Читать книгу English and Scottish Ballads (Vol. 1-8) - Various Authors - Страница 133

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As already remarked, is often made the sequel to other ballads. (See Clerk Saunders, p. 45.) It was first printed in the fourth volume of Ramsay's Tea Table Miscellany, with some imperfections, and with two spurious stanzas for a conclusion. We subjoin to Ramsay's copy the admirable version obtained by Motherwell from recitation, and still another variation furnished by Kinloch.

Closely similar in many respects are the Danish Fæstemanden i Graven (Aage og Else), Grundtvig, No. 90, and the Swedish Sorgens Magt, Svenska F. V., i. 29, ii. 204, or Arwidsson, ii. 103. Also Der Todte Freier, Erk's Liederhort, 24, 24 a. In the Danish and Swedish ballads it is the uncontrolled grief of his mistress that calls the lover from his grave: in the English, the desire to be freed from his troth-plight.—See vol. i. p. 213, 217.

There came a ghost to Margaret's door,

With many a grievous groan,

And ay he tirled at the pin,

But answer made she none.

"Is that my father Philip,

Or is't my brother John?

Or is't my true love Willy,

From Scotland new come home?"

"Tis not thy father Philip,

Nor yet thy brother John;10

But 'tis thy true love Willy,

From Scotland new come home.

"O sweet Margaret! O dear Margaret!

I pray thee speak to mee:

Give me my faith and troth, Margaret,15

As I gave it to thee."

"Thy faith and troth thou's never get,

Nor yet will I thee lend,

Till that thou come within my bower,

And kiss my cheek and chin."20

"If I should come within thy bower,

I am no earthly man:

And should I kiss thy rosy lips,

Thy days will not be lang.

"O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret,25

I pray thee speak to mee:

Give me my faith and troth, Margaret,

As I gave it to thee."

"Thy faith and troth thou's never get,

Nor yet will I thee lend,30

Till you take me to yon kirk-yard,

And wed me with a ring."

"My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard,

Afar beyond the sea,

And it is but my spirit, Margaret,35

That's now speaking to thee."

She stretched out her lily-white hand,

And for to do her best;

"Hae there your faith and troth, Willy, God send your soul good rest."40

Now she has kilted her robes of green

A piece below her knee,

And a' the live-lang winter night

The dead corps followed she.

"Is there any room at your head, Willy,45

Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your side, Willy,

Wherein that I may creep?"

"There's no room at my head, Margaret,

There's no room at my feet;50

There's no room at my side, Margaret,

My coffin's made so meet."

Then up and crew the red red cock,

And up then crew the gray:

"Tis time, tis time, my dear Margaret,55

That you were going away."

No more the ghost to Margaret said,

But, with a grievous groan,

Evanish'd in a cloud of mist,

And left her all alone.60

"O stay, my only true love, stay,"

The constant Margaret cried:

Wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een,

Stretch'd her soft limbs, and died.

39. ther's.