The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 4/Chapter 100

king he hath been a prisoner, A prisoner lang in Spain, O And Willie o the Winsbury Has lain lang wi his daughter at hame. O 'What aileth thee, my daughter Janet, Ye look so pale and wan? Have ye had any sore sickness, Or have ye been lying wi a man? Or is it for me, your father dear, And biding sae lang in Spain?' 'I have not had any sore sickness, Nor yet been lying wi a man; But it is for you, my father dear, In biding sae lang in Spain.' 'Cast ye off your berry-brown gown, Stand straight upon the stone, That I may ken ye by yere shape, Whether ye be a maiden or none.' She's coosten off her berry-brown gown, Stooden straight upo yon stone; Her apron was short, and her haunches were round, Her face it was pale and wan. 'Is it to a man o might, Janet? Or is it to a man of fame? Or is it to any of the rank robbers That's lately come out o Spain?' 'It is not to a man of might,' she said, 'Nor is it to a man of fame; But it is to William of Winsburry; I could lye nae langer my lane.' The king's called on his merry men all, By thirty and by three: 'Go fetch me William of Winsbury, For hanged he shall be.' But when he cam the king before, He was clad o the red silk; His hair was like to threeds o gold. And his skin was as white as milk. 'It is nae wonder,' said the king, 'That my daughter's love ye did win; Had I been a woman, as I am a man, My bedfellow ye should hae been. 'Will ye marry my daughter Janet, By the truth of thy right hand? I'll gie ye gold, I'll gie ye money, And I'll gie ye an earldom o land.' 'Yes, I'll marry yere daughter Janet, By the truth of my right hand; But I'll hae nane o yer gold, I'll hae nane o yer money, Nor I winna hae an earldom o land. 'For I hae eighteen corn-mills, Runs all in water clear, And there's as much corn in each o them As they can grind in a year.'

B.** * * ' aileth ye, my dochter Dysmill, Ye look sae pale and wan? Hae ye had ony sair sickness, Or ill luve wi a man? 'Cast aff, cast aff your bony brown goun, And lay't down on the stane, And I sall tell ye ay or no Ye hae layn wi a man.' She has taen aff her bony brown gown, She has laid it on the stane; Her waist was big, her side was round, Her fair colour was gane. 'Now is it to a man of micht, Or to a man of mean? Or is it to the ranke robber That robs upon the main?' 'O it's nor to a man of micht, Nor to a man of mean; But it's to Willie Winchberrie, That came frae France and Spain.' The king he's turnd him round about, An angry man was he: 'Gar bring to me your fals leman, Wha sall high hanged be.' Then Dysmill turnd her round about, The tear blinded her ee: 'Gin ye begin to hang, father, Ye maun begin wi mee.' When Willie he cam to the king, His coat was o the silk; His hair was like the thread o gowd, His skin white as the milk. 'Ne wonder, ne wonder,' quoth the king, 'My dochter shoud like ye; Gin ye were a woman, as ye're a man, My bedfellow ye sould be. 'Now will ye marry my dochter Dysmill, By the truth o your right hand? Now will ye marry my dochter Dysmill, And be a lord o the land?'

king has been long seven years away, Long seven years away frae hame; Our king has been long seven years away, A hunting oer in Spain. 'What aileth thee, my ae daughter, Thou lookst so pale and wan? Hast thou had any sore sickness, Or hast thou loved man?' 'I have not had any sore sickness, To make me look sae wan; But it is for your own majestie, You staid sae lang in Spain.' 'Cast aff, cast aff thy silken gown, And lay it on yon stane, And I'll tell to thee if with child you be, Or if ye be with nane.' She's casten aff her costly gown, That's made o the silk sae fine; Her stays were sae strait she could na loot, And her fair colour was wan. 'Oh is it to any mighty man? Or any lord of fame? Or is it to the rank robbers That I sent out o Spain?' 'It is no to the rank robbers That you sent out o Spain; But it is to Thomas of Winsbury, For I dought na lie my lane.' 'If it be to Lord Thomas,' he says, 'It's hanged shall he be:' 'If you hang Thomas of Winsbury, You'll get na mair gude o me.' The king's called up his merry men all, By one, by two, and three; Lord Thomas should hae been the foremost man, But the hindmost man was he. 'No wonder, no wonder,' the king he said, 'My daughter loved thee; For wert thou a woman, as thou art a man, My bedfellow thou shouldst be. 'O will you marry my daughter dear, By the faith of thy right hand? And thou shalt reign, when I am dead, The king over my whole land.' 'I will marry your daughter dear, With my heart, yea and my hand; But it never shall be that Lord Winsbury Shall rule oer fair Scotland.' He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, Himself on a dapple-grey, And made her a lady of as much land She could ride in a whole summer day.

was a lady fine and gay, She was so neat and trim; She went unto her own garden-wall, To see her own ships come in. And there she spied her daughter Jane, Who lookd so pale and wan: 'What, have you had some long sickness, Or lain with some young man?' 'No, I have had no long sickness, Nor lain with no young man:' Her petticoats they were so short, She was full nine months gone. 'Oh is it by some nobleman? Or by some man of fame? Or is it by Johnny Barbary, That's lately come from Spain?' 'No, it is by no nobleman, Nor by no man of fame; But it is by Johnny Barbary, That's lately come from Spain.' Then she calld down her merry men, By one, by two, by three; Johnny Barbary used to be the first, But now the last came he. 'Oh will you take my daughter Jane, And wed her out of hand? And you shall dine and sup with me, And be heir of my land.' 'Yes, I will take your daughter Jane, And wed her out of hand; And I will dine and sup with you, But I do not want your land.' Then she calld down her merry men, With a shrill and a pleasant voice: 'Come, let us all now mery be, Since she has made such a happy choice.'

E.** * * ' daughter, oh daughter,' her father he said, 'What makes you look so pale? . . . . . Or are you in love with any man?' . . . . . . . . . . 'But if it be one of my own sailor lads, High hanged he shall be.' Johnnie Barbour he cam doun the stair, His shirt was of the silk; His two bonnie black een were rolling in his head, And his skin was as white as milk. 'Oh are you ready to marry my daughter, And take her by the hand, And to eat and drink with me at the table, And be heir of all my land?' 'Oh it's I am ready to marry your daughter, And take her by the hand, And to eat and drink with her at the table, And to fight for all your land.'

king hath been a poor prisoner, And a poor prisoner in Spain; O When seven long years was past and gone, Our Scotish king came hame.O As he was riding along the way, He met with his dear dochter: 'What ails thee, what ails thee, my dochter dear, Thou looks so pale and wan? 'Have ye had any sore sickness, Or have ye lovd a man? Or is it for me, my dochter dear, I have been so long in Spain?' 'I have had no sore sickness, Nor yet have I loved a man; But it is for you, my father dear, Thou've been so long in Spain.' 'Cast aff, cast aff thy brown silk gown, And spread it on yonder stone, And I will tell you by and by Whether thou art a maid or none.' She's coosten off her brown silk gown, And spread it on yonder stone, And her belly was big, and her face pale and wan, And she was about half gone. 'Is it to a man o micht? Or to a man of fame? Or is it to one of the rank rebels That I sent out of Spain?' 'It is not to a man of micht, Nor to a man of fame, Nor yet to one of the rank rebels That ye sent out o Spain; But it is to Willie o Winsberry, Thy very own serving-man.' 'If it be to Willie o Winsberry, As I trew well it be, Gin the morn at ten o the clock It's hanged shall he be.' As the king was riding up the gate He met Willie clothed in scarlet red, And his hair was as yellow as the beam, beam gold, And his breast as white as milk. 'No wonder, no wonder,' quo the king, 'My dochter luvit thee; For if thou was a woman, as thou'rt a man, My bedfellow thou should be.' The king called down his merry men all, By one, by two, and by three; Sweet Willie should ha been the foremost man, But the hindmost man drew he. 'Will you take my dochter Jean, By the faith of her richt hand? And you shall sup and dine with me, And heir the third part of my land.' 'I will take your dochter Jean, By the faith of her richt hand, And I will sup and dine with you, But a fig for all your land; For I've as much land in Winsberry As we'll ride in a long summer's day.'

years the king he staid Into the land of Spain, And seven years True Thomas was His daughter's chamberlain. But it fell ance upon a day The king he did come home; She baked and she benjed ben, And did him there welcome. 'What aileth you, my daughter Janet, You look sae pale and wan? There is a dreder in your heart, Or else you love a man.' 'There is no dreder in my heart, Nor do I love a man; But it is for your lang byding Into the land of Spain.' 'Ye'll cast aff your bonny brown gown, And lay it on a stone, And I'll tell you, my jelly Janet, If ever ye lovd a man.' She's cast aff her bonny brown gown, And laid it on a stone; Her belly was big, her twa sides high, Her colour it was quite gane. 'Is it to a man o the might, Janet, Or is it till a man o the main? Or is it to one o my poor soldiers, That I brought hame frae Spain?' 'It's not till a man o the might,' she says, 'Nor yet to a man o the main; But it's to Thomas o Winsbury, That cannot longer len.' 'O where are all my wall-wight men, That I pay meat and fee, That will go for him True Thomas, And bring him in to me? For the morn, ere I eat or drink, High hanged shall he be.' She's turnd her right and round about, The tear blinded her ee: 'If ye do any ill to True Thomas, Ye'se never get gude o me.' When Thomas came before the king He glanced like the fire; His hair was like the threads o gold, His eyes like crystal clear. 'It was nae wonder, my daughter Janet, Altho ye loved this man; If he were a woman, as he is a man, My bed-fellow he would been. 'O will ye marry my daughter Janet? The truth's in your right hand; Ye's hae some o my gold, and some o my gear, And the twalt part o my land.' 'It's I will marry your daughter Janet; The truth's in my right hand; I'll hae nane o your gold, nor nane o your gear, I've enough in my own land. 'But I will marry your daughter Janet With thirty ploughs and three, And four and twenty bonny breast-mills, And a' on the water o Dee.'

fell upon a time, when the proud king of France Went a hunting for five months and more, That his dochter fell in love with Thomas of Winesberrie, From Scotland newly come oer. Whan her father cam hame frae hunting the deer, And his dochter before him cam, Her belly it was big, and her twa sides round, And her fair colour was wan. 'What ails thee, what ails thee, my dochter Janet? What makes thee to look sae wan? Ye've either been sick, and very, very sick, Or else ye hae lain wi a man.' 're welcome, ye're welcome, dear father,' she says, 'Ye're welcome hame to your ain, For I hae been sick, and very, very sick, Thinking lang for your coming hame. 'O pardon, O pardon, dear father,' she says, 'A pardon ye'll grant me:' 'Na pardon, na pardon, my dochter,' he says, 'Na pardon I'll grant thee. 'O is it to a man of micht, Or to a man of mean? Or is it to onie of thae rank robbers That I sent hame frae Spain?' 'It is not to a man of micht, Nor to a man of mean; But it is to Thomas o Winesberrie, And for him I suffer pain.' 'If it be to Thomas o' Winesberrie, As I trust well it be, Before I either eat or drink, Hie hangit sall he be.' When this bonnie boy was brought afore the king, His claithing was o the silk, His fine yellow hair hang dangling doun, And his skin was like the milk. 'Na wonder, na wonder, Lord Thomas,' he says, 'My dochter fell in love wi thee, For if I war a woman, as I am a man, My bed-fellow ye shoud be. 'Then will ye marry my dochter Janet, To be heir to a' my land? O will ye marry my dochter Janet, Wi the truth o your richt hand?' 'I will marry your dochter Janet, Wi the truth o my richt hand; I'll hae nane o your gowd, nor yet o your gear, I've eneuch in fair Scotland. 'But I will marry your dochter Janet, I care na for your land, For she's be a queen, and I a king, Whan we come to fair Scotland.'

fell upon a time that the proud king of France Went a hunting for five months and more; His daughter fell in love with Lord Winsberry, Who from Scotland was newly come oer. 'You're welcome, welcome, dear father,' she said, 'You're welcome again to your own; For I have been sick, and very, very sick, Thinking long for your coming home.' 'Put off, put off your gown of green,' he says, 'And spread it on yonder green, And tell them from me that in mourning you are, Or that he have lain with a man.' She's put off her gown of green, And spread it on the strand; Her haunches were round, and her belly was big, From her face the colour is gone. 'O is it to a man of might,' he says, 'Or is it to a man that's mean? Or is it to one of those rank rebels, That lately from Scotland came?' 'O it is to a man of might,' she says, 'It is not to one that is mean; It is to Lord Thomas of Winsberry, And for him I must suffer pain.' The king called up his merry men all, By one, by two, and by three: 'Go fetch me Lord Thomas of Winsberry, For tomorrow he shall die.' They sought him up, they sought him down, As fast as fast could be; There they found Lord Thomas of Winsberry, Sitting under an orange tree. 'Get up, get up, Lord Thomas,' they said, 'Get up, and bound your way; For the king has sworn by his honoured crown That tomorrow is thy dying-day.' 'O what have I robbd, or what have I stolen, Or what have I killed or slain, That I should be afraid to speak to your king? For I have done him no wrong.' Lord Thomas came tripping up the stair, His cloathing was of the silk; His fine yellow hair hung dangling down, His skin was white as the milk. And when he came before the king He kneeled down on his knee; Says, What is your will with me, my liege, What is your will with me? 'I think no wonder, Lord Thomas,' he says, 'That my daughter fell in love with thee; If thou wert a woman, as thou art a man, My bed-fellow thou wouldst be. 'Will ye marry my daughter Jean, By the faith of thy right hand? Thou'se have part of my gold, part of my gear, And a third part of my land.' 'Yes, I will marry thy daughter Jean, By the faith of my right hand; I'll have none of your gold, none of your gear; I have enough in fair Scotland.' He has mounted her on a milk-white steed, Himself on a dapple-grey; He's got as much land in fair Scotland As they can ride in a summer's day.