That bloody knight was ta en." "Lie still, lie still, my dear Johnstone, Lie still and take a sleep; For thy enemies are past and gone, And carefully I will thee keep." But young Johnstone had a little wee sword, Hung low down by his gair, And he stabbed it in fair Annet's breast, A deep wound and a sair. "What aileth thee now, dear Johnstone? What aileth thee at me? Hast thou not got my father's gold, But and my mither's fee?" "Now live, now live, my dear Lady, Now live but half an hour, And there's no a leech in a' Scotland But what shall be in thy bower." "How can I live, how shall I live? Young Johnstone, do not you see The red, red drops o' my bonny heart's blood Rin trinkling down my knee? (_trinkling_, trickling.) "But take thy harp into thy hand, And harp out ower yon plain, And ne'er think mair on thy true love Than if she had never been." He hadna weel been out o' the stable, And on his saddle set, Till four-and-twenty broad arrows Were thrilling in his heart. JOCK O' THE SIDE |Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid, But I wot they had better stayed at hame; For Mitchell o' Winfield he is dead, And my son Johnnie is prisoner tane. With my fa ding diddle, la la low 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 spates fa fast frae her eye. (_spates_, torrents.) Then up and bespake the Lord Mangerton, "What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?" "Bad news, bad news, my Lord Mangerton' Mitchell is kill'd, and tane they hae my son Johnnie." "Ne'er fear, sister Downie," quo* Mangerton; "I hae yokes of oxen, four and twenty; My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a' weel fill'd, And I'll part wi' them a', ere Johnnie shall die. "Three men I'll take to set him free, Weel harness'd a' wi' best o' steel; The English rogues may hear, and dree 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 hast been true, Since England banish'd thee, to me." Now Hobie was an English man, In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born; But his misdeeds they were sae great, They banish'd him ne'er to return. Lord Mangerton them orders gave, "Your horses the wrang way maun a' be shod; Like gentlemen ye must not seem, But look like corn-caugers gawn ae road. (_byres_, cow-houses. _dree_, suffer. _caugers_, carriers or dealers.) "Your armour gude ye maunna show, Nor ance appear like men o' weir; As country lads be all array'd, Wi' branks and brecham on ilk mare." Sae now a' their horses are shod the wrang way, And Hobie has mounted his grey sae fine; Jock his lively bay, Wat's on his white horse behind,