The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border

  “Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas,” she says,
    “And put on your armour so bright;
  “Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine
    “Was married to a lord under night.

  “Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,
    “And put on your armour so bright,
  “And take better care of your youngest sister,
    “For your eldest’s awa the last night.”

  He’s mounted her on a milk-white steed,
    And himself on a dapple grey,
  With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
    And lightly they rode away.

  Lord William lookit o’er his left shoulder,
    To see what he could see,
  And there he spy’d her seven brethren bold
    Come riding over the lee.

  “Light down, light down, Lady Marg’ret,” he said,
    “And hold my steed in your hand,
  “Until that against your seven brethren bold,
    “And your father, I mak a stand.”

  She held his steed in her milk-white hand,
    And never shed one tear,
  Until that she saw her seven brethren fa’,
    And her father hard fighting, who lov’d her so dear.

  “O hold your hand, Lord William!” she said,
    “For your strokes they are wond’rous sair;
  “True lovers I can get many a ane,
    “But a father I can never get mair.”

  O she’s ta’en out her handkerchief,
    It was o’ the holland sae fine,
  And ay she dighted her father’s bloody wounds,
    That ware redder than the wine.

  “O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg’ret,” he said,
    “O whether will ye gang or bide?”
  “I’ll gang, I’ll gang, Lord William,” she said,
    “For ye have left me no other guide.”

  He’s lifted her on a milk-white steed,
    And himself on a dapple grey,
  With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
    And slowly they baith rade away.

  O they rade on, and on they rade,
    And a’ by the light of the moon,
  Until they came to yon wan water,
    And there they lighted down.

  They lighted down to tak a drink
    Of the spring that ran sae clear;
  And down the stream ran his gude heart’s blood,
    And sair she gan to fear.

  “Hold up, hold up, Lord William,” she says,
    “For I fear that you are slain!”
  “’Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak;
    “That shines in the water sae plain.”

  O they rade on, and on they rade,
    And a’ by the light of the moon,
  Until they cam’ to his mother’s ha’ door,
    And there they lighted down.

  “Get up, get up, lady mother,” he says,
    “Get up, and let me in!—­
  “Get up, get up, lady mother,” he says,
    “For this night my fair lady I’ve win.

  “O mak my bed, lady mother,” he says,
    “O mak it braid and deep! 
  “And lay Lady Marg’ret close at my back,
    “And the sounder I will sleep.”

  Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
    Lady Marg’ret lang ere day—­
  And all true lovers that go thegither,
    May they have mair luck than they!

  Lord William was buried in St Marie’s kirk,
    Lady Margaret in Mary’s quire;
  Out o’ the lady’s grave grew a bonny red rose,
    And out o’ the knight’s a brier.

  And they twa met, and they twa plat,
    And fain they wad be near;
  And a’ the warld might ken right weel,
    They were twa lovers dear.

  But bye and rade the Black Douglas,
    And wow but he was rough! 
  For he pull’d up the bonny brier,
    And flang’d in St Mary’s loch.

YOUNG BENJIE.  NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.

In this ballad the reader will find traces of a singular superstition, not yet altogether discredited in the wilder parts of Scotland.  The lykewake, or watching a dead body, in itself a melancholy office, is rendered, in the idea of the assistants, more dismally awful, by the mysterious horrors of superstition.  In the interval betwixt death and interment, the disembodied spirit is supposed to hover around its mortal habitation, and, if invoked by certain rites, retains the power of communicating, through its organs, the cause of its dissolution.  Such enquiries, however are always dangerous, and never to be resorted to unless the deceased is suspected to have suffered foul play, as it is called.  It is the more unsafe to tamper with this charm, in an unauthorized manner; because the inhabitants of the infernal regions are, at such periods, peculiarly active.  One of the most potent ceremonies in the charm, for causing the dead body to speak, is, setting the door ajar, or half open.  On this account, the peasants of Scotland sedulously avoid leaving the door ajar, while a corpse lies in the house.  The door must either be left wide open, or quite shut; but the first is always preferred, on account of the exercise of hospitality usual on such occasions.  The attendants must be likewise careful never to leave the corpse for a moment alone, or, if it is left alone, to avoid, with a degree of superstitious horror, the first sight of it.  The following story, which is frequently related by the peasants of Scotland, will illustrate the imaginary danger of leaving the door ajar.  In former times, a man and his wife lived in a solitary cottage, on one of the extensive border fells.  One day, the husband died suddenly; and his wife, who was equally afraid of staying alone by the corpse, or leaving the dead body by itself, repeatedly went to the door, and looked anxiously over the lonely moor, for the sight of some person approaching.  In her confusion and alarm, she accidentally left the door ajar, when the corpse suddenly started up, and sat in the bed, frowning and grinning at her frightfully.  She sat alone, crying bitterly, unable to avoid the fascination of the dead man’s eye, and too much terrified to break the sullen silence, till a catholic priest, passing over the wild, entered the cottage.  He first set the door quite open, then put his little finger in his mouth, and said the paternoster backwards; when the horrid look of the corpse relaxed, it fell back on the bed, and behaved itself as a dead man ought to do.

The ballad is given from tradition.