Balow, my boy, weep not for me, Whose greatest grief’s for wronging thee. Nor pity her deserved smart, Who can blame none but her fond heart; For, too soon tursting latest finds With fairest tongues are falsest minds. _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._ Balow, my boy, thy father’s fled, When he the thriftless son has played; Of vows and oaths forgetful, he Preferr’d the wars to thee and me. But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine Make him eat acorns with the swine. _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._ But curse not him; perhaps now he, Stung with remorse, is blessing thee: Perhaps at death; for who can tell Whether the judge of heaven or hell, By some proud foe has struck the blow, And laid the dear deceiver low? _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._ I wish I were into the bounds Where he lies smother’d in his wounds, Repeating, as he pants for air, My name, whom once he call’d his fair; No woman’s yet so fiercely set But she’ll forgive, though not forget. _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._ If linen lacks, for my love’s sake Then quickly to him would I make My smock, once for his body meet, And wrap him in that winding-sheet. Ah me! how happy had I been, If he had ne’er been wrapt therein. _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._ Balow, my boy, I’ll weep for thee; Too soon, alake, thou’lt weep for me: Thy griefs are growing to a sum, God grant thee patience when they come; Born to sustain thy mother’s shame, A hapless fate, a bastard’s name. _Balow_, _my boy_, _ly still and sleep_, _It grieves me sore to hear thee weep_. JOCK O THE SIDE (_Child_, Part VI., p. 479.) NOW Liddisdale has ridden a raid, But I wat they had better staid at hame; For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead, And my son Johnie is prisner tane? With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle. For Mangerton house auld Downie is 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 eie. Then up and bespake the lord Mangerton: “What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?” “Bad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton; Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son Johnie.” “Neer fear, sister Downie,” quo Mangerton; “I hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie, My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a’ weel filld, And I’ll part wi them a’ ere Johnie shall die. “Three men I’ll take to set him free, Weel harnessd a’ wi best of steel; The English rogues may hear, and drie The weight o their braid swords to feel “The Laird’s Jock ane, the Laird’s Wat twa, O Hobie Noble, thou ane maun be! Thy coat is blue, thou has been true, Since England banishd thee, to me.”