O, turn thee, turn thee, Tommy Ha'-
O, turn now, man, and fight wi' me;
If ever we come to Troughend again,
My daughter Jean I'll gie to thee.
I mayna turn, I canna turn,
I daurna turn and fight wi' thee;
The Crosiers haud thee at a feud,
And they wad kill baith thee and me.
O, shame upon ye, traitors a'!
I wish your hames ye may never see;
Ye've stown the bridle off my naig,
And I can neither fight nor flee.
Ye've stown the bridle off my naig,
And ye've put water i' my lang gun;
Ye've fixed my sword within the sheath,
That out again it winna come.
He had but time to cross himsel'--
A prayer he hadna time to say,
Till round him came the Crosiers keen,
All riding graithed, and in array.
Weel met, weel met, now Parcy Reed,
Thou art the very man we sought;
Owre lang hae we been in your debt,
Now will we pay ye as we ought.
We'll pay thee at the nearest tree,
Where we shall hang thee like a hound.
Brave Parcy rais'd his fankit sword,
And fell'd the foremost to the ground.
Alake, and wae for Parcy Reed-
Alake he was an unarmed man :
Four weapons pierced him all at once,
As they assailed him there and than.
They fell upon him all at once,
They mangled him most cruellie;
The slightest wound might caused his deid, And they have gi'en him thirty-three.
They hacket off his hands and feet,
And left him lying on the lee.
Now, Parcy Reed, we've paid our debt,
Ye canna weel dispute the tale.
The Crosiers said, and off they rade-
It was the hour o' gloamin' gray,
When herds come in frae fauld and pen; A herd he saw a huntsman lie,
Says he, can this be Laird Troughen'?
There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed,
And some will ca' me Laird Troughen';
It's little matter what they ca' me,
My faes hae made me ill to ken.
There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed,
And speak my praise in tower and town;
It's little matter what they do now,
My life-blood rudds the heather brown.
There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed,
And a' my virtues say and sing;
I would much rather have just now
A draught o' water frae the spring!
The herd flung aff his clouted shoon,
And to the nearest fountain ran;
He made his bonnet serve a cup,
And wan the blessing o' the dying man.
Now, honest herd, ye maun do mair,-
Ye maun do mair as I ye tell;
Ye maun bear tidings to Troughend,
And bear likewise my last farewell.
A farewell to my wedded wife,
A farewell to my brother John,
Wha sits into the Troughend tower,
Wi' heart as black as any stone.
A farewell to my daughter Jean,
A farewell to my young sons five;
Had they been at their father's hand,
I had this night been man alive.
A farewell to my followers a',
And a' my neighbours gude at need:
Bid them think how the treacherous Ha's
Betrayed the life o' Parcy Reed.
The laird o' Clennel bears my bow,
The laird o' Brandon bears my brand;
Whene'er they ride i' the border side,
They'll mind the fate o' the laird Troughend.
[Traditional. From Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads.' This version is substituted for the one intended to have been given from Jamieson's Popular Ballads and So gs,' both as being better in itself, and less known.]
YOUNG Bondwell was a squire's ae son,
And a squire's ae son was he;
He went abroad to a foreign land,
To serve for meat and fee.
He hadna been in that countrie
A twalmonth and a day,
Till he was cast in a prison strang,
For the sake of a lovely may.
O! if my father get word o' this,
At hame in his ain countrie,
He'll send red gowd for my relief,
And a bag o' white monie!
O! gin an earl would borrow me,
At his bridle I wad rin;
Or gin a widow wad borrow me,
I'd swear to be her son.
Or gin a may wad borrow me,
I'd wed her wi' a ring,
Infeft her wi' the ha's an bowers
O' the bonny towers o' Linne.
But it fell ance upon a day,
Dame Essels she thought lang;
And she is to the jail-house door
Bondwell's sang.
Sing on, sing on, my bonny Bondwell,
The sang ye sang just noo;
I never sang the sang, ladye,
But I wad was't on you.
O! gin my father get word o' this,
At hame in his ain countrie,
He'll send red gowd for my relief,
An' a bag o' white monie!
O! gin an earl wad borrow me,
At his bridle I wad rin;
Or gin a widow wad borrow me,
I'd swear to be her son.
Or gin a may wad borrow me,
I wad wed her wi' her ring;
Infeft her wi' the ha's and bouirs
O' the bonny towers o' Linne.
She's stole the keys o' the jail-house door,
Where under the bed they lay;
She's opened to him the jail-house door,
And set young Bondwell free.
She gae 'm a steed was swift in need,
A saddle o' royal bend,
A hunner pund o' pennies round,
Bade him gae rove an' spend.
A couple o' hounds o' ae litter,
And Caen they ca'd the ane;
Twa gay goss-hawks she gae likeways,
To keep him on thought lang.
When mony days were past and gane
Dame Essels thought fu' lang;
And she is to her lanely bouir,
To shorten her wi' a sang.
The sang had sic a melodie,
It lull'd her fast asleep;
Up starts a woman clad in green,
And stood at her bed feet.
Win up, win up, Dame Essels, she says,
This day ye sleep ower lang;
The morn is the squire's weddin' day,
In the bonny towers o' Linne.
Ye'll dress yoursel' in the robes o' green,
Your maids in robes sae fair;
And ye'll put girdles about their middles,
Sae costly, rich, and rare.
Ye'll take your Maries alang wi' ye,
Till ye come to yon strand;
There ye'll see a ship wi' sails a' up
Ye'll take a wand into your hand,
Ye'll stroke her round about;
And ye'll take God your pilot to be,
To drown ye'll take nae doubt.
Then up it raise her, Dame Essels,
Sought water to wash her hands;
the faster that she washed
The tears they trickling ran.
Then in it came her father dear,
And in the floor steps he,
What ails Dame Essels, my dochter dear,
Ye weep sae bitterlie?
Want ye a sma' fish frae the flood,
Or turtle frae the sea?
Or is there a man in a' my realm
This day has offended thee?
I want nae sma' fish frae the flood,
Nor turtle frae the sea;
But young Bondwell, your ain prisoner,
This day has offended me.
Her father turn'd him round about,
A solemn oath sware he,
If this be true ye tell me now,
High hangit he shall be.
To-morrow mornin' he shall be
Hung high upon a tree:
Dame Essels whispered to hersel,
Father, ye've tauld a lee.
She dress'd hersel in robes o' green,
Her maids in robes so fair;
Wi' gowden girdles round their middles,
Sae costly, rich, and rare.
She's taen her mantle her about,
A maiden in every hand;
They saw a ship in sails a' up
Come sailin' to dry land.
She's taen a wand intill her hand,
And stroked her round about;
And she's taen God her pilot to be,
To drown she took nae doubt.
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