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Young Logie's laid in Edinburgh chapel,

Carmichael 's the keeper o’ the key; And May Margaret's lamenting sair,

A' for the love of young Logie.

May Margaret sits in the Queen's bower,

Kinking her fingers ane by ane, Cursing the day that she ere was born,

Or that she ere heard o' Logie's name.

“Lament, lament na, May Margaret,

And of your weeping let me be, For ye maun to the king himsel,

To seek the life o' young Logie.”

May Margaret has kilted her green cleiding,

And she has curl'd back her yellow hair “If I canna get young Logie's life,

Farewell to Scotland for evermair.”

When she came before the king,

She kneelit lowly on her knee. “O what's the matter, May Margaret?

And what needs a' this courtesie ? ”

"A boon, a boon, my noble liege,

A boon, a boon, I beg o' thee !
And the first boon that I come to crave,

Is to grant me the life o' young Logie.”

“O na, O na, May Margaret,

Forsooth, and so it manna be; For a' the gowd o' fair Scotland

Shall not save the life o' young Logie.”

But she has stown the king's redding kaim,

Likewise the queen her wedding knife; And sent the tokens to Carmichael,

To cause young Logie get his life.

She sent him a purse o' the red gowd,

Another o' the white monie;
She sent him a pistol for each hand,

And bade him shoot when he gat free.

When he came to the Tolbooth stair,

There he let his volley flee;
It made the king in his chamber start,

E’en in the bed where he might be.

“Gae out, gae out, my merrymen a',

And bid Carmichael come speak to me, For I'll lay my life the pledge o' that,

That yon 's the shot o' young Logie."

When Carmichael came before the king,

He fell low down upon his knee;
The very first word that the king spake,

Was—“Where's the laird of young Logie ?"

Carmichael turn'd him round about,

(I wat the tear blinded his eye,) “There came a token frae your grace,

Has ta'en away the laird frae me.

“Hast thou play'd me that, Carmichael ?

And has thou play'd me that?" quoth he; “The morn the Justice Court's to stand,

And Logie's place ye maun supplie.”

Carmichael's awa to Margaret's bower,

E'en as fast as he may drie“O if young Logie be within,

Tell him to come and speak with me!”

May Margaret turn'd her round about,

(I wat a loud laugh laughed she,) “The egg is chipped, the bird is flown,

Ye'll see nae mair of young Logie."

The tane is shipped at the pier of Leith,

The tother at the Queen's Ferrie; And she's gotten a father to her bairn,

The wanton laird of young Logie.


The domestic tragedy which this affecting ballad commemorates is not without a precedent in real history; nay, we are almost inclined to believe that it originated in the following melancholy event:

“This year, 1589, in the moneth of July, ther falls out a sad accident, as a further warneing that God was displeased with the familie. The Lord Sommervill haveing come from Cowthally, earlie in the morning, in regaird the weather was hott, he had ridden hard to be at the Drum be ten a clock, which haveing done, he laid him down to rest. The servant, with his two sones, William Master of Sommervill, and John his brother, went with the horses to ane Shott of land, called the Prety Shott, directly opposite the front of the house where there was some meadow ground for grassing the horses, and willowes to shaddow themselves from the heat. They had not long continued in this place, when the Master of Somervill efter some litle rest awakeing from his sleep, and finding his pistolles that lay hard by him wett with the dew he began to rub and dry them, when unhappily one of them went off the ratch, being lying upon his knee, and the muzel turned syde-ways, the ball strocke his brother John directly in the head, and killed him outright, soe that his sorrowful brother never had one word from him, albeit he begged it with many teares.”—Memorie of the Somervilles, vol. i. p. 467.-W. M.

THERE were twa brothers at the scule,

And when they got awa'—
“It's will ye play at the stane-chucking ?

Or will ye play at the ba'?
Or will ye gae up to yon hill head,

And there we'll warsle a fa'?”

"I winna play at the stane-chucking,

Nor will I play at the ba',
But I'll gae up to yon bonnie green hill,

And there we'll warsle a fa'.”

They warsled up, they warsled down,

Till John fell to the ground;
A dirk fell out of William's pouch,

And gave John a deadly wound. “O lift me, lift me on your back,

Take me to yon well so fair;
And wash my bloody wounds o'er and o'er,

And they'll ne'er bleed ony mair.”
He's lifted his brother upon his back,

Ta'en him to yon well so fair; He's wash'd his bluidy wounds o’er and o'er;

But aye they bleed an' mair and mair. “Tak ye aff my Holland sark,

And rive it gair by gair,
And row it in my bluidy wounds,

And they'll ne'er bleed ony mair.”

He's taken aff his Holland sark,

And torn it gair by gair;
He's rowit it in his bluidy wounds,

But aye they bleed an' mair and mair. “Tak now aff my green cleiding,

And row me saftly in;
And tak me up to yon kirk style,

Whare the grass grows fair and green.” He's taken aff the green cleiding,

And rowed him saftly in;
He's laid him down by yon kirk style,

Whare the grass grows fair and green. “What will ye say to your father dear,

When ye gae hame at e'en ?” “I'll say ye're lying at yon kirk style,

Whare the grass grows fair and green." "O no, O no, my brother dear, O you

must not say so; But say that I'm gane to a foreign land,

Whare nae man does me know." When he sat in his father's chair

He grew baith pale and wan. “O what blude 's that upon your brow?

O dear son, tell to me.” “ It is the blude o' my gude gray steed;

He wadna ride wi' me.”
"O thy steed's blude was ne'er sae red,

Nor e'er sae dear to me:
O what blude's this upon your

O dear son, tell to me.
“It is the blude of my greyhound;

He wadna hunt for me.'

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