The Lairde of Lonne. Ane Rychte Breiffe and Wyttie Ballande, compilit by Maister Hougge
James
Hogg
Hogg, James
J. H.
Metadata research and editing
DVPP Project Team
Fralick
Kaitlyn
University of Victoria Digital Victorian Periodical Poetry Project
Victoria, BC, Canada
In the public domain
Poem dated Mount-Benger, March 12, 1830.
Poet attribution: Edith C. Batho, Bibliography, The Ettrick Shepherd, Cambridge University Press, 1927, p. 210, and The Ettrick Shepherd, A Queer Book, William Blackwood, 1832, pp. 161-76. (KF)
Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine
27
165
571–577
There wals ane manne of muckil mychte,
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The Lairde of Lonne
.
Ane Rychte Breiffe and Wyttie Ballande, compilit by Maister Hougge
.
There wals ane manne of muckil mychte,
His naime wals Lowrie of the Lonne,
Quha helde the loudeste bragge of weir,
Of manne that evir battylle wonne.
He beatte M‘Killum lance to lance,
He beat Gilfillane of the daille
;
And at the tiltis and tourneymentis,
He downit our gallantis all and haille.
His falshown wals the fire-flaughtis glyme,
His speire the streimer of the sonne,
So that the championis stode alofe,
And quailit before the Lairde of Lonne.
Then he rade este and he rade weste,
Braiffing eche baulde upsettying manne ;
There nevir wals ane knichte so proudde,
Since this proudde warlde at first beganne.
But there livit ane mayden in the Mers,
Sho wals the flouir of fayre Scotland,
And sho hald manye landis and rentis,
And ane erildome at hir command.
But yet sho wolde not yelde to wedde,
Nor trust hir herytage to manne ;
And quhan the lordis came syching sadde,
Sho lynkit at hir quheele and spanne.
And on them passit hir mirry jokis,
Pitying their caisse rychte wofullye ;
But bade them seik ane odir sposse,
For ane marryit wyffe sho wolde not bee.
But downe came Lowrie of the Lonne,
To carrye the mayden, landis, and alle,
He knowit sho nevir colde dysclaime
Ane lover so gallant, braiffe, and talle.
His armour wals so daizzling brychte,
That eyne colde hardlye loke thereonne ;
He semit cladde in burnishit golde ;
But alle wals nevir golde that shonne.
His saddyl clothe wauffit in the wynde,
With golden tassillis coverit o’er ;
His steide he caperit lyke ane hynde,
And rerit with his brodeside before.
And quhan he rappit at Landale geite,
No porter sterne wals to be seine ;
But ane prettye May came to the yette,
And the blynke of gle wals in hir eyne.
Then the Lairde he made his horse to rere,
And the beiste he snortit awsomelye ;
“ If maydin Mariote is withynne,
Go bid hir speike ane worde with mee.
“ For I am the mychtie Lairde of Lonne,
The hero of the Scottish lande ;
And I am comit in cortesye,
To claim your winsum ladyis hande.”
And then he maide his horse to spang,
Als though he wolde not renit bee,
Quhille the graivell flewe lyke bullet shouris—
It wals ane gallante sychte to se !
The mayden squelit and keikit bye,—
“ Och, sir ! myne leddye is at her quheele,
And sho moste spynne her daylie tasque,
Else sho and I can ne’er doo wele.
“ Sho is ane pore but thryftie daime,
Quha workethe out her daylie breidde,
And hath no tyme to jaulke with ane
That cairryeth so hie ane heidde.
“ Quhan you can worke with spaidde and shole,
Or dryffe ane trade of honeste faime,
Then come and woo myne ladye deire,
Till then speide back the gaite you caime.”
Then the Lairde of Lonne, he thochte it goode,
To take this connyng May’s avyse,
For ane womyn workyng for her breidde
For him to wedde would not be wyse.
So he turnit his horsis heidde about,
Quha neither spangit nor caperit nowe,
But the plomis upon the Lairdis helmette,
They noddit dourlye ower his browe.
Then hee has gone to the Lorde of Marche,
And hee has toulde him all his taille ;
And that goode lorde hee laughit at him,
Quhile bothe his sydis were lyke to faille.
Quod hee, “ It wals the May herselle,
I know it-by her saucye saye ;
But go you back and courte her welle,
She may notte, can notte saye you naye.
“ And scho has Landale touir and toune,
Whitfielde, and Kelle, and Halsyngtonne
Her very tythe of yearly rentis
Wolde purchesse all the landis of Lonne.”
The Lairde he mountit his gallant steidde,
And staitlye on his saddyll sette,
He nevit styntit the lycht galloppe
Untille he came to the Landale yette.
He gaif his steidde untill ane manne,
And staitely strade into the halle,
Resolvit to win that ladye fayre,
And her brode landis the best of alle.
And there he stode, and there he strode,
And often sent he benne his naime ;
But all that hee could saye or doo,
They wolde not bidde him to the daime.
For the mirrye May she jinkit and jeerit,
And the oulde foteman. gyrnit amaine,
But the Lairde hee wolde not mofe one fote,
But manfullye hee did remaine.
At length May Mariote she caime downe,
Lyke ane brychte aingelle comit fro hevin,
And askit howe he daurit intrude
Into a maydenis bower at evin ?
Quod he, “ Myne deire and comelye daime,
I hidder come to maike demande
Of quhat is welle myne rychte to aske,
Youre maydene herte but and your hande.
“ For I am the hero of fayre Scotlande,
No knychte can stande before myne armis,
And welle it suittes the fayreste daime
To yielde the hero up hir charmis.”
“ If you be the hero of fair Scotlande,
Then woe to Scotlande and to mee !
There is not ane manne on all myne lande
But wald thwacke youre hyde most hertilye.
“ You haif caipperit at the tourneymentis,
And broken ane speire in ladyis sychte ;
But there is not ane knychte of nobyl blode
With gladdyautter bowis to fycht.
“ To mete our meaneste Borderer’s mychte,
The menne whose daylie worke is stryffe,
Walde let you knowe quhat fychting is,
And plie youre helis for dethe or lyffe.”
The Lairde he trampit with his footte,
Qubill all the hallis of Landale rung ;
“ Madame,” quod he, “ were you ane manne,
You sholde repente youre wyckede tongue.
“ There is myne pledge, now taike it up
Als franklye als you se it throwne,
And if you haif ane hero in fayre Scotlande,
I pledge myne lyff to bryng him downe !”
“I lift the gauntlet,” said the dame,
“ To-morrowe come to thyne dejeune,
And pass you furthe to este or weste,
Or northe or southe, als sutis thyne tune,
“ And the firste manne thou meitest with,
Give him ane challenge manfullye,
And fycht him on the very spotte,
Then come and tell the news to me.
“ If thou canst pees the first two downe,
Either on horsbacke or on footte,
I pledge myne mayden courtesye
To listen to thyne honeste suitte.
“ You lyttil knowe the Mers-mennis myclite,
Bredde unto battyllis deadlyest blee ;
There is not ane manne on all myne lande
Quha will not bryng you to-your kne.”
Then the Lairde pullit off his fedderit cappe,
And thryce he wafit it rounde his heidde,
And he utterit soche ane lordlye shoutte
Als neirlye strak that ladye deidde.
“ Hurrah !” cryit hee, “ for lucky mee !
Now let the skaithe go with the skorne ;
The fayrest May in all the Southe,
And hir braid landis, are myne the morne !
The Lairde he came to his dejeune,
And loudde he braggit of his weire ;
But soche ane bleze of wycked wytte
The herte of manne did nevir beire.
The Lairde then mountyd his gallante steidde,
And forth unto the weste rode hee,
Quhere he wals aware of ane beggir manne
Comyng slowlye slodgyng ower the le.
Then the Lairde he thochtis unto himselle,
“ This is the warke will nevir doo,
If I sholde fycht ane beggir manne,
For lyffe I’shall haif cause to rooe.
“ But yet it wals hir stricke beheste,
And myssing him I losse myne ple,
Bot to bryng downe ane leille aulde manne
Befyttis not herois courtysye.”
The beggir hee came loutchyng on,
His heidde it shoke, his steppe wals fraille,
His sholderis bendyt lyke ane bowe,
His berde wals lyke ane quhyte meris taille.
He had wallettis behynde, and wallettis before,
That waggit about him wondyr welle,
But quhat wals in his clouttit bonnette
There wals no bodye knawit but the beggir himselle.
He pullit off his bennette unto the Lairde,
And speirit ane aumousse churlishlye,
Then the Lairde gave him ane twalpennye piece
With ane aire of mycht and maijestye.
And then he turnit him rounde aboutte,
Saying, “ Tell to mee, thou beggir knaiffe,
Didst thou evir fychte in felde of blode,
Or battyll ane foemanne hande to glaiffe ?”
“ Yes, I haif fouchte in syngill fychte,
And in the fronte of battyll keinne,
And I haif stode on felde of blode,
Quhere gossyp like thee durste not be seinne.”
“ Quhat wolde you thynke, then, beggir knaiffe,
With me to trie your mettyll here ?”
“ Deil taik the hindmoste,” the beggir sayit,
“ If I had borrowit the mylleris mere.”
Then the beggir hee gotte the mylleris mere,
Als goode ane beigle als beggir colde hae,
His bryddle wals the hayre helterre,
His saddyll wals the sonke of strae.
But soche ane bordlye warriour maike
Ne’er dashyt forthe to dedis of weire ;
He semyt to wax in size and shaippe
Quhan mountit on the mylleris mere.
He had walletis behynde, and walletis before,
And walletis out ower his sholderis had hee ;
You mychte als welle perce ane packe of wole,
Als trie to perce his fayre bodye.
He keipit his pykit staffe on hie,
And nee on, and eryit “ Wellhee !”
And his walletis waifit like twentye wyngis,
That evin ane feirsome sychte wals hee ;
But the Lairdis horse colde not stande the sychte,
His very soulle did quaike for dreidde,
For he reirit and snortit lyke ane quhale,
And neirlye fellit his maister deidde.
And or the beggir rechit the grounde,
Be fortye ellis, als I herit saye,
The horse, in spytte of bytte and spurre,
Quhelit off, and fledde lyke fire awaye.
But the mylleris mere wals ane mere of breide,
And better mere nor myller behofit ;
For all the warre-steidis horryd dreidde,
Ane fleiter better yaude sho provit :
For the beggir pursuit, shoutyng “ Wellhee !”
And harde came on the battyll steidde,
Then he wanne the Lairde ane sturdye thwacke,
That dang his helmette off his heidde.
And rounde and rounde the Landale touir
They gallopit on with mychte and mayne,
Quhille May Mariote and all hir maydis
Lauchit als they nevir lauchit agayne.
And rounde and rounde the-Landale touir
The Lairde and his pursuer flewe ;
And the walletis daddit rounde and rounde,
And raisit the stoure at every hewe.
And many a hard and hevvye knolle
Felle on the rumpe of the warre steidde,
Whilom the braiffe Tees gronit and ranne,
Holdyng out his taille, and eke his heidde.
Then wolde the beggir quhele aboutte,
To meite the Lairdis horse faice to faice ;
But the horse no sooner the beggir sawe,
Than spite of dethe he turnit the chaice,
And rounde and rounde the Landale touir,
For the outter gatis were barrit amayne ;
And soche ane chaice in soche ane plaice,
Ladye shall nevir behoulde againe.
Till the Lairde, in black despaire and rage,
Flung himselle fercely fro his steidde,
Then threwe the bryddle fro his graspe,
Swearyng to bee the beggiris deidde.
But footte to footte, and hande to hande,
The beggir mette him gallantlye ;
At the first buffe the beggir gatte,
The stoure lyke ane snowe-dryfte did flee,
And it flewe intille the Lairdis two eyne,
Till feinte ane styme the Lairde colde se.
But whidder it came fro pepper pocke,
Or beggiris pouche, hee colde not telle,
But it wals als hotte and sharpe to beir,
Als asches fro the graitte of helle.
Then the beggir he lauchit ane wycked lauche,
Als the Lairde he jumpit lyke ane possessit,
And the beggir had nothyng more to doo
But to laye on als lykit him best.
Hee thwackit the Lairde, and hee daddit the Lairde,
And hee clouttit him quhille in wofull plychte.
“ You gaif me ane aumouss,” the beggir sayit,
“ So I’ll not taike thyne lyffe outrychte.
“ But betydde mee weille, betydde mee wo,
Thyne glyttering garbe shalle go with mee,
To teche thee challynge ane hombil beggir,
Quha wals not trobyling thyne nor thee.”
He tyrelit the Lairde unto the boffe,
And buskit himselle in his fynerye,
Then beltyd on his nobyl brande,
And wow but ane jollye beggir wals hee !
But he lefte the Lairde his pykit kente,
His powlderit duddis, and pockis of meille—
Och ! nevir wals wooir so harde bestedde,
Or ane hauchtye herte broughte downe so weille !
He hathe clothit himselle in the beggiris duddis,
No oder remede had hee the whylle,
But his horse wold not lette him come neirre—
No, not wythin ane half a mylle.
But quherre he fledde, or quherre he spedde,
I nevir colde lerne with all myne lore,
But hee nevir sette uppe his faice agayne,
And nevir wals seine in Scotlande more.
But wo be to that May Mariote !
Quhatis to be wonne at womanis hande !
For sho has wedded that beggir knaiffe,
And maide him lorde of alle hir lande !
For quha wals hee but the Knychte of Home,
The dreade of all the Border boundis,
Quham that connying May had warnyt weille
To watche the Lairde in alle his roundis.
And the pretendit mylleris mere
Wals the ae best beste that evir wals born ;
Oft had sho broke the English rankis,
And laid theyre leideris all forlorne.
May nevir ane braggarde bruike the glaive
That beste befyttis ane nobyll hande—
And everye lovir losse the daime
Who goes hir favour to commande !
*⁎* The hero of this legend seems to have been Sir Alexander, the tenth knight
of Home ; for, on consulting the registers of
that family, I find that he was married
to Mariote, or Marriotta, sole daughter and heiress of Landale of Landale, in the
county of Berwick.
J. H.
Mount-Benger
,
March 12, 1830
.