Ballad: Cospatrick

(Mackay.)

Cospatrick has sent o’er the faem;
Cospatrick brought his ladye hame;
And fourscore ships have come her wi’,
The ladye by the green-wood tree.

There were twal’ and twal’ wi’ baken bread,
And twal’ and twal’ wi’ gowd sae red,
And twal’ and twal’ wi’ bouted flour,
And twal’ and twal’ wi’ the paramour.

Sweet Willy was a widow’s son,
And at her stirrup he did run;
And she was clad in the finest pall,
But aye she loot the tears down fall.

“O is your saddle set awrye?
Or rides your steed for you owre high?
Or are you mourning, in your tide,
That you suld be Cospatrick’s bride?”

“I am not mourning, at this tide,
That I suld he Cospatrick’s bride;
But I am sorrowing in my mood,
That I suld leave my mother good.”

“But, gentle boy, come tell to me,
What is the custom of thy countrie?”
“The custom thereof, my dame,” he says,
“Will ill a gentle ladye please.

“Seven king’s daughters has our lord wedded,
And seven king’s daughters has our lord bedded;
But he’s cutted their breasts frae their breast-bane,
And sent them mourning hame again.

“Yet, gin you’re sure that you’re a maid,
Ye may gae safely to his bed;
But gif o’ that ye be na sure,
Then hire some damsel o’ your bour.”

The ladye’s called her bour-maiden,
That waiting was unto her train.
“Five thousand marks I’ll gie to thee,
To sleep this night with my lord for me.”

When bells were rung, and mass was sayne,
And a’ men unto bed were gane,
Cospatrick and the bonny maid,
Into ae chamber they were laid.

“Now speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed,
And speak, thou sheet, enchanted web;
And speak, my sword, that winna lie,
Is this a true maiden that lies by me?”

“It is not a maid that you hae wedded,
But it is a maid that you hae bedded;
It is a leal maiden that lies by thee,
But not the maiden that it should be.”

O wrathfully he left the bed,
And wrathfully his claes on did;
And he has ta’en him through the ha’,
And on his mother he did ca’.

“I am the most unhappy man,
That ever was in Christen land?
I courted a maiden, meik and mild,
And I hae gotten naething but a woman wi’ child.”

“O stay, my son, into this ha’,
And sport ye wi’ your merry men a’;
And I will to the secret bour,
To see how it fares wi’ your paramour.”

The carline she was stark and stare,
She aff the hinges dang the dure.
“O is your bairn to laird or loun,
Or is it to your father’s groom?”

“O hear me, mother, on my knee,
Till my sad story I tell to thee:
O we were sisters, sisters seven,
We were the fairest under heaven.

“It fell on a summer’s afternoon,
When a’ our toilsome work was done,
We coost the kevils us amang,
To see which suld to the green-wood gang.

“Ohon! alas, for I was youngest,
And aye my weird it was the strongest!
The kevil it on me did fa’,
Whilk was the cause of a’ my woe.

“For to the green-wood I maun gae,
To pu’ the red rose and the slae;
To pu’ the red rose and the thyme,
To deck my mother’s bour and mine.

“I hadna pu’d a flower but ane,
When by there came a gallant hinde,
Wi’ high colled hose and laigh colled shoon,
And he seemed to be some king’s son.

“And be I maid, or be I nae,
He kept me there till the close o’ day;
And be I maid, or be I nane,
He kept me there till the day was done.

“He gae me a lock o’ his yellow hair,
And bade me keep it ever mair;
He gae me a carknet o’ bonny beads,
And bade me keep it against my needs.

“He gae to me a gay gold ring,
And bade me keep it abune a’ thing.”
“What did ye wi’ the tokens rare,
That ye gat frae that gallant there?”

“O bring that coffer unto me,
And a’ the tokens ye sall see.”
“Now stay, daughter, your bour within,
While I gae parley wi’ my son.”

O she has ta’en her thro’ the ha’,
And on her son began to ca’:
“What did ye wi’ the bonny beads,
I bade ye keep against your needs?

“What did you wi’ the gay gold ring,
I bade you keep abune a’ thing?”
“I gae them to a ladye gay,
I met in green-wood on a day.

“But I wad gie a’ my halls and tours,
I had that ladye within my bours,
But I wad gie my very life,
I had that ladye to my wife.”

“Now keep, my son, your ha’s and tours;
Ye have that bright burd in your bours;
And keep, my son, your very life;
Ye have that ladye to your wife.”

Now, or a month was come and gane,
The ladye bore a bonny son;
And ’twas written on his breast-bane,
“Cospatrick is my father’s name.”