Classic Poem

Sum speiks of Lords, sum speiks of Lairds,
And siclyke Men of hie Degrie,
Of a Gentleman I sing a Sang,
Sumtyme calld Laird of Gilnockie.
The King he wrytes a luving Letter
With his ain Hand sae tenderly,
And he hath sent it to Johny Armstrang,
To cum and speik with him speidily.

The Eliots and Armstrangs did convene;
They were a gallant Company:
Weill ryde and meit our lawful King,
And bring him safe to Gilnockie.
Make Kinnen and Capon ready then,
And Venison in great Plenty,
Weill welcome Hame our Royal King,
I hope heill dyne at Gilnockie.

They ran their Horse on the Langum Howm,
And brake their Speirs with mekle main;
The Ladys lukit frae their loft Windows,
GOD bring our Men weil back again.
Quhen Johny came before the King,
With all his Men sae brave to see,
The King he movit his Bonnet to him,
He weind he was a King as well as He.

May I find Grace, my Sovereign Liege,
Grace for my loyal Men and me;
For my Name it is Johny Armstrang,
And Subject of yours, my liege, said he.
Away, away, thou Traytor Strang,
Out of my Sicht thou mayst sune be,
I grantit nevir a Traytors Lyfe,
And now I'll not begin with thee.

Grant me my Lyfe, my Liege, my King,
And a bony Gift I will give to thee,
Full Four and twenty Milk whyt Steids,
Were a' foald in a Yeir to me.
I'll gie thee all these Milk whyt Steids,
That prance and nicher at a Speir,
With as mekle gude Inglis Gilt,
As four of their braid Backs dow beir.
Away, away, thou Traytor, & c.

Grant me my Lyfe, my Liege, my King,
And a bony Gift I'll gie to thee,
Gude Four and twenty ganging Mills,
That gang throw a' the Yeir to me.
These Four and twenty Mills complete,
Sall gang for thee throw all the Yeir,
And as mekle of gude reid Quheit,
As all thair Happers dow to bear.
Away, away, thou Traytor, & c.

Grant me my Lyfe, my Liege, my King,
And a great Gift I'll gie to thee,
Bauld Four and twenty Sisters Sons,
Sal for thee fecht tho all sould flee.
Away, away, thou Traytor, & c.

Grant me my Lyfe, my Liege, my King,
And a brave Gift I'll gie to thee;
All betwene heir and Newcastle Town,
Sall pay thair yeirly Rent to thee.
Away, away, thou Traytor, & c.

Ye leid, ye leid now, King, he says,
Althocht a King and Prince ye be;
For I luid naithing in all my Lyfe,
I dare well sayit, but Honesty:
But a fat Horse and a fair Woman,
Twa bony Dogs to kill a Deir;
But Ingland suld haif found me Meil and Malt,
Gif I had livd this hundred Yeir.

Scho suld haif found me Meil and Malt,
And Beif and Mutton in all Plentie;
But neir a Scots Wyfe could haif said,
That eir I skaithd her a pure Flie.
To seik het Water beneath cauld Yce,
Surely it is a great Folie;
I haif asked Grace at a graceless Face,
But there is nane for my Men and me.

But had I kend or I came frae Hame,
How thou unkynd wadst bene to me,
I wad haif kept the Border-syde,
In spyte of all thy Force and thee.
Wist Englands King that I was tane,
O gin a blyth Man wald he be;
For anes I slew his Sisters Son,
And on his Breist-bane brak a Tree.

John wore a Girdle about his Midle,
Imbroiderd owre with burning Gold,
Bespangled with the same Mettle,
Maist beautifull was to behold.
Ther hang nine Targats at Johnys Hat,
And ilk an worth Three hundred Pound,
What wants that Knave that a King suld haif,
But the Sword of Honour and the Crown.

O quhair gat thou these Targats, Johnie,
That blink sae brawly abune thy Brie?
I gat them in the Field fechting,
Quher, cruel King, thou durst not be.
Had I my Horse and my Harness gude,
And Ryding as I wont to be,
It sould haif bene tald this hundred Yeir,
The Meiting of my King and me.

GOD be withee, Kirsty, my Brither,
Lang live thou Laird of Mangertoun;
Lang mayst thou dwell on the Border-syde,
Or thou se thy Brither ryde up and doun.
And GOD be withee, Kirsty, my Son,
Quhair thou sits on thy Nurses Knee;
But and thou live this Hundred Yeir,
Thy Fathers better thoult never be.

Farweil, my bonny Gilnockhall,
Quhair on Esk syde thou standest stout,
Gif I had lived but seven Yeirs mair,
I wald haif gilt thee round about.
John murdred was at Carlinrigg,
And all his galant Companie;
But Scotlands Heart was never sae wae,
To see sae mony brave Men die.

Because they savd their Country dier
Frae Englishmen; nane were sae bauld,
Quhyle Johnie livd on the Border-syde,
Nane of them durst cum neir his Hald.