The Ballads and Songs of Ayrshire, Volumes 1-2

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Thomas G. Stevenson, 1846 - Ballads, Scots - 240 pages
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Page 67 - The noble earl was slain. He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree ; An arrow of a cloth-yard long Up to the head drew he...
Page 30 - John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend mee. Away, away, thou thriftless loone; Away, away, this may not bee: For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, If ever I trust thee one pennie. Then bespake the heire of Linne, To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: Madame, some almes on me bestowe, I pray for sweet Saint Charitie.
Page 37 - O lie you there, thou false Sir John, O lie you there," said she ; " For you lie not in a caulder bed Than the ane you intended for me." So she went on her father's steed, As swift as she could flee, And she came hame to her father's gates At the breaking of the day. Up then spake the pretty parrot : " May Colvin, where have you been ? What has become of false Sir John...
Page 32 - I make thee keeper of my forrest, Both of the wild deere and the tame ; For but I reward thy bounteous heart, I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame." "Now welladay!" sayth Joan o' the Scales; " Now welladay ! and woe is my life ! Yesterday I was Lady of Linne, Now I 'm but John of the Scales his wife." " Now fare thee well," sayd the heire of Linne ; " Farewell now, John o' the Scales," said hee : " Heaven's curse light on me, if ever again I bring my lands in jeopardy.
Page 29 - Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, Sorely shent was the heire of Linne ; His heart, I wis, was near to brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinno.
Page 36 - Cast off, cast off your silks so fine, And lay them on a stone, For they are o'er good and o'er costly To rot in the salt sea foam.
Page 52 - It's be wi' nae consent o' me I I ken I'll ne'er come back again, An' mony mae as weel as me. " There is not ane of a' yon men, But wha is worthy other three ; There is na ane amang them a', That in his cause will stap to die.
Page 66 - Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy," he said, " Or else I vow I'll lay thee low ! "—
Page 28 - No shimmering sunn here ever shone ; No halesome breeze here ever blew. No chair, ne table he mote spye, No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed, Nought save a rope with renning noose, That dangling hung up o'er his head.
Page 32 - the original of this ballad, [The Heir of Linne] is found in the editor's folio MS. ; the breaches and defects of which rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. These it is hoped the reader will pardon, as, indeed, the completion of the story was suggested by a modern ballad on a similar subject.

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