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" Yet natheless,” the king 'goud say,
“In prison strong gang ye! Oh, yea for yea," the king 'goud say,
“Young Waters, ye shall dee !" Syne they hae ta'en him, Young Waters,
Put fetters on his feet;
Thrown him in dungeon deep. “ Aft hae I ridden through Stirling town,
Through heavy wind and weet;
Wi' fetters on my feet.
Through heavy wind and rain ;
But thought to hae ridden't again.” They brought him to the Heiding Hill,
His horse, bot and his saddle; And they hae brought to the Heiding Hill
His young son in his cradle.
His hounds intil a leish;
His goshawk in a jess.
And mony a man him wi',
To come right speedily.
Where he sits on yon hill;
Young Waters for to kill.”
“ The like should e'er fa' me; My body e'er should bear the brand
That gars Young Waters dee!”
And cast it in the sea;
Till it comes back to me!”
The scaffold it was ready then,
And he did mount it hie;
The tears did blind their ee.
“Oh haud your tongues, my brethren dear,
And mourn nae mair for me;
For there is nane to gie.
And put it owre my ee;.
The hour that I shall dee.
Syne aff ye'll take my bloody sark,
Gie it fair Margaret Grahame;
That brought King James him hame.
And make it naewise wide;
Will ne'er stretch by her side.
And gie him nurses three;
King James will gar him dee.”
A purse o' gowd him ga’e;
And make nae mair delay.
Oh head me soon, oh head me clean,
And put me out o'pain;
Gar head me till his mind.
By him though I'm condemned to die,
I'm lieve to his ain kin;
I am his sister's son.'
“ Gin ye're my sister's son,” he said,
" It is unkenned to me.
That lives in the French country ?"
“Gin Bess, then, be your mother dear,
As I trust well she be,
Ye’se ne'er be slain by me."
But he laid by his napkin fine,
Was soft as any silk,
Was whiter than the milk:
Says,“ Strike the blow, ye headsman boy,
And that right speedily;
Was ance condemned to dee!”
The head was ta’en frae Young Waters,
And many tears for him shed !
As, raving, she lies mad.
JOCK O'THE SYDE. *
Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid,
But I wat they had better hae stayed at hame;
And Jock o' the Syde he is prisoner ta’en.
* Jock o' the Syde was a noted Border moss-trooper in the reign of Mary Queen of Scots. The site of his residence, the Syde, is pointed out on a heathy upland about two miles to the west of Newcastleton, in Liddesdale (the southern district of Roxburghshire); while Mangerton Tower, the seat of his maternal ele, is still visible, in a ruined state, on the haugh below. The fame of Jock o'the Syde as a Border reiver seems to have reached even to the court of his sovereign at Edinburgh, as Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington, in a poetical “Complaint” which
he wrote aganis the Thievis of Liddisdaill,” thus speaks of him in particular :
He is weel kenned, Johne of the Syde ;
He never tyres
Owre muir and myres,
Owre gude ane guyde. His real name was Armstrong, as was that of the Laird of Mangerton also. There is no historical certainty in the event of the ballad, though, when we consider the condition of the Border previously to the union of the crowns, there is not the least reason to doubt what is so strongly countenanced both by song and tradition. The ballad is here given directly from the Border Minstrelsy; but it was originally published in a little volume, printed at Hawick in 1784 (the Hawick Museum), having been communicated to the proprietors of that miscellany by John Elliot, Esq. For Mangerton House Lady Downie has gane;
Her coats she has kilted up to her knee;
While tears in spaits fa’ fast frae her ee.
Then up and spoke our guid auld lord :
bad news, my Lord Mangerton;
“I have yokes of owsen eighty and three;
I'll part wi' them a ere Johnnie shall dee.
Three men I'll send to set him free,
A’ harnest wi' the best o' steel;
The weight o' their braidswords to feel.
Oh, Hobbie Noble, thou ane maun be!
Since England banished thee to me.”
In Bewcastle dale was bred and born ;
They banished him ne'er to return.
“ Your horses the wrang way maun be shod;
But look like corn-caugers gaun the road.
Nor yet appear like men o'weir;
Wi’ branks and brecham on each mare."
Sae now their horses are the wrang way shod,
And Hobbie has mounted his gray sae fine;
And on they rode for the water o’ Tyne. of Reidheugh, a gentleman from whom Sir Walter Scott afterwards derived many
of the best ballads which went to the composition of his own excellent collection. The air to which the ballad is usually sung is of a slow and melancholy kind, full of high romantic notes and pathetic cadences.