Gin anybody speer at ye For them ye took awa, Ye may tell their wives and bairnies, They’re sleepin at Harlaw. DICKIE MACPHALION (_Sharpe’s Ballad Book_, No. XIV.) I WENT to the mill, but the miller was gone, I sat me down, and cried ochone! To think on the days that are past and gone, Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain. Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo, To think on the days that are past and gone, Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain. I sold my rock, I sold my reel, And sae hae I my spinning wheel, And a’ to buy a cap of steel For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain! Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo, And a’ to buy a cap of steel For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain. A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE (_Border Minstrelsy_, vol. ii., p. 357.) THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte, _Every nighte and alle_, Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte, _And Christe receive thye saule_. When thou from hence away art paste, _Every nighte and alle_, To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste; _And Christe receive thye saule_. If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, _Every nighte and alle_, Sit thee down and put them on; _And Christe receive thye saule_. If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gavest nane, _Every nighte and alle_, The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane; _And Christe receive thye saule_. From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, _Every nighte and alle_, To Brigg o’ Dread thou comest at laste, _And Christe receive thye saule_. From Brigg o’ Dread when thou mayst passe, _Every nighte and alle_, To Purgatory fire thou comest at last, _And Christe receive thye saule_. If ever thou gavest meat or drink, _Every nighte and alle_, The fire sall never make thee shrinke; _And Christe receive thye saule_. If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane, _Every nighte and alle_, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; _And Christe receive thye saule_. This ae nighte, this ae nighte, _Every nighte and alle_, Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte, _And Christe receive thye saule_. THE LAIRD OF WARISTOUN (_Child_, vol. iii. Early Edition.) DOWN by yon garden green, Sae merrily as she gaes; She has twa weel-made feet, And she trips upon her taes. She has twa weel-made feet; Far better is her hand; She’s as jimp in the middle As ony willow wand. “Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, It’s I will make you lady Of a’ the lands you see.” * * * * * He spak a word in jest; Her answer was na good; He threw a plate at her face, Made it a’ gush out o’ blood. She wasna frae her chamber A step but barely three, When up and at her richt hand There stood Man’s Enemy.