Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (1863–1944). The Oxford Book of Ballads. 1910.
8888. Katharine Johnstone
T
Lived high up in yon glen;
Her name was Katharine Johnstone
She was courted by mony men.
Doun cam’ the Laird o’ Lamington
Out frae the North Countrie,
All for to court this pretty may,
Her bridegroom for to be.
He tell’d na her father, he tell’d na her mither,
He tell’d na ane o’ her kin,
But he tell’d the bonnie lass hersel’
An’ her consent did win.
But up then cam’ Lord Faughanwood
Out frae the English Border,
And for to court this pretty may,
A’ mounted in good order.
He ’s tell’d her father, he’s tell’d her mither,
And a’ the lave o’ her kin;
But he ’s tell’d na the bonny lass hersel’
Till on her weddin’-e’en.
She’s sent unto her first fere love,
Gin he would come to see,
And Lamington has sent back word
Weel answer’d should she be.
Then he has sent a messenger
Right quietly thro’ the land,
For four-and-twenty arméd men
To ride at his command.
The bridegroom from a high window
Beheld baith dale and down,
And there he spied her first fere love
Cam’ riding to the toun.
She scofféd and she scornéd him
Upon her weddin’-day,
And said it was the Fairy Court
He saw in sic array!
When a’ were at the dinner set,
Drinking the blude-red wine,
In cam’ the Laird o’ Lamington
The bridegroom ’should hae been.
‘O come ye here to fight, young lord?
Or come ye here to play?
Or come ye here to drink good wine
Upon the weddin’-day?’—
‘I come na here to fight,’ he said
‘I come na here to play;
I’ll but lead a dance wi’ the bonny bride,
And mount and go my way.’
There was a glass of the blude-red wine
Was fill’d them up between,
But aye she drank to Lamington,
Wha her true love had been.
He’s ta’en her by the milk-white hand,
And by the grass-green sleeve;
He’s mounted her high behind himsel’,
At her kin he’s spier’d nae leave.
There were four-and-twenty bonny boys
A’ clad in the Johnstone grey,
They swore they would tak’ the bride again
By the strong hand, if they may.
It’s up, it’s up the Cowden bank,
It’s down the Cowden brae;
The bride she gar’d the trumpet sound
‘It is a weel-won play!’
The blude ran down by Cowden bank
And down by Cowden brae,
But aye she gar’d the trumpet sound
‘It’s a’ fair play!’
‘My blessing on your heart, sweet thing!
Wae to your wilfu’ will!
Sae mony a gallant gentleman’s blood
This day as ye’ve gar’d spill.’
But a’ you lords of fair England,
If you be English born,
Come never to Scotland to seek a wife
Or else ye’ll get the scorn.
They’ll haik ye up, and settle ye by,
Until your weddin’-day;
Then gie ye frogs instead o’ fish,
And do ye foul, foul play.
weel-far’d] well-favoured.lave] rest.fere] mate.spier’d] asked.