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Betweene England and Scotland it wold breake truce,
Was driven out of his own countrie.
Alas! alas! my lord, she sayes,
Nowe mickle is their traitorie;
How that you cannot with him ryde,
To Edenborow castle † Ile carry thee.
To the Lord Hume I will thee bring,
He is well knowne a true Scots lord, And he will lose both land and life,
Ere he with thee will break his word.
Much is my woe, Lord Percy sayd,
When I thinkíe on my own countrie, When I thinke on the heavye happe1
My friends have suffered there for mee.
And sore those wars my minde distresse;
And now that I a banisht man,
Shold bring such evil happe with mee,
i. e. Lake of Leven, which hath communication with the sea.
† At that time in the hands of the opposite faction.
This rives' my heart with double woe;
If you'll give me no trust, my lord,
Nor unto mee no credence yield;
Lady, I never loved witchcraft,
If you'll not come yourselfe my lorde,
And who walkes yonder, my good lady,
Alas! he'll doe you drie and teene.'
That walkes so proudly him beside? That is Sir William Drury,+ shee sayd, A keene captàine hee is and tryde.
* The Lord Warden of the East marches.
2 hollow. > ill and injury.]
James Swynard with that lady went,
She showed him through the weme of her ring How many English lords there were Waiting for his master and him.
How many miles is itt, madàme,
I never was on English ground,
My mother shee was a witch ladye,
But who is yond, thou lady faire,
That looketh with sic an austerne2 face?
He pulled his hatt down over his browe;
Now nay, now nay, good James Swynàrd,
And they can ne'er prove false to mee.
I have now in Lough-leven been
The most part of these years three,
* Warden of the Middle-march.
an outride or expedition.]
Therefore I'll to yond shooting wend,
He ne'er shall find my promise light.
He writhe' a gold ring from his finger,
In Harley woods where I cold bee.*
And wilt thou goe, thou noble lord,
Then farewell truth and honestle; And farewell heart and farewell hand; For never more I shall thee see.
The wind was faire, the boatmen call'd,
Then he cast up a silver wand,
Says, Gentle lady, fare thee well! The lady fett a sigh soe deep,
And in a dead swoone down shee fell.
Now let us goe back, Douglas, he sayd,
Then blamed for ever I shall bee.
Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes;
i. e. Where I was. An ancient idiom.
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:
Faire words, quoth he, they make fooles faine,"
Jamye his hatt pulled over his browe,
To tell him what the Douglas sayd.
Hold upp thy head, man, quoth his lord;
When they had other fifty sayld,
Sayd, What wilt thou nowe doe with mee?
* There is no navigable stream between Lough-Leven and the sea: but a ballad-maker is not obliged to understand geography.