Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.
The Gay Goss-HawkScotts Border Minstrelsy
“O
Gin your feathering be sheen!”
“And waly, waly, my master dear,
Gin ye look pale and lean!”
Your sword, or yet your spear?
Or mourn ye for the southern lass,
Whom ye may not win near?”
My sword nor yet my spear;
But sair I mourn for my true love,
Wi’ mony a bitter tear.
Ye can baith speak and flee;
Ye sall carry a letter to my love,
Bring an answer back to me.”
Or how suld I her know?
I bear a tongue ne’er wi’ her spake,
An eye that ne’er her saw.”
Sae sune as ye her see;
For, of a’ the flowers of fair England,
The fairest flower is she.
Is like blood-drops on the snaw;
The white, that is on her breast bare,
Like the down o’ the white sea-maw.
There grows a flowering birk;
And ye maun sit and sing thereon
As she gangs to the kirk.
Will to the mass repair;
But weel may ye my ladye ken,
The fairest ladye there.”
Put it under his pinion gray;
And he is awa to southern land
As fast as wings can gae.
There grew a flowering birk;
And he sat down and sung thereon
As she gaed to the kirk.
Amang her maidens free;
For the flower that springs in May morning
Was not sae sweet as she.
And sat him on a pin;
And sang fu’ sweet the notes o’ love,
Till a’ was cosh within.
And syne he sang a clear;
And aye the o’erword o’ the sang
Was—“Your love can no win here.”—
The wine flows you amang,
While I gang to my shot-window,
And hear yon bonny bird’s sang.
The sang ye sung yestreen;
For weel I ken, by your sweet singing,
Ye are frae my true love sen.”
And syne he sang a grave;
And syne he picked his feathers gray,
To her the letter gave.
He says he’s sent ye three;
He canna wait your love langer,
But for your sake he’ll die.”—
And brew his bridal ale;
And I shall meet him at Mary’s kirk,
Lang, lang ere it be stale.”
And a moanfu’ woman was she;
As gin she had ta’en a sudden brash,
And were about to die.
A boon I beg of thee!”—
“Ask not that haughty Scottish lord,
For him you ne’er shall see:
Weel granted it shall be.”—
“Then gin I die in Southern land,
In Scotland gar bury me.
Ye’s gar the mass be sung;
And the next kirk that ye come to,
Ye’s gar the bells be rung.
Ye’s tarry there till night.”
And so her father pledged his word,
And so his promise plight.
As fast as she could fare;
And she has drank a sleepy draught,
That she had mixed wi’ care.
That was sae bright of blee,
And she seemed to be as surely dead
As any one could be.
“Tak ye the burning lead,
And drap a drap on her bosome,
To try if she be dead.”
They drapped it on her breast;
“Alas! alas!” her father cried,
She’s dead without the priest.”
Nor shivered with her chin;
“Alas! alas!” her father cried,
“There is nae breath within.”
And hewed to her a bier;
They hewed it frae the solid aik,
Laid it o’er wi’ silver clear.
And sewed to her a kell;
And every stitch that they put in
Sewed to a siller bell.
They garr’d the bells be rung;
The next Scots kirk that they cam to,
They garr’d the mass be sung.
There stude spearmen all in a raw;
And up and started Lord William,
The chieftane amang them a’.
“Let me look her upon:”
But as soon as Lord William touched her hand,
Her colour began to come.
Till her pale colour was gone;
With rosy cheek, and ruby lip,
She smiled her love upon.
And one glass of your wine;
For I hae fasted these three lang days,
All for your sake and mine.—
Gae hame and blaw your horn!
I trow ye wad hae gi’en me the skaith,
But I’ve gi’en you the scorn.
That wished my saul gude rest;
But wae to my cruel step-dame,
Garr’d burn me on the breast.”—
An ill death may ye die!
For we left father and sisters at hame
Breaking their hearts for thee.”