By Loch and by Lin: Tales from Scottish Ballads Read online

  Fair Johnnie jumped to his feet in a rage. “Hang the fool,” cried he. “Fetch me a good strong rope, for I swear he’ll not go out of Liddesdale alive!”

  “Nay,” said Wullie, “to hang the fool would be a troublesome job. Slip a wee dirk between his ribs. That way ’twill be easier far.”

  “Hauld, now!” cried Geordie’s John, one of the kin. “Why kill him, poor silly man? Toss him in a four-cornered sheet, and then beat him well and let him go home.”

  “While this is my house,” the Laird’s Jock said, “we’ll have no hanging or slayer or beating here!” And he stared them down with an angry eye. “Sit ye down, man,” he said to Dick, “and when the food’s ready, you shall have some of your own kye.”

  But Dick drew back to a nook by the fire when the dinner was set down. He wanted no food, for he knew well he never could stomach the meat of his stolen cow.

  In the house of the Laird’s Jock there was a rule that those who came late for the meal should have none at all, but must bide their time until the next mealtime came around. That made those lads who were last to come in hastier than they should have been for fear they might be forced to fast till meat was put out again. Dick from his corner by the fire saw that the ones who came in last, in their hurry not to be late, instead of hanging the key to the stable door on its hook, tossed it up on the ledge above the door. Dick took good notice with both his eyes, for he meant to make use of what he saw.

  Dick curled up in his nook by the fire, and feigned to be asleep. He snorted and snored like a boiling pot, but he watched the Armstrongs all the while. They guzzled their stolen beef and their ale until they could hold no more, then every man of them settled himself, to sleep before the fire.

  When Dick was sure they were all asleep, he got up and crept to the door. He took the key from the place where it lay, and out of the house he slipped. Into the stable yard he went, and opened the door with the key. Thirty-three horses were in the stalls, but Dick had an eye for only three. Thirty belonged to the Armstrong kin, and those thirty Dick tied with Saint Mary’s knot which means that he cut the hamstrings of every horse and left them crippled behind in their stalls. Then he let loose the other three. He took them into the stableyard where the moon shone bright, to let him see that he had Fair Johnnie’s, young Wullie’s, and the Laird’s Jock’s horses, all three. Dick took out the bridle and spurs that he’d tucked away safely in the leg of his breeks. He put the spurs upon himself and the bridle on Wullie’s steed, then he leaped on Fair Johnnie’s horse and tickled its sides with his spurs.

  The spurs were new and the spurs were sharp, and Fair Johnnie’s horse reared when he felt their steel. Away he dashed at a good round pace, as if the de’il were at his tail, and Wullie’s horse was close by its side, for Dick held fast to its bridle rein. But Dick left the horse of the Laird’s Jock behind, loose in the stable yard, for the Armstrongs to see that Dick could have taken him too if he liked, but he would not steal from the Laird’s Jock, who had stolen naught from him.

  Fair Johnnie rose in the early morn and went out to the stable to feed his horse, but the creature was not there. His brother Wullie’s was gone as well, and his kinsmen’s were crippled, every one, and the only horse left of thirty-three was the one that belonged to the Laird’s Jock.

  Fair Johnnie ran back into the house and woke his father up. “Wake up, Laird’s Jock!” he cried. “That silly fool, Dick o’ the Cow, has gone off with Wullie’s horse and mine. There’s thirty tied with Saint Mary’s knot, and your own is the only one left that a man can ride.”

  “You ne’er would be told!” the Laird’s Jock said. “Now, did I not tell you true when I said to keep out of Cumberland or trouble would come to you?”

  “Who would have thought that an innocent could be as canny as he?” said Fair Johnnie. “Och, come now, Laird’s Jock, will you not lend me your horse, that I may go into Cumberland and fetch my own horse and Wullie’s home?”

  The Laird’s Jock said, “No!” and he said, “No!” and he said, “No!” again, but Fair Johnnie would not hold his tongue until the Laird’s Jock agreed. So the Laird’s Jock lent Fair Johnnie his horse, and arms and armor beside—a coat of mail, and a steel head-cape, and a two-handed sword, and a spear.

  Fair Johnnie put the armor on and took his sword and his spear, and away he galloped on the Laird’s Jock’s horse in pursuit of Dick o’ the Cow. He caught up with Dick on Carnaby Lea, and Dick turned and stood his ground. Fair Johnnie hurled his spear at Dick, but it missed and went to the side, and it did no harm but to cut a slit in the skirt of the jerkin Dick wore. Fair Johnnie took up his two-handed sword and rode at Dick with a frightful yell.

  “No swordsman am I,” said Dick o’ the Cow, “but I have a sword myself.” So then Dick drew his own sword out, and waited for Johnnie to come by, and more by luck than by any skill, he dinged Fair Johnnie a blow on the brow with the pommel of his sword. The blow put Fair Johnnie in a daze and all his wits were gone. He pitched over the head of the Laird’s Jock’s horse and lay as if dreaming on the ground.

  Dick saw that he’d be sleeping a while. Said he, “I’ve won the battle this day. And from all I’ve heard, it’s not stealing at all to carry the spoils of battle away. And though this is the Laird’s Jock’s gear, and his horse, ’tis Fair Johnnie who has them now, so I’m not stealing from the Laird’s Jock at all, when I take my spoils from Fair Johnnie, his son.”

  When Dick rode away from Carnaby Lea, a doughty man was he, for he was clad in the jacket of mail and in the steel head-cape, too. He bore away the two-handed sword, and his own, and Fair Johnnie’s spear as well. Fair Johnnie’s horse he rode again, but he led at his side young Wullie’s horse and the one that Fair Johnnie had borrowed from the Laird’s Jock.

  When Fair Johnnie woke up on Carnaby Lea, a dreary man was he. Up he got and limped off home, and he swore as he went that never again, if he lived to be a hundred years, would he fight a fool, after what had happened to him that day.

  Dick rode straight to Hutton Hall to show his master what he had brought home. When the laird saw the booty he’d taken, he shouted angrily that he’d take care that Dick was hanged for all his thievery. Dick’s feelings were sorely hurt at his words. “My laird,” said he, “you know well I’d never have gone into Liddesdale to steal without your permission to go. By the bargain you made with me I had the right to go and steal from those who had stolen from me.”

  “I gave you that leave indeed,” said the laird. “But what made you steal from the Laird’s Jock? His horse, his sword, and his jacket and head-cape and all?”

  “I swear by my troth I’ve stolen naught from any man who has not stolen from me. The armor and the horse I took were the spoils of battle, you see, and I took them after I’d bested Fair Johnnie in a battle on Carnaby Lea. And if they were once the Laird’s Jock’s gear, it was from Fair Johnnie I won them away.”

  “Since you have kept your word so well, I’ll say no more,” said the Laird of Hutton Hall. “And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take the Laird’s Jock’s horse off your hands, since you’ll not be needing three.”

  “Nay,” said Dick. “I’ll not be needing three.”

  “I’ll give you one of my best milk-kine,” said the laird. “And I’ll give you twenty pounds beside, for the Laird’s Jock’s horse.”

  “My laird, I may be a fool,” said Dick, “but a bigger fool you’ll not make of me. You must give me the cow and thirty pounds, or I’ll sell the horse at Mattan Fair.”

  Dick set his price and would not change, so his master had to pay. And Dick went off with a fine milk-kye, and thirty pounds that he got for the horse.

  When Dick went out of Hutton Hall’s gate, whom should he meet coming in but the Bailiff of Glozzenberrie, who was brother of Dick’s master, the Laird of Hutton Hall.

  “Where did you get Fair Johnnie’s horse?” asked the bailiff. “I know the creature well, for I’ve seen Fair Johnnie astride its back very often, at
Carlisle.”

  Then Dick told the bailiff all the tale of how he went to Liddesdale and came home with booty enough to pay for his three stolen cows, that the Armstrongs had carried away.

  The bailiff laughed till his sides were sore. “For a fool, you are wondrous wise!” said he. “And I’ll tell you what I will do. I will buy Fair Johnnie’s horse for the same price that my brother paid for the one he bought.”

  “A man with one horse has no need of two,” said Dick o’ the Cow. “He can ride but one at a time. If you will pay what my master paid, then you may have Fair Johnnie’s horse.”

  The bailiff gave Dick a fine milk-kye and put thirty pounds in his hand, and Dick handed over Fair Johnnie’s horse and started off for his home. When Dick o’ the Cow came into the house, his wife began to lament and wail.

  “Now hauld your tongue, goodwife!” said he. “And from your crying leave me be! You shall no longer complain, for you have no cause that I can see. I’ve brought you two kine and either one is as good as all three that were stolen away, and here are sixty good pounds to pay for your three coverlets. And beside all this, there’s a suit of armor, a sword and a spear, and Wullie Armstrong’s horse for me.”

  The very next day Dick o’ the Cow went to the Laird of Hutton Hall, and a sorry man was he. “I may no longer in Cumberland dwell, to be your fool,” said he. “The Armstrongs, they live too near to this place, and I fear they’ll catch me and hang me high.”

  So Dick o’ the Cow and his goodwife packed up their gear and flitted away. They went to Burgh under Stanimuir, and as there were no Armstrongs near, they may be living there to this day.

  The Tale of

  Bonnie Baby Livingston

  NO one could ever hope to see a bonnier lass than Bonnie Baby Livingston. There wasn’t a soul in the whole of Dundee who would not have said that she was the fairest lass in all the town. She had such sweet and winning ways that the other lasses didn’t mind if she outshone them—at least not very much. And as for the lads, whenever she walked out to take the air, they came tumbling and trailing after her, like puppy dogs at her heels.

  Among the throng who followed in her train there was a wild young Highland chief, the Laird of Glenlion by name. He was a big, handsome young fellow, inclined to bluster and brag a bit, and anybody could see at a glance that he thought uncommonly well of himself. When he strutted along the streets of Dundee with his Highland bonnet atilt on the side of his head, wearing a gay tartan plaidie folded over his shoulder, you couldn’t miss seeing the jaunty lad. With his green velvet jacket, his fine white linen shirt with a lace frill down the front of it, and his kilt swinging to and fro in time to his swaggering stride, he was a sight to be seen. And just to add to the elegance of his costume, his sword was hung at his side and his dirk was tucked into the top of his stocking. When he passed by folk turned to gape after him, then they grinned and said, “Och, aye! The Laird o’ Glenlion’s loose again!”

  It was this fine gentleman who set his heart on winning Bonnie Baby Livingston for his wife. But Baby had no notion of what was in the young laird’s mind. If it had ever occurred to her, she’d have laughed at the thought of becoming the bride of Glenlion. She had been bred to the gentler manners and quieter dress of the town, and she found his wild Highland ways too rough and rude to suit her taste. Although he had good looks, a title, a castle, and money galore, he had no chance at all of winning her heart. She had already given that to a fine young man of Dundee named Johnnie Hay, and Johnnie had given her his to make it a fair exchange.

  At first Glenlion could not bring himself to believe that her love could not be won by him. But when he found out that it was true, his pride was sorely wounded to find himself so disdained by the lady he’d chosen to wed. If he had been able to get so much as a smile or a kindly look from her, at least he could have hoped. But though he waited and sighed and followed her about for months on end, de’il a bit of a smile or a look of kindness did he get in all that time to ease his pride or his heart. When at last he stopped to consider the time he had spent trying to win her favor, and all of it wasted, it was too much for his hot Highland blood. The worst of it was that the lass did not just snub him. She overlooked him, as if she did not know he was there. Whenever he came near her, she looked straight by him, as if she did not see him, and away she’d sweep on the arm of Johnnie Hay.

  As might have been expected, there came a day when the Laird of Glenlion decided that he had had enough of being slighted. It was beyond bearing, he told himself, and he was the man to put a stop to the silly lass’s nonsense. “Whether she will or no,” he vowed to himself, “Bonnie Baby Livingston is going to be my wife!”

  By some strange trick of fate, that was the very day when Baby slipped away from her friends and walked out of the town by herself to watch the country folk making hay. And along the road on his tall black steed, the Laird of Glenlion came. To his joy and surprise, who did he see walking along before him but Bonnie Baby Livingston, all by herself alone.

  He spurred up his horse and dashed to her side and swept her up into his arms. Before she could catch her breath or call for help, he had set her before him on his steed and galloped off at top speed. Alas for Bonnie Baby Livingston! The Laird of Glenlion had stolen her away.

  He took away her silken coat and he took away her satin gown, and he rolled her up in his tartan plaid, and wrapped her closely round and round. In the curve of his arm he held her tight and she could not move nor turn. He would not let her speak a word, nor look back at the road by which they came. The black horse sped along like the wind over hill and dale and down, till they came to a Highland glen, where they met with Glenlion’s brother Jock with twenty armed men.

  “Come, brother, turn back,” Glenlion said. “Tomorrow will be my wedding day, and you must stand as my best man when this bonnie lady and I are wed.”

  Then Jock turned his horse about, and back he rode at Glenlion’s side, and ten armed men before them rode and ten armed men behind.

  They came through the glen to the top of a hill where Glenlion stopped, and bade Baby look down. There was a wide green brae below with many cows and sheep.

  “There’s a hundred cows grazing there, and a hundred ewes beside,” he said. “And they all belong to me.”

  But Baby was so weighed down with woe that she would not turn her head around to look down the wide green brae.

  Then Glenlion bent down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll give you all these cows and all these ewes, and more beside,” said he, “for only a single kindly look or a smile from your bonnie blue eyes.”

  “You may keep all your cows and all your ewes for yourself,” said Bonnie Baby Livingston. “And you’ll get no kindly look and no smile from my eyes unless you take me home again and set me down safe in Dundee.”

  “Dundee, Baby? Dundee, Baby?” Glenlion said, with a laugh of scorn. “Dundee you’ll never see, till I’ve carried you to Glenlion castle and you are wedded to me. We’ll bide a bit at Auchingour to sup on sweet milk and cheese, then off to Glenlion castle we’ll ride, where you shall become my bonnie bride.”

  “I will not stop at Auchingour!” cried Baby. “I want no milk or cheese. To Glenlion I will not go, and I will never be your bride!”

  “Whether you will or no,” said the laird, “you will do as I say. The mistress of Glenlion castle you’ll be, and tomorrow will be our wedding day.”

  Then Glenlion’s brother Jock spoke up. “I tell you, brother, if I were you, I’d take that lady home again, for all her bonnie face. Better a lass that’s loving and kind, though maybe not a lady born, than one whose heart you have not won, for she’ll make your days heavy with hatred and scorn.”

  “Och, hold your tongue now, Jock!” said the laird. “You do not know what you say. My heart has been lost to that bonnie face for a good twelvemonth and more. I’ve loved her long, and I’ve loved her true, and I’ve sworn my wife she’ll be. And now that I have her in my grasp, I’ll never let her get away.�
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  “Have your own way,” said his brother Jock. “But I doubt it will bring you much joy.” And having had his say, he wasted no more words, but silently rode on at the Laird of Glenlion’s side.

  They came to the end of their journeying as day was closing in, and saw the castle’s gray walls and towers against the evening sky. Glenlion’s three young sisters came out to welcome the travelers home. They put their arms around Baby’s waist and led her gently into the hall, and each sister gave her a greeting warm, but she did not reply. She stood among them silently, and said no word at all. They unwrapped her from the plaid and brought her a dress of their own to wear. They bathed the salt tears from her face, and gently smoothed and combed her hair. They set her at the head of the table, and plied her with food and wine, but still she sat silent, not heeding them, and would not eat or drink.

  “Take her away and let her rest,” said the laird. “The lass is too travel-worn to eat. She’ll be hungry enough tomorrow, when she sits at our wedding feast.”

  So the three young sisters took Bonnie Baby Livingston to a bower in one of the towers, and bidding her lie down and sleep, they left her there alone. When they had gone she ran to the door and opened it, but there were men standing at the foot of the stairs, so she could not go that way. She ran to the window, but the ground was too far below to leap out, and the wall too steep to climb down, and there was no other way by which she might escape. She sat down in a chair by the window, and leaned her head on her hand and wept.

  While she sat there weeping the door opened softly and in slipped the laird’s youngest sister, Jean. She saw Baby sitting there wrapped in grief, and crossed the room to her side.

  “Oh, lady, do not weep,” said Jean, “and do not look so sorrowful. Tell your trouble to me and maybe it will ease your sad heart.”