VI.

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

From Allan Ramsay's _Tea-Table Miscellany_. The concluding stanza of this piece seems modern.

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[In the previous ballad (No. 4) and in Mallet's _William and Margaret_ it is Margaret who appears to William, but in the present one and in some other versions William is made to die first. In _Clerk Saunders_ (_Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_) Scott has joined two distinct stories, and the second part, in which the spirit of Clerk Saunders appears to May Margaret, closely resembles the present ballad. Besides these there are two other versions. Kinloch's, entitled _Sweet William and May Margaret_, and Motherwell's _William and Marjorie_. Dr. Rimbault points out that the chief incidents in Bürger's _Leonora_ resemble those in this ballad.

The last two stanzas are probably Ramsay's own.]

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There came a ghost to Margaret's door, With many a grievous grone, And ay he tirled at the pin;[321] But answer made she none.

Is this my father Philip? 5 Or is't my brother John? Or is't my true love Willie, From Scotland new come home?

'Tis not thy father Philip; Nor yet thy brother John: 10 But tis thy true love Willie From Scotland new come home,

O sweet Margret! O dear Margret! I pray thee speak to mee: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, 15 As I gave it to thee.

Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'Of me shalt nevir win,' Till that thou come within my bower, And kiss my cheek and chin. 20

If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lipp, Thy days will not be lang.

O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, 25 I pray thee speak to mee: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, As I gave it to thee.

Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'Of me shalt nevir win,' 30 Till thou take me to yon kirk yard, And wed me with a ring.

My bones are buried in a kirk yard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my sprite, Margret, 35 That's speaking now to thee.

She stretched out her lilly-white hand, As for to do her best: Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest. 40

Now she has kilted her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corps followed shee.

Is there any room at your head, Willie? 45 Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willie, Wherein that I may creep?

There's nae room at my head, Margret, There's nae room at my feet, 50 There's no room at my side, Margret, My coffin is made so meet.

Then up and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the gray: Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret, 55 That 'I' were gane away.

[No more the ghost to Margret said, But, with a grievous grone, Evanish'd in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone. 60

O stay, my only true love, stay, The constant Margret cried: Wan grew her cheeks, she clos'd her een, Stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.]

FOOTNOTES:

[321] [See note, _ante_, p. 47.]