For I've gi'en my love to an English lord, And I hae nae mair to gie."

Her father's kitchen boy heard that,

(An ill death mot he die),

And he's away to seek her brother,
As fast as he might hie.

"O is my father and my mother weel,
But and my brothers three?
Gin my sister, Lady Maisry, be weel,
There's naething can ail me."

"Your father and your mother are weel,
But and your brethren three,
Your sister, Lady Maisry's, weel,
Sae big wi' bairn is she."

"A malison be on the tongue
Sic tidings tells to me!
But gin it be a lie you tell,
You shall be hanged hie."

66

He's done him to his sister's bower,
Wi' mickle dule and care;

And there he saw her, Lady Maisry,
Kaiming her yellow hair.

"O wha is aucht that bairn," he says,

66 That ye sae big are wi'? And gin ye winna tell the truth, This moment ye shall die."

She's turned her right and round about, And the kaim fell frae her han',

A trembling shook her fair bodie,
And her rosy cheek grew wan.

"O pardon me, my brother dear,

And the truth I'll tell to thee; My bairn it is to Lord William, And he is betrothed to me."

"O couldna ye gotten dukes or lords
Intill your ain countrie,

That ye drew up wi' an English dog,
To bring this shame on me?

"But ye maun gie up your English lord
When your young babe is born,
For, gin ye keep by him an hour langer,
Your life shall be forlorn."

"I will gie up my English love,
Till my young babe be born;
But the never a day nor hour langer,
Though my life should be forlorn."

"O where are a' my merry young men,
Whom I give meat and fee,
To pu' the bracken and the thorn,
To burn this harlot wi'?"

"O where will I get a bonny boy,
To help me in my need,

To rin in haste to Lord William,
And bid him come wi' speed?"

And out then spak a bonny boy
Stood by her brother's side,

"It's I wad rin your errand, lady, O'er a' the warld sae wide.

"Aft hae I run your errands, lady,
When blew baith wind and weet,
But now I'll rin your errand, lady,
Wi' the saut tears on my cheek.”

O whan he cam' to broken briggs,
He bent his bow and swam,

And when he cam' to the green grass growing,
He slack'd his shoon and ran.

And when he cam' to Lord William's yett,

He badena to chap or ca',

But set his bent bow to his breist,

And lightly lap the wa'.

"O is my biggings broken, boy?

Or is my towers won ? Or is my lady lighter yet

Of a daughter or a son?"

"Your bigging is na broken, sir,
Nor is your towers won,
But the fairest lady in a' the land
This day for you maun burn."

"O saddle to me the black, the black,
Or saddle to me the brown;

Or saddle to me the swiftest steed
That ever rade frae a town!"

Or he was near a mile awa',

She heard his war-horse sneeze;

"Mend up the fire, my fause brother, It's nae come to my knees."

O when he lighted at the yett, She heard his bridle ring : "Mend up the fire, my fause brother, It's yet far frae my chin!

"Mend up the fire to me, brother, Mend up the fire to me;

For I see him coming hard and fast, Will soon mend it up for thee!

"O had my hands been loose, Willy, As they are hardly boun',

I wad hae turned me frae the gleed, And cast out your young son!"

"O I'll gar burn for you, Maisry,
Your father and your mother,
And I'll gar burn for you, Maisry,
Your sister and your brother.

"And I'll gar burn for you, Maisry,
The chief o' a' your kin;

And the last banefire that I come to,
Mysell I will cast in!"

GREME AND BEWICK.

THIS ballad is taken from the Border Minstrelsy. Sir Walter Scott says regarding it : "The date of this ballad, and its subject, are uncertain. From internal evidence, I am inclined to place it late in the sixteenth century. The ballad itself was given, in the first edition, from the recitation of a gentleman, who professed to have forgotten some verses. These have, in the present edition, been partly restored, from a copy obtained by the recitation of an ostler in Carlisle, which has also furnished some slight alterations."

(UDE Lord Græme is to Carlisle gane;

GUI

Sir Robert Bewick there met he;
And arm in arm to the wine they did go,
And they drank till they were baith merrie.

Gude Lord Græme has ta'en up the cup,
"Sir Robert Bewick, and here's to thee!
And here's to our twae sons at hame!

For they like us best in our ain countrie."

"O were your son a lad like mine,

And learn'd some books that he could read,
They might hae been twae brethren bauld,
And they might hae bragged the Border side.

"But your son's a lad, and he is but bad, And billie to my son he canna be ;