The knight he looted to a' the three, Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O! But to the youngest he bowed the knee Where the primrose blooms so sweetly.'
He sends messages that reach his true love's ear, through the guard of 'bauld barons' and 'proud porters,' by his little footpage, who,
'When he came to broken brig, He bent his bow and swam, And when he came to grass growin', Set down his feet and ran.
And when he came to the porter's yett, Stayed neither to chap or ca', But set his bent bow to his breast, And lightly lap the wa'.'
Or the knight comes himself to the bower door at witching and untimely hours--at 'the to-fa' o' the nicht,' or at the crowing of the 'red red cock'--and 'tirles at the pin.' But always treachery, in the shape of envious step-dame, angry brother, or false squire, is watching and listening. Six perils may go past, but the seventh is sure to strike its mark. Even should the course of true love run smoothly almost to the church door, something is sure to happen. Love is hot and swift as flame in the ballads, although it does not waste itself in honeyed phrases. It is quick to take offence; and at a hasty word the lovers start apart,
'Lord Thomas spoke a word in jest, Fair Annet took it ill.'
But more often the bolt comes out of the blue from another and jealous hand. The bride sets out richly apparelled and caparisoned to the tryst with the bridegroom. Her girdle is of gold and her skirts of the cramoisie. Four-and-twenty comely knights ride at her side, and four-and-twenty fair maidens in her train. The very hoofs of her steed are 'shod in front with the yellow gold and wi' siller shod behind.' To every teat of his mane is hung a silver bell, and,
'At every tift o' the norland win' They tinkle ane by ane.'
'The masts are a' o' the beaten gold And the sails o' the taffetie.'
The old minstrel loved to linger over and repeat these details, and his audience, we may feel sure, never tired of hearing them. But they knew that calamity was coming, and would overtake bride and groom before they had gone, by sea or land,
'A league, a league, A league, but barely three.'
It might be in the shape of storm or flood. One ballad opens:
'Annan Water 's runnin' deep, And my love Annie 's wondrous bonnie,'