Marry it is thrice fifty miles, I never was on English ground, And through my ring I may descrye. 130 My mother shee was a witch ladye, She wold let me see out of Lough-leven 135 What they did in London citìe. But who is yond, thou lady faire, That looketh with sic an austerne face? Yonder is Sir John Foster,* quoth shee, Alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace. He pulled his hatt down over his browe; Those sorrowful tidings him to show. Now nay, now nay, good James Swynard, The Douglasses were ever true, And they can ne'er prove false to mee. * Warden of the Middle-march. 140 145 I have now in Lough-leven been The most part of these years three, Yett have I never had noe outrake, Ne no good games that I cold see. Therefore I'll to yond shooting wend, He ne'er shall find my promise light. He writhe a gold ring from his finger, 150 155 Sayes, It was all that I cold save, In Harley woods where I cold bee.* 160 And wilt thou goe, thou noble lord, The wind was faire, the boatmen call'd, 165 The lady fett a sigh soe deep, And in a dead swoone down she fell. Now let us goe back, Douglas, he sayd, A sickness hath taken yond faire ladie; If ought befall yond lady but good, 175 Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes; For to cheere that gay ladie. If you'll not turne yourself, my lord, And wee will return to you againe. Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes, Come on, come on, and let her bee: When they had sayled* fifty myle, When they shold that shooting see. 180 185 190 There is no navigable stream between Lough leven and the sea: but a ballad-maker is not obliged to understand geography. Faire words, quoth he, they make fooles faine, Jamye his hatt pulled over his browe, He thought his lord then was betray'd; And he is to Erle Percy againe, To tell him what the Douglas sayd. Hold upp thy head, man, quoth his lord; He did it but to prove thy heart, 195 200 To see if he cold make it quail. When they had other fifty sayld, Sayd, What wilt thou nowe doe with mee? 205 Looke that your brydle be wight, my lord, What needeth this, Douglas? he sayth; What needest thou to flyte with mee? For I was counted a horseman good Before that ever I mett with thee. 215 A false Hector hath my horse, Who dealt with mee so treacherouslie: When they had sayled other fifty miles, They landed low by Berwicke side, 6 A deputed laird' landed Lord Percye. Then he at Yorke was doomde to dye, Who ever was a gallant wight. 220 225 Ver. 224. Fol. MS. reads land, and has not the following stanza. V. MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. This excellent philosophical song appears to have been famous in the sixteenth century. It is quoted by Ben Jonson in his play of "Every Man out of his Humour," first acted in 1599, act i. sc. where an impatient person says, "I am no such pil'd cynique to believe |