The Bonnie Earl Moray

A.

Ye Highlands, and ye Lawlands
Oh where have you been?
They have slain the Earl of Murray,
And they layd him on the green.

'Now wae be to thee, Huntly!
And wherefore did you sae?
I bade you bring him wi you,
But forbade you him to slay.'

He was a braw gallant,
And he rid at the ring;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh he might have been a King!

He was a braw gallant,
And he playd at the ba;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Ballade Of The Voyage To Cythera

I know Cythera long is desolate;
I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green.
Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight
A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been,
Nor ever lover on that coast is seen!
So be it, but we seek a fabled shore,
To lull our vague desires with mystic lore,
To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile;
There let us land, there dream for evermore:
'It may be we shall touch the happy isle.'

The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate,
If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene
We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate
Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen.
Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen
That veils the fairy coast we would explore.
Come, though the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar,
Come, for the air of this old world is vile,
Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar;

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Ballade Of The Midnight Forest

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.

With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold
The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee,
Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold
Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be,
The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy;
Then 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright,
The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white,
With one long sigh for summers pass'd away;
The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Son Davie! Son Davie!

'What bluid's that on thy coat lap?
Son Davie! Son Davie!
What bluid's that on thy coat lap?
And the truth come tell to me, O.'

'It is the bluid of my great hawk,
Mother lady, Mother lady!
It is the bluid of my great hawk,
And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.'

'Hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red,
Son Davie! Son Davie!
Hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red,
And the truth come tell to me, O.'

'It is the bluid of my grey hound,
Mother lady! Mother lady!
It is the bluid of my grey hound,
And it wudna rin for me, O.'

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Three Portraits of Prince Charles

1731

BEAUTIFUL face of a child,
Lighted with laughter and glee,
Mirthful, and tender, and wild,
My heart is heavy for thee!

1744

Beautiful face of a youth,
As an eagle poised to fly forth
To the old land loyal of truth,
To the hills and the sounds of the North:
Fair face, daring and proud,
Lo! the shadow of doom, even now,
The fate of thy line, like a cloud,
Rests on the grace of thy brow!

1773

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Johnie Faa

The gypsies came to our good lord's gate
And wow but they sang sweetly!
They sang sae sweet and sae very complete
That down came the fair lady.

And she came tripping doun the stair,
And a' her maids before her;
As soon as they saw her weel-far'd face,
They coost the glamer o'er her.

'O come with me,' says Johnie Faw,
'O come with me, my dearie;
For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword,
That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.'

Then she gied them the beer and the wine,
And they gied her the ginger;
But she gied them a far better thing,
The goud ring aff her finger.

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Edward, Edward

'Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude
And why sae sad gang ye, O?'
'O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,
And I hae nae mair but he, O.'

'Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
Edward, Edward;
Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O.'
'O I hae killed my red-roan steed,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my red-roan steed,
That was sae fair and free, O.'

'Your steed was auld, and ye've plenty mair,
Edward, Edward;

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Double Ballade Of Primitive Man

He lived in a cave by the seas,
He lived upon oysters and foes,
But his list of forbidden degrees,
An extensive morality shows;
Geological evidence goes
To prove he had never a pan,
But he shaved with a shell when he chose, -
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.

He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze,
He worshipp'd the river that flows,
And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,
And bogies, and serpents, and crows;
He buried his dead with their toes
Tucked-up, an original plan,
Till their knees came right under their nose, -
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.

His communal wives, at his ease,
He would curb with occasional blows;

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poem by Andrew Lang
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The Battle Of Killie-Crankie

Clavers and his Highlandmen
Came down upo' the raw, man,
Who being stout, gave mony a clout;
The lads began to claw then.
With sword and terge into their hand,
Wi which they were nae slaw, man,
Wi mony a fearful heavy sigh,
The lads began to claw then.

O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stark,
She flang amang them a', man;
The butter-box got many knocks,
Their riggings paid for a' then.
They got their paiks, wi sudden straiks,
Which to their grief they saw, man:
Wi clinkum, clankum o'er their crowns,
The lads began to fa' then.

Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,
And flang amang them a', man;

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Sir Hugh; Or The Jew's Daughter

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.'

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poem by Andrew Lang
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