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    Some British Ballads - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham
    Some British Ballads - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham
    Some British Ballads - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham
    Ebook220 pages1 hour

    Some British Ballads - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham

    By Anon Anon and Arthur Rackham

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    About this ebook

    Originally published in 1919, Some British Ballads is a collection of verses and narratives illustrated by Arthur Rackham. Many of the songs are taken from Francis James Child’s compilation; The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, which he collected during the second half of the nineteenth century. This pioneering study into British folklore and song is a true gem, and contains the rhymes of ‘Clerk Colvill’, ‘The Lass of Lochroyan’, ‘The Twa Corbies’, ‘Get up and Bar the Door’, ‘The Old Cloak’, ‘Proud Lady Margaret’, and many more.

    This edition of Some British Ballads contains a series of dazzling colour and black-and-white illustrations – by a master of the craft; Arthur Rackham (1867-1939). One of the most celebrated painters of the British Golden Age of Illustration (which encompassed the years from 1850 until the start of the First World War), Rackham’s artistry is quite simply, unparalleled. Throughout his career, he developed a unique style, combining haunting humour with dream-like romance. Presented alongside the text, his illustrations further refine and elucidate the wonderful ballads of times gone by.

    Pook Press celebrates the great ‘Golden Age of Illustration‘ in children’s literature – a period of unparalleled excellence in book illustration from the 1880s to the 1930s. Our collection showcases classic fairy tales, children’s stories, and the work of some of the most celebrated artists, illustrators and authors.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateApr 16, 2013
    ISBN9781473380615
    Some British Ballads - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham

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      Some British Ballads - Illustrated by Arthur Rackham - Anon Anon

      The Lass of Lochroyan

      ‘O WHA will shoe my bonny foot?

      And wha will glove my hand?

      And wha will laee my middle jimp

      Wi’ a lang, lang linen band?

      ‘O wha will kame my yellow hair

      With a new-made silver kame?

      And wha will father my young son

      Till Lord Gregory come hame?’

      ‘Thy father will shoe thy bonny foot,

      Thy mother will glove thy hand,

      Thy sister will lace thy middle jimp,

      Till Lord Gregory come to land.

      ‘Thy brother will kame thy yellow hair,

      With a new-made silver kame,

      And God will be thy bairn’s father

      Till Lord Gregory come hame.’

      ‘But I will get a bonny boat,

      And I will sall the sea;

      And I will gang to Lord Gregory,

      Since he canna come hame to me.’

      Syne she’s gar’d build a bonny boat,

      To sall the salt, salt sea:

      The salls were o’ the light green silk,

      The tows o’ taffety.

      She hadna salled but twenty leagues,

      But twenty leagues and three,

      When she met wi’ a rank robber,

      And a’ his company.

      ‘Now whether are ye the queen hersell,

      For so ye well might be,

      Or are ye the lass of Lochroyan,

      Seekin’ Lord Gregory?’

      ‘O I am neither the queen,’ she said,

      ‘Nor sic I seem to be;

      But I am the lass of Lochroyan,

      Seekin’ Lord Gregory.’

      ‘O see na thou yon bonny bower,

      It’s a’ covered o’er wi’ tin?

      When thou hast salled it round about,

      Lord Gregory is within.’

      And when she saw the stately tower,

      Shining sae clear and bright,

      Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave,

      Built on a rock of height;

      Says—‘Row the boat, my mariners,

      And bring me to the land,

      For yonder I see my love’s castle

      Close by the salt sea strand.’

      She salled it round, and salled it round,

      And loud, loud, cried she:

      ‘Now break, now break, ye Fairy charms,

      And set my true love free!’

      She’s ta’en her young son in her arms,

      And to the door she’s gane;

      And long she knocked, and sair she ea’d,

      But answer got she nane.

      ‘O open the door, Lord Gregory!

      O open, and let me in!

      For the wind blaws through my yellow hair,

      And the rain drops o’er my chin.’

      ‘Awa, awa, ye ill woman!

      Ye’re no come here for good!

      Ye’re but some witch, or wil’ warlock,

      Or mermaid o’ the flood.’

      ‘I am neither witch, nor wil’ warlock,

      Nor mermaid o’ the sea,

      But I am Annie of Lochroyan,

      O open the door to me!’

      ‘Gin thou be Annie of Lochroyan,

      As I trow thou binna she,

      Now tell me some o’ the love tokens

      That pass’d between thee and me.’

      ‘O dinna ye mind, Lord Gregory,

      As we sat at the wine,

      We chang’d the rings frae our fingers,

      And I can show thee thine?

      ‘O yours was gude, and gude enough,

      But ay the best was mine;

      For yours was o’ the gude red gowd,

      But mine o’ the diamond fine.

      ‘Now, open the door, Lord Gregory,

      Open the door, I pray!

      For thy young son is in my arms,

      And will be dead ere day.’

      ‘If thou be the lass of Lochroyan

      As I kenna thou be,

      Tell me some mair o’ the love tokens

      Pass’d between me and thee.’

      Fair Annie turned her round about—

      ‘Weel! since that it be sae,

      May never a woman, that has born a son,

      Hae a heart sae fou o’ wae!

      ‘Take down, take down, that mast o’ gowd!

      Set up a mast o’ tree!

      It disna become a forsaken lady

      To sall sae royallie.’

      When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn,

      And the sun began to peep,

      Then up and raise him Lord Gregory,

      And sair, sair did he weep.

      ‘Oh I hae dreamed a dream, mother,

      I wish it may prove true!

      That the bonny lass of Lochroyan

      Was at the gate e’en now.

      ‘O I hae dreamed a dream, mother,

      The thought o’t gars me greet!

      That fair Annie o’ Lochroyan

      Lay cauld dead at my feet.’

      ‘Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan

      That ye make a’ this din,

      She stood a’ last night at your door,

      But I trow she wanna in.’

      ‘O wae betide ye, ill woman!

      An ill death may ye die!

      That wadna open the door to her,

      Nor yet wad waken me.’

      O he’s gane down to yon shore side

      As fast as he could fare;

      He saw fair Annie in the boat,

      But the wind it tossed her sair.

      ‘And hey Annie! and ho Annie!

      O Annie, winna ye bide.’

      But ay the mair he cried Annie,

      The braider grew the tide.

      ‘And hey Annie! and ho Annie!

      Dear Annie, speak to me.’

      But ay the louder he cried Annie

      The louder roared the sea.

      The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,

      And dashed the boat on shore,

      Fair Annie floated through the faem,

      But the babie rose no more.

      Lord Gregory tore his yellow hair,

      And made a heavy moan;

      Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,

      Her bonny young son was gone.

      O cherry, cherry was her cheek,

      And gowden was her hair;

      But clay-cold were her rosy lips—

      Nae spark o’ life was there.

      And first he kissed her cherry cheek,

      And sync he kissed her chin,

      And syne he kissed her rosy lips—

      There was nae breath within.

      ‘O wae betide my cruel mother!

      An ill death may she die!

      She turned my true love frae my door,

      Wha came sae far to me.

      ‘O wae betide my cruel mother!

      An ill death may she die!

      She turned fair Annie frae my door,

      Wha died for love o’ me.’

      Young Bekie

      YOUNG Bekie was as brave a knight

      As ever sall’d the sea;

      An’ he’s doen him to the court of France,

      To serve for meat and fee.

      He had nae been i’ the court of France

      A twelvemonth nor sae long,

      Till he fell in love with the king’s daughter,

      An’ was thrown in prison strong.

      The king he had but ae daughter,

      Burd Isbel was her name;

      An’ she has to the prison-house gane,

      To hear the prisoner’s name.

      ‘O gin a lady wou’d borrow me,

      At her stirrup-foot I wou’d rin;

      Or gin a widow wad borrow me,

      I wou’d swear to be her son.

      ‘Or gin a virgin wou’d borrow me,

      I wou’d wed her wi’ a ring;

      I’d gi her ha’s, I’d gic her bowers,

      The bonny towrs o’ Linne.’

      O barefoot, barefoot gaed she but,

      An’ barefoot came she ben;

      It was no for want o’ hose an’ shoone,

      Nor time to put them on.

      YOUNG BEKIE

      But a’ for fear that her father dear

      Had heard her making din:

      She’s stown the keys o’ the prison-house door

      An’ latten the prisoner gang.

      O whan she saw him, Young Bekie,

      Her heart was wondrous sair!

      For the mice but an’ the bold rottons

      Had eaten his yallow hair.

      She’s gi’en him a shaver for his beard,

      A comber till his hair,

      Five hunder pound in his pocket,

      To spen’, an’ nae to spair.

      She’s gi’en him a steed was good in need,

      An’ a saddle o’ royal bone,

      A leash o’ hounds o’ ae litter,

      An’ Hector called one.

      Atween this twa a vow was made,

      ’Twas made full solemnly,

      That or three years was come an’ gane,

      Well married they shou’d be.

      He had nae been in’s ain country

      A twelvemonth till an end,

      Till he’s fore’d to marry a duke’s daughter,

      Or than lose a’ his land.

      ‘Ohon, alas!’ says Young Bekie,

      ‘I know not what to dee;

      For I canno win to Burd Isbel,

      An’ she kensnae to come to me.’

      O it fell once upon a day

      Burd Isbel fell asleep,

      An’ up it starts the Billy Blind,

      An’ stood at her bed-feet.

      ‘O waken, waken, Burd Isbel,

      How can you sleep so soun’,

      Whan

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