she shall die and turn to clay, ye Another may I'll never wed! He did him tell his mother again, For he is silver-shod before, And he is golden-shod behin'; And at ilka tate of that horse's mane And mickle did ye praise his speed, Of her young bairn she 's never be lighter, But she shall die, and go to clay, And ye shall wed anither may. Oh, mother! a woman's heart ye bear, And it shall live your oye to be; To cheer your eild in many a stead; When in the mould your bones are laid, Oh! mother pree'd ye e'er of love, And can ye thole to kill your son, Away! away! what blacker curse Then out it speak the Billy Blin,* Of Liddes' lord that aye took care: Then ye do buy a leaf of wax, And kiauve it weel, and mould it fair; And shape it bairn and bairnlie-like, And in twa glazen een ye pit; * A kind of domestic fairy or sprite, supposed to interest itself in the welfare of the family. With holy water synd it o'er, And by the holy Rood sain it; And carry it to fair Alice's bower, And ilka knot and bolt undo, Fair Alice's bower that is within; And bid her to your boy's christ'ning; For dear's the boy to you he's been! And listen weel what she will say. Now Willie has all his bidden done; In good time aye he gae warning; And bidden her to his boy's christ'ning. And who has killed the master kid, Then out it spake the Billy Blin, As, aye at hand, he harkit near; (And the witch did quake in lith and limb, "Sprinkle. + Deceived by the false intelligence, the witch lays open her machina tions, which the sprite on the instant counteracts. O, Willie has loosed the nine witch-knots, And the kembs of care he has taken out, And he has killed the master kid, And thou, the fellest Hag on mold, JAMIESON. THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. LATE at even, drinking the wine, O stay at hame, my noble lord! O fare ye weel, my lady gay! O fare ye weel, my Sarah! For I maun gae, though I ne'er return She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, As he gaed up the Tinnes' bank, I wat he gaed with sorrow, Till down in a den he 'spied nine armed men, On the dowie howms of Yarrow. * Dreary. |