Says, "Will ye be a rank robber's wife,
Eh wow bonnie,

Or will ye die by my wee pen-knife,
On the bonnie banks o' Fordie?"

"I'll not be a rank robber's wife,
Eh wow bonnie,

Nor will I die by your wee pen-knife,
On the bonnie banks o' Fordie.

"For I hae a brother ayont the sea,
Eh wow bonnie,

And gin ye kill me, it's he'll kill thee,
On the bonnie banks o' Fordie."

"Now tell me, what is your brother's name,
Eh wow bonnie?"

"My brother's name is Burd-alane,*

On the bonnie banks o' Fordie."

"O sister, sister, wae be to me!

Eh wow bonnie,

O hae I done this ill to thee,

On the bonnie banks o' Fordie?

"The lift shall lie on yonder green,
Eh wow bonnie,

Or ever I shall again be seen,

On the bonnie banks o' Fordie!"

* "Burd-alane" was the cognomen given to the last survivor of the sons of Sir Richard Maitland, a renowned Scottish warrior, who, in 1296, defended his castle of Lauder against the English.

THE WIFE OF AUCHTERMUCHTY.

THIS is one of the best and oldest of the Scottish ballads of humour. It is contained in the Bannatyne Manuscript, and has been no way altered or corrupted. It is thought to be the production of one Sir John Moffat, a "Pope's knight," and may therefore have been composed about the year 1520.

IN Auchtermuchty there dwelt a man,
An husband as I heard it tauld;

Wha weel could tipple out a can,
And neither lovit hunger nor cauld.
While ance it fell upon a day,

He yoked his pleugh upon the plain;
Gif it be true, as I heard say,

The day was foul for wind and rain.

He loosed his pleugh at the land's en',
And drave his owsen hame at e'en ;
When he came in he lookit ben,

And saw the wife baith dry and clean,
Sitting at a fire, beik* and bauld,
With a fat soup, as I heard say;
The man being very weet and cauld,
Between they twa it was na play.

* Warm.

VOL. I.

L

Quoth he, "Where is my horse's corn? My ox has neither hay nor stray : Dame! ye maun to the pleugh the morn, I shall be hussy* gif I may."

'Husband," quoth she, "content am I To tak' the pleugh my day about; Sae ye will rule baith calves and kye,

And all the house baith in and out.

But sin' that ye will hussyskep ken,
First ye shall sift, and syne shall knead,

And

ay as ye gang but and ben,

Look that the bairns fyle not the bed. Ye'se lay a soft wisp to the kiln ;

(We hae a dear farm on our head ;) And aye as ye gang furth and till, Keep well the gaislings frae the gled."

The wife was up right late at e'en,

I

pray God give her weel to fare!

She kirned the kirn, and skimmed it clean,

Left the gudeman but bledoch + bare.
Then in the morning up she gat,
And on her heart laid her disjune ;

And put as meikle in her lap,

As might hae served them baith at noon.

Says, "Jock, be thou master of wark,
And thou shalt hauld, and I shall ca,'
I'se promise thee a gude new sark,
Either of round cloth or of sma"."

* Housewife.

+ Buttermilk.

She loosed the owsen, aucht or nine,
And hent a gad-staff in her hand :
Up the gudeman raise after syne,
And saw the wife had done command.

He ca'd the gaislings forth to feed,
There was but sevensome of them a',
And by there comes the greedy gled,
And licket up five, left him but twa :
Then out he ran, in all his main,

How soon he heard the gaislings cry,
But then or he cam' in again,

The calves brak' loose, and suck'd the kye.

The calves and kye met in the loan,

The man ran wi' a rung to redd;
Then there comes an illwilly cow,

And brodit his buttock till it bled.
Then hame he ran to a rock of tow,
And he sat down to 'say the spinning;

I trow he louted owre near the low

Quoth he, "This wark has ill beginning!'

Hynd to the kirn then did he stour,

And jumlit at it till he swat ;
When he had fumblit a full lang hour,
The sorrow a scrap o' butter he gat :
Albeit nae butter he could get,

Yet he was cumbered wi' the kirn:
And syne he heated the milk owre het,
And sorrow a spark of it would yearn.

Then ben there cam' a greedy sow,
I trow he owed her little thank,

For in she shot her meikle mou',
And ay she winkit and she drank.
He cleiked up a crooked club,

And thought to hit the sow a rout;
The twa gaislings the gled had left,
That straik dang baith their harnis* out.

Then he bore kindling to the kiln,
But she stert up all in a low;
Whatever he heard, whatever he saw,
That day he had nae will to wow.
Then he gaed to tak' up the bairns,

Thought to have found them fair and clean;

The first that he gat in his arms,

Was a' bedirtied to the e'en.

The first it smelt sae sappily,

To touch the lave he did not greine ; "The devil cut aff their hands," quoth he, "That fill'd ye a' sae fu' yestreen!" He trailed the foul sheets down the gait, Thought to have washed them on a stane; The burn was risen great of spate,

Awa' frae him the sheets has ta'en.

Then up he gat on a knowe head,
On her to cry, on her to shout;
She heard him, and she heard him not,
But stoutly steered the stots about.

She drave all day until the night,

She loosed the pleugh, and syne cam' hame; She fand all wrang that should been right; I trow the man thought right great shame.

* Brains.