A mother’s curse upon her son, who is riding to fetch his bride, results in his breaking his neck, in a Bohemian ballad already spoken of under ‘Clerk Colvil,’ No 42; see #I#, 368 (where a translation by Wenzig, Slawische Volkslieder, p. 47, might have been noted). A mother refuses to give her daughter in marriage because the girl is under age; the daughter is forcibly carried off; the mother wishes that she may not live a year, which comes to pass: ‘Der Mutter Fluch,’ Meinert, p. 246. #B# is translated by Grundtvig, Engelske og skotshe Folkeviser, p. 64, No 10, and (with use of #C#), by Wolff, Halle der Völker, I, 26, Hausschatz, p. 203; Aytoun’s ballad (with use of #C#) by Rosa Warrens, Schottische Volkslieder, p. 152, No 35; Allingham’s ballad by Knortz, L. u. R. Alt-Englands, p. 123. * * * * * A Skene MS., p. 50; taken down from recitation in the north of Scotland, 1802–3. 1 ‘Ye gie corn unto my horse, An meat unto my man, For I will gae to my true-love’s gates This night, gin that I can.’ 2 ‘O stay at hame this ae night, Willie, This ae bare night wi me; The best bed in a’ my house Sall be well made to thee.’ 3 ‘I carena for your beds, mither, I carena ae pin, For I’ll gae to my love’s gates This night, gin I can win.’ 4 ‘O stay, my son Willie, this night, This ae night wi me; The best hen in a’ my roost Sall be well made ready for thee.’ 5 ‘I carena for your hens, mither, I carena ae pin; I sall gae to my love’s gates This night, gin I can win.’ 6 ‘Gin ye winna stay, my son Willie, This ae bare night wi me, Gin Clyde’s water be deep and fu o flood, My malisen drown ye!’ 7 He rode up yon high hill, An down yon dowie glen; The roaring of Clyde’s water Wad hae fleyt ten thousand men. 8 ‘O spare me, Clyde’s water, O spare me as I gae! Mak me your wrack as I come back, But spare me as I gae!’ 9 He rade in, and farther in, Till he came to the chin; And he rade in, and farther in, Till he came to dry lan. 10 An whan he came to his love’s gates, He tirled at the pin: ‘Open your gates, Meggie, Open your gates to me, For my beets are fu o Clyde’s water, And the rain rains oure my chin.’ 11 ‘I hae nae lovers therout,’ she says, ‘I hae nae love within; My true-love is in my arms twa, An nane will I lat in.’ 12 ‘Open your gates, Meggie, this ae night, Open your gates to me; For Clyde’s water is fu o flood, An my mither’s malison’ll drown me.’ 13 ‘Ane o my chamers is fu o corn,’ she says, ‘An ane is fu o hay; Anither is fa o gentlemen, An they winna move till day.’ 14 Out waked her May Meggie, Out o her drousy dream: ‘I dreamed a dream sin the yestreen, God read a’ dreams to guid! That my true-love Willie Was staring at my bed-feet.’