"And gin ye suld kill him, Fause Foodrage, There is no man durst you blame;

For he keeps your mother a prisoner,
And she daurna take ye hame."

The boy stared wild, like a gray goss hawk:
Says- -"What may a' this mean?"
"My boy, ye are king Honour's son,
And your mother's our lawful queen."

"O gin I be king Honour's son,
By Our Ladye, I swear,

This night I will that traitor slay,
And relieve my mother dear!"

He has set his bent bow to his breast,
And leaped the castell wa';

And soon he has seized Fause Foodrage,
Wha loud for help 'gan ca'.

"O haud your tongue now, Fause Foodrage, Frae me ye shanna flee."

Syne pierced him through the fause, fause heart, And set his mother free.

And he has rewarded Wise William
Wi' the best half of his land;

And sae has he the turtle dow

Wi' the troth o' his right hand.

THE TWA CORBIES.

This poem was communicated to Sir Walter Scott by Mr Kirkpatrick Sharpe, as written down, from tradition, by a lady. "It is a singular circumstance," says Sir Walter, "that it should coincide so very nearly with the ancient dirge, called The Three Ravens, published by Mr Ritson in his 'Ancient Songs;' and that, at the same time, there should exist such a difference as to make the one appear rather a counterpart than copy of the other. In order to enable the curious reader to contrast these two singular poems, and to form a judgment which may be the original, I take the liberty of copying the English ballad from Mr Ritson's Collection. The learned Editor states it to be given from 'Ravenscroft's Melismata. Musical Phansies, fitting the Cittie and Country Humours, to 3, 4, and 5 Voyces, London, 1611, 4to.'

In this version, the chorus of—

"Down, down-hey derry down,"

after every line, is omitted.

There were three ravens sat on a tre,
They were as blacke as they might be :

The one of them said to his mate,
"Where shall we our breakfast take?"

"Downe in yonder grene field,

There lies a knight slain under his shield;

"His hounds they lie down at his feete,
So well do they their master keepe;

"His haukes they flie so eagerly,
There's no fowle dare come him nie.

"Down there comes a fallow doe,
As great with young as she might goe.

"She lift up his bloudy hed,
And kist his wounds that were so red.

"She got him up upon her backe,
And carried him to earthen lake.

1

"She buried him before the prime,

She was dead her selfe ere euen song time.

"God send euery gentleman,

Such haukes, such houndes, and such a leman."

As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the other 'gan say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"

"In behint yon auld fail* dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane,

His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,

His lady's ta'en another mate,

So we may make our dinner sweet.

"Ye sall sit on his white hause bane,

And I'll pike out his bonny blue een :
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,

We'll theekt our nest when it grows bare.

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'Mony a ane for him makes mane,

But nane sall ken whare he is gane :

O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair."

"Fail:" turf.

"Theek:" thatch.

THE TWA CORBIES.

SECOND VERSION.

From Motherwell's Collection, but evidently much modernised.

THERE were twa corbies sat on a tree,
Large and black as black might be,
And one until the other 'gan say,
"Where shall we go and dine to-day?
Shall we dine by the wild salt sea?
Shall we dine 'neath the greenwood tree?"

"As I sat on the deep sea sand,
I saw a fair ship nigh at land;
I waved my wings, I bent my beak,
The ship sunk, and I heard a shriek:
There they lie, one, two, and three-
I shall dine by the wild salt sea."

Come, I will shew ye a sweeter sight,

A lonesome glen, and a new-slain knight;
His blood yet on the grass is hot,

His sword half drawn, his shafts unshot,-
And no one knows that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's away with another mate,
So we shall make our dinner sweet;
Our dinner's sure, our feasting free,
Come, and dine by the greenwood tree.

"Ye shall sit on his white hause-bane,
I will pick out his bonny blue een;
Ye'll take a tress of his yellow hair,
To theak your nest when it grows bare;
The gowden down on his young chin
Will do to rowe my young ones in.

'O, cauld and bare his bed will be,
When winter storms sing in the tree;
At his head a turf, at his feet a stone,
He will sleep, nor hear the maiden's moan;
O'er his white bones the birds shall fly,
The wild deer bound, and foxes cry.'

MAY COLVIN; OR, FALSE SIR JOHN.

This ballad was published by Motherwell, from a copy obtained from recitation, collated from another copy to be found in Herd's collection, 1776. It is sometimes called May Collean.

FALSE Sir John a-wooing came,

To a maid of beauty rare;

May Colvin was the lady's name,
Her father's only heir.

He's courted her butt, and he's courted her ben,

And he's courted her into the ha',

Till once he got this lady's consent

To mount and ride awa'.

She's gane to her father's coffers,
Where all his money lay;

And she's taken the red, and she's left the white,
And lightly she tripped away.