‘Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet?
And why breaks thou my wand?
Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh
Withouten my command?’
‘Carterhaugh it is my ain,
My daddie gave it me.
I’ll come and gang at Carterhaugh
And ask nae leave of thee.’
Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has snooded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she is to her father’s ha’
As fast as she can hie.
Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the ba’,
When out came the fair Janet,
Aince the flower amang them a’.
Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the chess,
And out then came the fair Janet,
As green as ony grass.
Out then spak an auld grey knight,
Lent o’er the castle wa’,
And says, ‘Alas, fair Janet for thee,
But we’ll be blamèd a’!’
‘Haud your tongue, ye auld-faced knight,
Some ill death may ye die!
Father my bairn on whom I will,
I’ll father nane on thee.’
Out then spak her father dear,
And he spak meek and mild:
‘And ever alas, sweet Janet!’ he says,
‘I think thou gaes wi’ child.’
‘If that I gae wi’ child, father,
Myself maun bear the blame.
There’s ne’er a laird aboot your ha’
Shall give my bairn his name.
‘If my love were an earthly knight,
As he’s an elfin grey,
I wadna gie my ain true-love
For nae lord that ye hae.
‘The steed that my true-love rides on
Is lighter than the wind.
Wi’ siller he is shod before,
Wi’ burning gowd behind.’
Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has snooded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she’s awa’ to Carterhaugh
As fast as she can hie.
When she came to Carterhaugh
Tam Lin was at the well,
And there she fand his steed standing,
But away was himsel’.
She hadna pu’d a double rose,
A rose but only twa,
Till up then started young Tam Lin,
Saying, ‘Lady, don’t pu’ them a’.
‘Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet,
Amang the groves sae green,
And a’ to kill the bonnie babe
That we gat us between?’
‘O tell me, tell me, Tam Lin,’ she says,
‘For His sake that died on tree,
If e’er ye was in holy chapel
Or Christendom did see?’
‘Roxburgh was my grandfather,
Took me with him to bide,
And aince it fell upon a day
That wae did me betide.
‘And aince it fell upon a day,
A cauld day and a snell,
When we were frae the hunting come,
That frae my horse I fell.
The Queen o the Fairies she caught me
In yon green hill to dwell.
‘And pleasant is the fairy land,
But an eerie tale to tell –
Aye, at the end o seven years
We pay a tiend to hell.
I’m feared, being fair and fu’ of flesh,
The tiend may be mysel’.
‘But the night is Halloween, lady,
The morn is Hallowday.
Then win me, win me, if you will,
For weel I ken ye may.
‘Just at the mirk and midnight hour,
The fairy folk will ride.
And they that wad their true-love win
At Miles Cross they maun bide.’
‘But how shall I ken thee, Tam Lin,
Or how my true-love know,
Amang sae mony unco knights,
The like I never saw?’
‘O first let pass the black, lady,
And syne let pass the brown,
But quickly run to the milk-white steed
And pu’ his rider down.
‘For I’ll ride on the milk-white steed
And ay nearest the town,
Because I was an earthly knight
They gie me that renoun.
‘My right hand will be gloved, lady,
My left hand will be bare,
Cocked up shall my bonnet be
And kaim’d down shall my hair,
And thae’s the tokens I gie to thee,
Without doubt I’ll be there.
‘They’ll turn me in your arms, lady,
Into an esk and adder;
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
I am your bairn’s father.
‘They’ll turn me into a bear sae grim,
And then a lion bold;
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
As ye shall love your child.
‘Again they’ll turn me in your arms
To a red-het gaud of airn;
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
and I’ll do you nae harm.
‘At last they’ll turn me in your arms
Into the burning lead.
Then throw me into well water,
O throw me in wi’ speed!
‘And then I’ll be your ain true love,
I’ll turn a naked knight,
Then cover me wi’ your green mantle,
And cover me out o sight.’
Gloomy, gloomy was the night,
And eerie was the way,
As fair Janet in her green mantle
To Miles Cross she did gae.
About the middle o the night
She heard the bridles ring.
This lady was as glad at that
As any earthly thing.
First she let the black pass by,
And syne she let the brown;
But quickly she ran to the milk-white steed
And pu’d the rider down.
Sae weel she minded what he’d said,
And young Tam Lin did win,
Syne covered him wi’ her green mantle,
As blythe’s a bird in spring.
Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,
Out of a bush o broom:
‘Them that’s gotten the young Tam Lin
Has gotten a stately groom.’
Out then spak the Queen o Fairies
And an angry queen was she:
‘Shame betide her ill-fared face,
And an ill death may she dee!
For she’s taen awa the bonniest knight
In a’ my companie.
‘But had I kend, Tam Lin,’ she says,
‘What now this night I see,
I wad hae taen out thy twa grey een
And put in twa een o tree.’
THOMAS THE RHYMER
Anon.
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank,
A ferlie he spied wi his ee;
And there he saw a lady bright,
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o the velvet fine;
At ilka tett o her horse’s mane
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas, he pull’d aff his cap
And lowted low down to his knee,
‘All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven,
For thy peer on earth I never did see!’
‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said,
‘That name does not belang to me,
I am but the Queen of fair Elfland,
That am hither co
me to visit thee.
‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said,
‘Harp and carp along wi me;
And if you dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your body I will be.’
‘Betide me weel, betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunton me.’
Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
‘Now ye maun go wi me,’ she said,
‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi me.
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro’ weel or woe as may chance to be.’
She’s mounted on her milk-white steed,
She’s taen True Thomas up behind.
And aye whene’er her bridle rung,
The steed flew swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind,
Until they reach’d a desert wide
And living land was left behind.
‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide and rest a little space
And I will show you ferlies three.
‘O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briars?
That is the path of righteousness,
Though after it but few enquires.
‘And see ye not that braid, braid road
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the path of wickedness,
Though some call it the road to Heaven.
‘And see ye not that bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland
Where thou and I this night maun gae.
‘But Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,
Whatever you may hear or see.
If you speak word in Elflyn land
Ye’ll ne’er get back to your ain countrie.’
O they rade on, and farther on,
And waded through rivers aboon the knee;
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night; there was
nae stern light,
And they waded thro’ red blude to the knee.
For a’ the blude that’s shed on earth
Rins thro’ the springs o that countrie.
Syne they came to a garden green,
And she pu’d an apple frae a tree –
‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;
It will give thee the tongue that can never lie.’
‘My tongue’s mine ain,’ true Thomas said,
‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!
I neither dought to buy nor sell
At fair or tryst where I may be.
‘I dought neither speak to prince nor peer,
Nor ask of grace from fair lady!’ –
‘Now hold thy peace!’ the lady said,
‘For as I say, so must it be.’
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth
And a pair of shoes of velvet green.
And till seven years were gane and past
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
THOMAS THE RHYMER, SON OF THE DEAD WOMAN
Margaret Fay Shaw
As I heard about it, there was once upon a time a tailor. In those days, as I myself remember, tailors used to go around the houses making clothes. And this tailor came to the house of a certain man who had three sons and one daughter; and the tailor was making suits for the three sons. And the girl told him she needed some clothes too and that she would be very glad if he would make them before he departed, after he had made the sons’ clothes. The tailor replied that he couldn’t wait to make clothes for her. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I want you to make clothes for me very much, and I’ll pay you for them separately from the others.’ ‘What will you pay me?’ said the tailor. ‘Anything you like, as long as you make the clothes.’ ‘Will you give me leave to spend a night with you?’ said the tailor. ‘Make you the clothes,’ said she, ‘and you’ll get that.’
So when the tailor had finished making the sons’ clothes, he made the girl’s too, and he did not ask her for any payment; he had only been joking with the girl anyway. He went away not long afterwards, and a little time later the girl fell ill and died, and that was all there was to it. But one night when the tailor was coming home, he met the girl after her death. He recognized the girl very well and he spoke to her, and she replied to him. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I never paid you what I promised for making the clothes.’ ‘Oh,’ said the tailor, ‘I never expected to get such payment, though I suggested it at the time.’ ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘what I promised must be done, or else I shall follow you everywhere.’ So it was. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘nine months after tonight you will come to my gravestone, and you will find a baby boy there, and he will be half above the earth and half under it, and’, she said, ‘you will call him Thomas. And you will find a red book beside him on the gravestone, and you are not to give it to him until he is fourteen years old.’ They parted after this conversation and the tailor went home.
At the end of nine months the tailor went to the graveyard, as he had promised, and he found the baby boy as she had told him, and the red book. And the boy was lying half above the earth and half beneath it. The tailor took him home, and gave him to a wet nurse, and put away the book, later showing it to many learned men, of the kind who might be able to read it, but none of the learned men was able to make out a word of it. When the boy was fourteen years old, the tailor gave him the book, and there was not a word in it he couldn’t read as if he had been studying it all his life.
Then his father started to teach him tailoring. He used to go around the houses with his father. One time, an old man of the village had died and the tailor was asked to make a shroud for the body. And he and his son went to the house where the dead man was, and when they went indoors they discovered that the people were making no great lamentation over the departed. But when Thomas came in after his father, he began to cry. And he was crying and lamenting all the time they were making the shroud, and his father was ashamed that Thomas was making such a lamentation for a man whom even the bereaved relations themselves were not lamenting very much. But that did not stop Thomas from his lamenting. Well, when they had finished, they went home, Thomas and his father.
Not long afterwards, another old man in the neighbourhood died, and Thomas and his father were asked to make his shroud too. They were sent for, and when they reached the house they found everyone lamenting the departed with much sorrow; but when Thomas came in he began to rejoice noisily and no one could keep up with his rejoicing and delight. And if his father was ashamed on the first occasion, he was utterly ashamed tonight, what with Thomas rejoicing in the middle of a house full of sorrowful lamentation. Then the tailor said to himself, ‘There has to be some explanation for this strange behaviour, and before I get home tonight I’ll find out what all this means.’
When they had finished, they walked home, and as they were walking the tailor said, ‘Alas, alas, Thomas, how ashamed you made me tonight. What do you mean by laughing all the time, when everyone else was lamenting the man who had gone from them? Tell me what you mean before we go any further.’ ‘Oh,’ said Thomas, ‘you know that it takes very little to make me laugh. I was only thinking about all the things I had seen at the house.’ ‘No, no, that wasn’t it at all, tell me what you meant, and don’t prevaricate with me.’
Thomas didn’t want to tell, and tried to distract his father, but his father wouldn’t be distracted and insisted he explain himself. ‘Well,’ said Thomas, ‘if you let me be until I’m sixteen years old I’ll tell you then. And then I’ll be with you and everyone I see in the world until the Day of Judgement. But if you make me tell you tonight you’ll never see me again.’ At this his father thought Thomas was still prevaricating, and he insisted on being told. ‘We
ll, I’ll tell you,’ said Thomas, ‘and it won’t surprise you when you hear why I behaved as I did. The first house we visited to make the shroud for the dead man was without lamentation, because he wasn’t worth it. But when I looked around the house,’ he said, ‘it was packed full of demons waiting to tear the dead man’s soul to shreds; and I alone could see that. Do you wonder now why I was sorrowful and sad to see that? Whereas at the house we visited tonight,’ he said, ‘the people were very sad lamenting the death of a good man. And thicker than the crowd of demons in the first house was the crowd of angels waiting all around the second house for the dead man’s soul. And was that not a great joy to me when I saw it? Didn’t I have good cause to rejoice at the second house? And now,’ said Thomas, ‘I have to part from you, and you shall never see me again.’
And his father never saw Thomas again. Then it was that his father repented, and realized that Thomas had been telling him the truth all along.
GOLD-TREE AND SILVER-TREE
Joseph Jacobs
Once upon a time there was a king who had a wife, whose name was Silver-tree, and a daughter, whose name was Gold-tree. On a certain day of the days, Gold-tree and Silver-tree went to a glen, where there was a well, and in it there was a trout.
Said Silver-tree, ‘Troutie, bonny little fellow, am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?’
‘Oh! indeed you are not.’
‘Who then?’
‘Why, Gold-tree, your daughter.’
Silver-tree went home, blind with rage. She lay down on the bed, and vowed she would never be well until she could get the heart and the liver of Gold-tree, her daughter, to eat.
At nightfall the King came home, and it was told him that Silver-tree, his wife, was very ill. He went where she was, and asked her what was wrong with her.
Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales from Burns to Buchan Page 6
