Three Ballads from the 19th-Century Scottish Borderlands, edited by Francis James Child

THE WATER O' WEARIE'S WELL.

From Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, ii. 201. Repeated in Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads, Percy Society, xvii. 63.

The three ballads which follow, diverse as they may now appear, after undergoing successive corruptions, were primarily of the same type. In the first (which may be a compound of two ballads, like the preceding, the conclusion being taken from a story of the character of May Colvin in the next volume) the Merman or Nix may be easily recognized: in the second he is metamorphosed into the Devil; and in the third, into a ghost. Full details upon the corresponding Scandinavian, German, and Slavic legends, are given by Grundtvig, in the preface to Noekkens Svig, Danmarks G. Folkeviser, ii. 57: translated by Jamieson, i. 210, and by Monk Lewis, Tales of Wonder, No. 11.

There came a bird out o' a bush,

On water for to dine;

And sighing sair, says the king's daughter,

"O waes this heart o' mine!"

He's taen a harp into his hand,

He's harped them all asleep;

Except it was the king's daughter,

Who ae wink cou'dna get.

He's luppen on his berry-brown steed,

Taen her on behind himsell;

Then baith rade down to that water,

That they ca' Wearie's well.

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,

Nae harm shall thee befall;

Aft times hae I water'd my steed,

Wi' the water o' Wearie's well."

The first step that she stepped in,

She stepped to the knee;

And sighing sair, says this lady fair,

"This water's nae for me."

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,

Nae harm shall thee befall;

Aft times hae I water'd my steed,

Wi' the water o' Wearie's well."

The next step that she stepped in,

She stepped to the middle;

And sighing, says, this lady fair,

"I've wat my gowden girdle."

"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,

Nae harm shall thee befall;

Aft times hae I water'd my steed,

Wi' the water o' Wearie's well."

The niest step that she stepped in,

She stepped to the chin;

And sighing, says, this lady fair,

"They shou'd gar twa loves twine."

"Seven king's-daughters I've drown'd there,

In the water o' Wearie's well;

And I'll make you the eight o' them,

And ring the common bell."

"Sin' I am standing here," she says,

"This dowie death to die;

Ae kiss o' your comely mouth

I'm sure wou'd comfort me."

He louted him ower his saddle bow,

To kiss her cheek and chin;

She's taen him in her arms twa,

And thrown him headlang in.

"Sin' seven king's daughters ye've drown'd there,

In the water o' Wearie's well,

I'll make you bridegroom to them a',

An' ring the bell mysell."

And aye she warsled, and aye she swam,

Till she swam to dry land;

Then thanked God most cheerfully,

The dangers she'd ower came.

THE DÆMON LOVER.

This ballad was communicated to Sir Walter Scott, (Minstrelsy, iii. 195,) by Mr. William Laidlaw, who took it down from recitation. A fragment of the same legend, recovered by Motherwell, is given in the Appendix to this volume, and another version, in which the hero is not a dæmon, but the ghost of an injured lover, is placed directly after the present.

The Devil (Auld Nick) here takes the place of the Merman (Nix) of the ancient ballad. See p. 198, and the same natural substitution noted in K.u.H.—Märchen, 3d ed. iii. 253.

"O where have you been, my long, long love,

This long seven years and more?"—

"O I'm come to seek my former vows

Ye granted me before."—

"O hold your tongue of your former vows,

For they will breed sad strife;

O hold your tongue of your former vows,

For I am become a wife."

He turn'd him right and round about,

And the tear blinded his ee;

"I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground,

If it had not been for thee.

"I might hae had a king's daughter,

Far, far beyond the sea;

I might have had a king's daughter,

Had it not been for love o' thee."—

"If ye might have had a king's daughter,

Yer sell ye had to blame;

Ye might have taken the king's daughter,

For ye kend that I was nane."—

"O faulse are the vows of womankind,

But fair is their faulse bodie;

I never wad hae trodden on Irish ground,

Had it not been for love o' thee."—

"If I was to leave my husband dear,

And my two babes also,

O what have you to take me to,

If with you I should go?"—

"I hae seven ships upon the sea,

The eighth brought me to land;

With four-and-twenty bold mariners,

And music on every hand."

She has taken up her two little babes,

Kiss'd them baith cheek and chin;

"O fair ye weel, my ain two babes,

For I'll never see you again."

She set her foot upon the ship,

No mariners could she behold;

But the sails were o' the taffetie,

And the masts o' the beaten gold.

She had not sail'd a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

When dismal grew his countenance,

And drumlie grew his ee.

The masts that were like the beaten gold,

Bent not on the heaving seas;

But the sails, that were o' the taffetie,

Fill'd not in the east land breeze.—

They had not sailed a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

Until she espied his cloven foot,

And she wept right bitterlie.

"O hold your tongue of your weeping," says he,

"Of your weeping now let me be;

I will show you how the lilies grow

On the banks of Italy."—

"O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,

That the sun shines sweetly on?"—

"O yon are the hills of heaven," he said,

"Where you will never win."—

"O whaten a mountain is yon," she said,

"All so dreary wi' frost and snow?"—

"O yon is the mountain of hell," he cried,

"Where you and I will go."

And aye when she turn'd her round about,

Aye taller he seem'd for to be;

Until that the tops o' that gallant ship

Nae taller were than he.

The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud,

And the levin fill'd her ee;

And waesome wail'd the snaw-white sprites

Upon the gurlie sea.

He strack the tap-mast wi' his hand,

The fore-mast wi' his knee;

And he brake that gallant ship in twain,

And sank her in the sea.

JAMES HERRIES.

From Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, (i. 214.)

(See the preface to the last ballad but one.)

"O are ye my father, or are ye my mother?

Or are ye my brother John?

Or are ye James Herries, my first true love,

Come back to Scotland again?"

"I am not your father, I am not your mother,

Nor am I your brother John;

But I'm James Herries, your first true love,

Come back to Scotland again."

"Awa', awa', ye former lovers,

Had far awa' frae me;

For now I am another man's wife,

Ye'll ne'er see joy o' me."

"Had I kent that ere I came here,

I ne'er had come to thee;

For I might hae married the king's daughter,

Sae fain she wou'd had me.

"I despised the crown o' gold,

The yellow silk also;

And I am come to my true love,

But with me she'll not go."

"My husband he is a carpenter,

Makes his bread on dry land,

And I hae born him a young son,—

Wi' you I will not gang."

"You must forsake your dear husband,

Your little young son also,

Wi' me to sail the raging seas,

Where the stormy winds do blow."

"O what hae you to keep me wi',

If I should with you go?

If I'd forsake my dear husband,

My little young son also?"

"See ye not yon seven pretty ships,

The eighth brought me to land;

With merchandize and mariners,

And wealth in every hand?"

She turn'd her round upon the shore,

Her love's ships to behold;

Their topmasts and their mainyards

Were cover'd o'er wi' gold.

Then she's gane to her little young son,

And kiss'd him cheek and chin;

Sae has she to her sleeping husband,

And dune the same to him.

"O sleep ye, wake ye, my husband,

I wish ye wake in time;

I woudna for ten thousand pounds,

This night ye knew my mind."

She's drawn the slippers on her feet,

Were cover'd o'er wi' gold;

Well lined within wi' velvet fine,

To had her frae the cold.

She hadna sailed upon the sea

A league but barely three,

Till she minded on her dear husband,

Her little young son tee.

"O gin I were at land again,

At land where I wou'd be,

The woman ne'er shou'd bear the son,

Shou'd gar me sail the sea."

"O hold your tongue, my sprightly flower,

Let a' your mourning be;

I'll show you how the lilies grow

On the banks o' Italy."

She hadna sailed on the sea

A day but barely ane,

Till the thoughts o' grief came in her mind,

And she lang'd for to be hame.

"O gentle death, come cut my breath,

I may be dead ere morn;

I may be buried in Scottish ground,

Where I was bred and born."

"O hold your tongue, my lily leesome thing,

Let a' your mourning be;

But for a while we'll stay at Rose Isle,

Then see a far countrie.

"Ye'se ne'er be buried in Scottish ground,

Nor land ye's nae mair see;

I brought you away to punish you,

For the breaking your vows to me.

"I said ye shou'd see the lilies grow

On the banks o' Italy;

But I'll let you see the fishes swim,

In the bottom o' the sea."

He reached his band to the topmast,

Made a' the sails gae down;

And in the twinkling o' an e'e,

Baith ship and crew did drown.

The fatal flight o' this wretched maid

Did reach her ain countrie;

Her husband then distracted ran,

And this lament made he:—

"O wae be to the ship, the ship,

And wae be to the sea,

And wae be to the mariners,

Took Jeanie Douglas frae me!

"O bonny, bonny was my love,

A pleasure to behold;

The very hair o' my love's head

Was like the threads o' gold.

"O bonny was her cheek, her cheek,

And bonny was her chin;

And bonny was the bride she was,

The day she was made mine!"

*** The following stanzas from a version of this ballad printed at Philadelphia (and called The House Carpenter) are given in Graham's Illustrated Magazine, Sept. 1858.

"I might have married the king's daughter dear;"

"You might have married her," cried she,

"For I am married to a House Carpenter,

And a fine young man is he."

"Oh dry up your tears, my own true love,

And cease your weeping," cried he;

"For soon you'll see your own happy home,

On the banks of old Tennessee."