English and Scottish Ballads
Chapter 173 : Robene answerit her agane: 25 "I wait nocht quhat is luve, Bot I haif mervell in

Robene answerit her agane: 25 "I wait nocht quhat is luve, Bot I haif mervell in certaine, Quhat makis the this wanrufe; The weddir is fair, and I am fane, My scheip gois haill aboif, 30 And we wald play us in this plane, They wald us bayth reproif."

"Robene, tak tent unto my taill, And wirk all as I reid, And thow sall haif my hairt all haill, 35 Eik and my madinheid.

Sen G.o.d sendis bute for baill, And for murning remeid, I dern with the bot gif I daill, Dowbtles I am bot deid." 40

"Makyne, to morne this ilka tyde, And ye will meit me heir; Perventure my scheip ma gang besyd, Quhyll we haif liggit full neir: Bot maugre haif I, and I byd, 45 Fra they begin to steir; Quhat lyis on hairt I will nocht hyd; Makyne, than mak gud cheir."

"Robene, thou reivis me roiss and rest; I luve bot the allone." 50 "Makyne, adew, the sone gois west, The day is neirhand gone."

"Robene, in dule I am so drest, That lufe will be my bone."

"Ga lufe, Makyne, quhair evir thou list, 55 For leman I lue none."

"Robene, I stand in sic a style, I sicht, and that full sair."

"Makyne, I haif bene heir this quyle: At hame G.o.d gif I wair!" 60 "My hinny, Robene, talk ane quhyle, Gif thou wilt do na mair."

"Makyne, sum uthir man begyle, For hamewart I will fair."

Robene on his wayis went, 65 As licht as leif of tre; Makyne murnit in her intent, And trowd him nevir to se.

Robene brayd attour the bent; Than Makyne cryit on hie, 70 "Now ma thow sing, for I am schent!

Quhat alis lufe with me?"

Makyne went hame withouttin faill, Full werry eftir cowth weip: Than Robene in a ful fair daill 75 a.s.semblit all his scheip.

Be that sum parte of Makyne's ail Out throw his hairt cowd creip; He followit hir fast thair till a.s.sail, And till her tuke gude keep. 80

"Abyd, abyd, thou fair Makyne, A word for ony thing; For all my luve it sall be thyne, Withouttin departing.

All haill! thy harte for till haif myne, 85 Is all my cuvating; My scheip to morn, quhill houris nyne, Will neid of no keping."

"Robene, thou hes hard soung and say, In gestis and storeis auld, 90 _The man that will not quhen he may, Sall haif nocht quhen he wald._ I pray to Jesu every day, Mot eik thair cairis cauld, That first preissis with the to play, 95 Be firth, forrest, or fawld."

"Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry, The wedder is warme and fair, And the grene woud rycht neir us by To walk attour all quhair: 100 Thair ma na janglour us espy, That is to lufe contrair; Thairin, Makyne, bath ye and I, Unsene we ma repair."

"Robene, that warld is all away, 105 And quyt brocht till ane end, And nevir again thereto, perfay, Sall it be as thou wend; For of my pane thou maide it play, And all in vane I spend: 110 As thou hes done, sa sall I say, Murne on, I think to mend."

"Makyne, the howp of all my heill, My hairt on the is sett, And evir mair to the be leill, 115 Quhile I may leif but lett; Nevir to faill, as utheris faill, Quhat grace that evir I gett."

"Robene, with the I will not deill; Adew, for thus we mett." 120

Makyne went hame blyth anewche, Attoure the holtis hair; Robene murnit, and Makyne lewche; Scho sang, he sichit sair: And so left him, bayth wo and wreuch, 125 In dolour and in cair, Kepand his hird under a huche, Amang the holtis hair.

APPENDIX.

LORD BEICHAN AND SUSIE PYE. See p. 1.

_From Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 260.

Young Beichan was in London born, He was a man of hie degree; He past thro' monie kingdoms great, Until he cam unto Grand Turkie.

He view'd the fas.h.i.+ons of that land, 5 Their way of wors.h.i.+p viewed he; But unto onie of their stocks He wadna sae much as bow a knee:

Which made him to be taken straight, And brought afore their hie jurie; 10 The savage Moor did speak upricht, And made him meikle ill to dree.

In ilka shoulder they've bor'd a hole, And in ilka hole they've put a tree; They've made him to draw carts and wains, 15 Till he was sick and like to dee.

But young Beichan was a Christian born, And still a Christian was he; Which made them put him in prison strang, And cauld and hunger sair to dree; 20 And fed on nocht but bread and water, Until the day that he mot dee.

In this prison there grew a tree, And it was unco stout and strang; Where he was chained by the middle, 25 Until his life was almaist gane.

The savage Moor had but ae dochter, And her name it was Susie Pye; And ilka day as she took the air, The prison door she pa.s.sed bye. 30

But it fell ance upon a day, As she was walking, she heard him sing; She listen'd to his tale of woe, A happy day for young Beichan!

"My hounds they all go masterless, 35 My hawks they flee frae tree to tree, My youngest brother will heir my lands, My native land I'll never see."

"O were I but the prison-keeper, As I'm a ladie o' hie degree, 40 I soon wad set this youth at large, And send him to his ain countrie."

She went away into her chamber, All nicht she never clos'd her ee; And when the morning begoud to dawn, 45 At the prison door alane was she.

She gied the keeper a piece of gowd, And monie pieces o' white monie, To tak her thro' the bolts and bars; The lord frae Scotland she lang'd to see;-- 50 She saw young Beichan at the stake, Which made her weep maist bitterlie.

"O hae ye got onie lands," she says, "Or castles in your ain countrie?

It's what wad ye gie to the ladie fair 55 Wha out o' prison wad set you free?"

"It's I hae houses, and I hae lands, Wi' monie castles fair to see, And I wad gie a' to that ladie gay, Wha out o' prison wad set me free." 60

The keeper syne brak aff his chains, And set Lord Beichan at libertie:-- She fill'd his pockets baith wi' gowd, To tak him till his ain countrie.

She took him frae her father's prison, 65 And gied to him the best o' wine; And a brave health she drank to him; "I wish, Lord Beichan, ye were mine!

"It's seven lang years I'll mak a vow, And seven lang years I'll keep it true; 70 If ye'll wed wi' na ither woman, It's I will wed na man but you."

She's tane him to her father's port, And gien to him a s.h.i.+p o' fame:-- "Farewell, farewell, my Scottish lord, 75 I fear I'll ne'er see you again."

Lord Beichan turn'd him round about, And lowly, lowly, lout.i.t he:-- "Ere seven lang years come to an end, I'll tak you to mine ain countrie." 80

Then when he cam to Glasgow town, A happy, happy man was he; The ladies a' around him thrang'd, To see him come frae slaverie.

His mother she had died o' sorrow, 85 And a' his brothers were dead but he; His lands they a' were lying waste, In ruins were his castles free.

Na porter there stood at his yett Na human creature he could see, 90 Except the screeching owls and bats, Had he to bear him companie.

But gowd will gar the castles grow, And he had gowd and jewels free; And soon the pages around him thrang'd, 95 To serve him on their bended knee.