A Collection of Ballads. Andrew Lang

      (Child, Part II., p. 317.)

      True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;

       A ferlie he spied wi’ his ee;

       And there he saw a lady bright,

       Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

      Her skirt was o the grass-green silk,

       Her mantle o the velvet fyne,

       At ilka tett of her horse’s mane

       Hang fifty siller bells and nine.

      True Thomas he pulld aff his cap,

       And louted low down to his knee:

       “All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!

       For thy peer on earth I never did see.”

      “O no, O no, Thomas,” she said,

       “That name does not belang to me;

       I am but the queen of fair Elfland,

       That am hither come to visit thee.

      “Harp and carp, Thomas,” she said,

       “Harp and carp, along wi’ me,

       And if ye dare to kiss my lips,

       Sure of your bodie I will be!”

      “Betide me weal, betide me woe,

       That weird sall never daunton me;

       Syne he has kissed her rosy lips,

       All underneath the Eildon Tree.

      “Now, ye maun go wi me,” she said,

       “True Thomas, ye maun go wi me,

       And ye maun serve me seven years,

       Thro weal or woe as may chance to be.”

      She mounted on her milk-white steed,

       She’s taen True Thomas up behind,

       And aye wheneer her bride rung,

       The steed flew swifter than the wind.

      O they rade on, and farther on—

       The steed gaed swifter than the wind—

       Until they reached a desart wide,

       And living land was left behind.

      “Light down, light down, now, True Thomas,

       And lean your head upon my knee;

       Abide and rest a little space,

       And I will shew you ferlies three.

      “O see ye not yon narrow road,

       So thick beset with thorns and briers?

       That is the path of righteousness,

       Tho after it but few enquires.

      “And see ye not that braid braid road,

       That lies across that lily leven?

       That is the path of wickedness,

       Tho some call it the road to heaven.

      “And see not ye that bonny road,

       That winds about the fernie brae?

       That is the road to fair Elfland,

       Where thou and I this night maun gae.

      “But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,

       Whatever ye may hear or see,

       For, if you speak word in Elflyn land,

       Ye’ll neer get back to your ain countrie.”

      O they rade on, and farther on,

       And they waded thro rivers aboon the knee,

       And they saw neither sun nor moon,

       But they heard the roaring of the sea.

      It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light,

       And they waded thro red blude to the knee;

       For a’ the blude that’s shed an earth

       Rins thro the springs o that countrie.

      Syne they came on to a garden green,

       And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:

       “Take this for thy wages, True Thomas,

       It will give the tongue that can never lie.”

      “My tongue is mine ain,” True Thomas said,

       “A gudely gift ye wad gie me!

       I neither dought to buy nor sell,

       At fair or tryst where I may be.

      “I dought neither speak to prince or peer,

       Nor ask of grace from fair ladye:”

       “Now hold thy peace,” the lady said,

       “For as I say, so must it be.”

      He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,

       And a pair of shoes of velvet green,

       And till seven years were gane and past

       True Thomas on earth was never seen.

“SIR HUGH; OR THE JEW’S DAUGHTER”

       Table of Contents

      (Child, vol. v.)

      Four-and-twenty bonny boys

       Were playing at the ba,

       And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,

       And he playd o’er them a’.

      He kickd the ba with his right foot

       And catchd it wi his knee,

       And throuch-and-thro the Jew’s window

       He gard the bonny ba flee.

      He’s doen him to the Jew’s castell

       And walkd it round about;

       And there he saw the Jew’s daughter,

       At the window looking out.

      “Throw down the ba, ye Jew’s daughter,

       Throw down the ba to me!”

       “Never a bit,” says the Jew’s daughter,

       “Till up to me come ye.”

      “How will I come up? How can I come up?

       How can I come to thee?

       For as ye did to my auld father,

       The same ye’ll do to me.”

      She’s gane till her father’s garden,

       And pu’d an apple red and green;

       ’Twas a’ to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,

       And to entice him in.

      She’s led him in through ae dark door,

       And sae has she thro nine;

       She’s laid him on a dressing-table,

       And stickit him like a swine.

      And first came out the thick, thick blood,

       And syne came out the thin;

       And syne came out the bonny heart’s blood;

       There was nae mair within.

      She’s rowd him in a cake o lead,

       Bade him lie still and sleep;

       She’s thrown him in Our Lady’s draw-well,

       Was fifty fathom deep.

      When