At ilka tait o' his horse's mane
There hang a siller bell;

The wind was loud, the steed was proud,
And they gied a sindry knell.

Out then spoke a wily lord,

Unto the queen said he,

"Oh tell me wha's the fairest face
Rides in the company?"

"I've seen lairds, and I've seen lords,
And knights o' a high degree,
But a fairer face than Young Waters
Mine eyes did never see."

The king turned right and round about,
And an angry man was he:
"And if he had been twice as fair,

Ye might hae excepted me."

"You're neither laird nor lord," she says, "But the king that wears the crown; There's no a lord in fair Scotland,

But to thee maun bow down."

But a' that she could do or say,
Appeased he wadna be;

But for the words that she had said
Young Waters he maun dee.

"Likewise, for your ill-waled words,
Ye shall hae cause to mourn;
But for the bairn that ye are wi'
Ye on a hill should burn."

Young Waters came before the king,
Fell low down on his knee.
"Win up, win up, Young Waters!
What's this I hear o' thee?"

"What ails the king at me?" he said;
"What ails the king at me?"
"It is told me the day, Sir Knight,
Ye've done me treasonie."

"Liars will lee on fell guid men,

Sae will they do on me:

I wadna wish to be the man

That liars on wadna lee.”

"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;

They hae ta'en Young Waters, and
Thrown him in dungeon deep.

"Aft hae I ridden through Stirling town,
Through heavy wind and weet;
But ne'er rode I through Stirling town
Wi' fetters on my feet.

Aft hae I ridden through Stirling town,
Through heavy wind and rain;
But I ne'er rode through Stirling town,
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.

And they hae brought to the Heiding Hill
His hounds intil a leish;

And they brought to the Heiding Hill
His goshawk in a jess.

King James he then rode

up

And mony a man him wi', And called on his trusty page To come right speedily.

the hill,

"Ye'll go ye to the Earl o' Mar,
Where he sits on yon hill;

Bid him loose the brand frae his body,
Young Waters for to kill."

"Oh, Gude forbid," the earl said,
"The like should e'er fa' me;
My body e'er should bear the brand
That gars Young Waters dee!"

Then he has loosed his trusty brand,
And cast it in the sea;

Says, "Never let them get a brand
Till it comes back to me!"

59

The scaffold it was ready then,
And he did mount it hie;
And a' the folk that lookit on,
The tears did blind their ee.

"Oh haud your tongues, my brethren dear,
And mourn nae mair for me;
Ye're seeking grace frae a graceless face,
For there is nane to gie.

Ye'll take a bit o' canvas claith,

And put it owre my ee;

And, Jack, my man, ye'll be at hand
The hour that I shall dee.

Syne aff ye'll take my bloody sark,
Gie it fair Margaret Grahame;
For she may curse the dolefu' day
That brought King James him hame.

Ye'll bid her make her bed narrow,
And make it naewise wide;

For a brawer man than Young Waters
Will ne'er stretch by her side.

Bid her do weel to my young son,
And gie him nurses three;
Though, gin he live to be a man,
King James will gar him dee."

He ca'd upon the headsman then;
A purse o' gowd him ga'e;
Says, "Do your office, headsman boy,
And make nae mair delay.

Oh head me soon, oh head me clean,
And put me out o' pain;

For it is by the king's command—
Gar head me till his mind.

By him though I'm condemned to die,
I'm lieve to his ain kin;

And, for the truth I'll plainly tell,
I am his sister's son."

"Gin ye're my sister's son," he said,
"It is unkenned to me."

"Oh mindna ye your sister Bess,

That lives in the French country?"

"Gin Bess, then, be your mother dear,
As I trust well she be,

Gae hame, gae hame, Young Waters,
Ye'se ne'er be slain by me."

But he laid by his napkin fine,
Was soft as any silk,

And on the block he laid his neck,

Was whiter than the milk:

Says, "Strike the blow, ye headsman boy,
And that right speedily;

It's never be said, here gaes a knight
Was ance condemned to dee!"

The head was ta'en frae Young Waters,
And many tears for him shed!
But mair did mourn fair Margaret,
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;
For Michael o' Wingfield he is dead,

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 uncle, 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;
A greater thief did never ryde;

He never tyres
For to break byres;
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;
And down the water wi' speed she rins,
While tears in spaits fa' fast frae her ee.

Then up and spoke our guid auld lord:

"What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?"
"Bad news, bad news, my Lord Mangerton;
Michael is killed, and they hae ta'en my son Johnnie."

"Ne'er fear, sister Downie," quo' Mangerton;
"I have yokes of owsen eighty and three;
My barns, my byres, and my faulds a' weel filled;
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 English loons may hear, and dree
The weight o' their braidswords to feel.

The Laird's Jock ane, the Laird's Wat twa;
Oh, Hobbie Noble, thou ane maun be!
Thy coat is blue; thou hast been true
Since England banished thee to me."

Now Hobbie was an Englishman,

In Bewcastle dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were so great,
They banished him ne'er to return.

Lord Mangerton then orders gave:

"Your horses the wrang way maun be shod; Like gentlemen ye maunna seem,

But look like corn-caugers gaun the road.

Your armour guid ye maunna show,
Nor yet appear like men o' weir;

As country lads be a' arrayed,

Wi' branks and brecham on each mare."

Sae now their horses are the wrang way shod,
And Hobbie has mounted his gray sae fine;
Jock his lively bay, Wat's on his white horse behind,
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 ca

dences.