And sore those wars my minde distresse; Where many a widow lost her mate, 90 And many a child was fatherlesse. And now that I a banisht man, Shold bring such evil happe with mee, To cause my faire and noble friends 95 This rives my heart with double woe; Than thinke a Douglas can be false, If you'll give me no trust, my lord, Nor unto mee no credence yield; Yet step one moment here aside, Ile showe you all your foes in field. Lady, I never loved witchcraft, Never dealt in privy wyle; 100 105 But evermore held the high-waye Of truth and honours, free from guile. If you'll not come yourselfe, my lorde, Yet send your chamberlaine with mee; Let me but speak three words with him, And he shall come again to thee. James Swynard with that lady went, 110 She showed him through the weme of her ring How many English lords there were Waiting for his master and him. And who walkes yonder, my good lady, * So royallyè on yonder greene? And who beth yonder, thou gay ladye, How many miles is itt, madàme, Betwixt yond English lords and mee? Marry it is thrice fifty miles, To saile to them upon the sea. 115 120 125 I never was on English ground, Ne never sawe it with mine eye, But as my book it sheweth mee, And through my ring I may descrye. 130 My mother shee was a witch ladye, 135 What they did in London citìe. But who is yond, thou lady faire, That looketh with sic an austerne face? Yonder is Sir John Foster,* quoth shee, Alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace. He pulled his hatt down over his browe, Those sorrowful tidings him to show. 140 Now nay, now nay, good James Swynàrd, 145 The Douglasses were ever true, And they can ne'er prove false to mee. I have now in Lough-leven been The most part of these years three, 150 Warden of the middle March. Yett have I never had noe outrake, Ne no good games that I cold see. Therefore I'll to yond shooting wend, He ne'er shall find my promise light. He writhe a gold ring from his finger, 155 Sayes, It was all that I cold save, In Harley woods where I cold bee.* 160 And wilt thou goe, thou noble lord, The wind was faire, the boatmen call'd, 165 Then William Douglas took to his boat, Now let us goe back, Douglas, he sayd, A sickness hath taken yond faire ladìe : If ought befall yond lady but good, 175 Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes; If you'll not turne yourself, my lord, And wee will return to you againe. 180 Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes, A thousand such as you and mee. When they had sayled * fifty myle, Now fifty mile upon the sea; When they shold that shooting see. 185 190 Faire words, quoth he, they make fooles faine, * There is no navigable stream between Lough-leven and the sea but a ballad-maker is not obliged to understand geography. |