As he lighted at the wall, 105 "O'er Branxholm tower, ere the morning hour, Says-"Where did ye stable my stalwart 66 When the lift is like lead sae blue, And bloody set the westering son, He turned away his eyes as the lid did rise, And he listened silentlie; O'er heathy edge, through rustling sedge, 85 Now rose with Branxholm's ae brother 125 He sped till day was set; And he thought it was his merry men true, The Teviot, high and low; Bauld Walter by name, of meikle fame, For none could bend his bow. With clenched fist, he knocked on the chest, They carried him to the good greenwood When Soulis thought on his merry-men now, A woful wight was Says "Vengeance is mine, and I will not "Ay, many may come, but few return:" Quo' Soulis, the lord of gramarye; "No warrior's hand in fair Scotland Shall ever dint a wound on me!"— -- 200 205 "Now, by my sooth," quo' bold Walter, "If that be true we soon shall see."His bent bow he drew, and his arrow was true, But never a wound or scar had he. 210 They buried it deep, where his bones they They roll'd him up in a sheet of lead, sleep, That mortal man might never it see; But Thomas did save it from the grave When he returned from Faërie. 234 The black spae-book from his breast he took, And turned the leaves with curious hand; No ropes, did he find, the wizard could bind, But threefold ropes of sifted sand. They sifted the sand from the Nine-stane burn, And shaped the ropes sae curiouslie; 240 But the ropes would neither twist nor twine For Thomas true and his gramarye. The black spae-book from his breast he took, And again he turn'd it with his hand A sheet of lead for a funeral pall; They plunged him in the cauldron red, 265 And melted him, lead, bones, and all. "The tradition concerning the death of Lord Soulis," writes Sir Walter Scott," is not without a parallel in the real history of Scotland." Mellville, of Glenbure, Sheriff of the Mearns, was detested by the barons of his country. Reiterated complaints of his conduct having been made to James I., the monarch answered, in a moment of unguarded impatience, "Sorrow gin the sheriff were sodden, and supped in broo!" The words were construed literally, The barons prepared a fire and a boiling cauldron, intc which they plunged the unlucky sheriff. The Frere and the Boye: A Mery Geste. THIS well-known tale is furnished, in its present dress, by a copy in the public library of the University of Cambridge, "Enprynted at London in Flete strete at the sygne of the sonne by Wynkyn de Worde;" compared with a later edition in the Bodleian library, "Imprinted at London at the long shop adionyning vnto Saint Mildreds Church in the Pultrie by Edward Alde;" both in quarto and black-letter, and of singular rarity, no duplicate of either being known to exist.* There is, indeed, a very old, though at the same time a most vulgar and corrupted copy extant in the first of those libraries (MSS. More, Ee. 4, 35), under the title of "The Cheylde and his step-dame," of which, besides that almost every line exhibits a various reading, the concluding stanzas are entirely different, and have, on that account, been thought worth preserving. But the most ancient copy of all would probably have been one in the Cotton library, if the volume which contained it had not unfortunately perished, with many things of greater importance, in the dreadful fire which happened in that noble repository, anno 1731. Vide Smith's Catalogue, Vitellius D. XII. From the mention made in verse 429 of the city of "Orlyaunce," and the character of the "Offycyal," it may be conjectured that this poem is of French extraction; and, indeed, it is not at all improbable that the original is extant in some collection of old Fabliaux. A punishment similar to that of the good wife in this story, appears to have been inflicted on the widow of a St. Gengulph, for presuming to question the reality of her husband's miracles. See Heywood's History of Women, p. 196. GOD that dyed for vs all, And dranke both eysell and gall Brynge vs out of bale, And gyue them good lyfe and longe Or tendeth to my tale. 5 *There was once a copy of one or other of the above editions, or some different impression, with divers other curious pieces, in the printed library of Anthony à Wood (No. 66); but the article, with others of the like nature, appears to have been clandestinely taken out. There dwelled an husbonde in my countre By the fyrst wyfe a sone he had, His fader loued hym weel, All she thought was lost, by the rode, And yet y wys it was but badde, 15 20 The good wyfe to her husbonde gan saye, I wolde some other man hym had, 30 35 He shall come home, so god me shelde, 40 For that me thynketh moost nedy. To the felde full redy; Of no man he had no care, 45 But sung, hey howe, awaye the mare,* 50 Forth he wente, truly to sayne, *This seems to have been the beginning or title of some old ballad. Maystress Tyll of Brentford takes notice of it in her "Testament," 4to. b. 1. "Ah syrra, mary a way the mare." |