William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
Johney ScotAnonymous
O J
As ever sail’d the sea,
An’ he’s done him to the English court,
To serve for meat and fee.
But yet a little while,
Untill the kingis ae daughter
To Johney proves wi’ chil’.
In his chair where he sat,
That his ae daughter was wi’ bairn
To Jack, the Little Scott.
As I trust well it be,
Ye pit her into prison strong,
An’ starve her till she die.’
A wot he went wi’ speed,
An’ he has left the kingis court,
A wot good was his need.
That Johney he thought lang,
An’ he’s gane to the good green wood,
As fast as he coud gang.
To rin my errand soon,
That will rin into fair England,
An’ haste him back again?’
Gold yallow was his hair,
I wish his mother meickle joy,
His bonny love mieckle mair.
Will rin your errand soon;
I will gang into fair England,
An’ come right soon again.’
He bent his bow and swam;
An’ whan he came to the green grass growan,
He slaikid his shoone an’ ran.
He ran it roun’ about,
An’ there he saw the king’s daughter,
At the window looking out.
Your ain han’ sewd the sleeve;
You’r bidden come to fair Scotlan,
Speer nane o’ your parents’ leave.
Your ain han’ sewd the gare;
You’re bidden come to good green wood,
Love Johney waits you there.’
The tear was in her e’e:
‘How can I come to my true-love,
Except I had wings to flee?
Most grievous to behold;
My breast-plate’s o’ the sturdy steel,
Instead of the beaten gold.
Ye well deserve a fee,
An’ bear this letter to my love,
An’ tell him what you see.’
Again to Scotlan’ fair,
An’ soon he reach’d Pitnachton’s tow’rs,
An’ soon found Johney there.
An’ taul him what he sa’,
But eer he half the letter read,
He loote the tears doun fa’.
Tho’ death shoud me betide,
An’ I will relieve the damesel
That lay last by my side.’
‘My son, you are to blame;
An’ gin you’r catch’d on English groun’,
I fear you’ll neer win hame.’
Johney’s best friend was he;
I can commaun’ five hunder men,
An’ I’ll his surety be.’
They gard the bells be rung;
An’ the nextin town that they came till,
They gard the mess be sung.
They gard the drums beat roun’;
The king but an’ his nobles a’
Was startl’d at the soun’.
They rade it roun’ about,
An’ there they saw the king himsel’,
At the window looking out.
Or James, the Scottish king?
Or are ye some great foreign lord,
That’s come a visiting?’
Nor James, the Scottish king;
But I’m a valiant Scottish knight,
Pitnachton is my name.’
As I trust well it be,
The morn, or I tast meat or drink,
You shall be hanged hi’.’
That came brave Johney wi’;
‘Behold five hunder bowmen bold,
Will die to set him free.’
An’ a scornful laugh laugh he;
‘I have an Italian in my house
Will fight you three by three.’
‘Bring your Italian here;
Then if he fall beneath my sword,
I’ve won your daughter dear.’
An’ a gurious ghost was he;
Upo’ the point o’ Johney’s sword
This Italian did die.
Struck it across the plain:
‘Is there any more o’ your English dogs
That you want to be slain?’
‘To write her tocher free;’
‘A priest, a priest,’ says Love Johney,
‘To marry my love and me.
‘Nor of your silver clear;
I only seek your daughter fair,
Whose love has cost her dear.’