Balow, my boy, I’ll weep for thee;
Too soon, alake, thou’lt weep for me: 
Thy griefs are growing to a sum,
God grant thee patience when they come;
Born to sustain thy mother’s shame,
A hapless fate, a bastard’s name. 
Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

Ballad:  Jock O The Side

(Child, Part VI., p. 479.)

Now Liddisdale has ridden a raid,
But I wat they had better staid at hame;
For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead,
And my son Johnie is prisner tane? 
With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle.

For Mangerton house auld Downie is gane,
Her coats she has kilted up to her knee;
And down the water wi speed she rins,
While tears in spaits fa fast frae her eie.

Then up and bespake the lord Mangerton: 
“What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?”
“Bad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton;
Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son Johnie.”

“Neer fear, sister Downie,” quo Mangerton;
“I hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie,
My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a’ weel filld,
And I’ll part wi them a’ ere Johnie shall die.

“Three men I’ll take to set him free,
Weel harnessd a’ wi best of steel;
The English rogues may hear, and drie
The weight o their braid swords to feel

“The Laird’s Jock ane, the Laird’s Wat twa,
O Hobie Noble, thou ane maun be! 
Thy coat is blue, thou has been true,
Since England banishd thee, to me.”

Now, Hobie was an English man,
In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
They banished him neer to return.

Lord Mangerton then orders gave,—­
“Your horses the wrang way maun a’ be shod;
Like gentlemen ye must not seem,
But look like corn-caugers gawn ae road.

“Your armour gude ye maunna shaw,
Nor ance appear like men o weir;
As country lads be all arrayd,
Wi branks and brecham on ilk mare.”

Sae now a’ their horses are shod the wrang way,
And Hobie has mounted his grey sae fine,
Jock his lively bay, Wat’s on his white horse behind,
And on they rode for the water o Tyne.

At the Cholerford they a’ light down,
And there, wi the help o the light o the moon,
A tree they cut, wi fifteen naggs upon each side,
To climb up the wall of Newcastle toun.

But when they came to Newcastle toun,
And were alighted at the wa,
They fand their tree three ells oer laigh,
They fand their stick baith short aid sma.

Then up and spake the Laird’s ain Jock,
“There’s naething for’t; the gates we maun force.” 
But when they cam the gate unto,
A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.

His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung;
Wi foot or hand he neer play’d paw;
His life and his keys at anes they hae taen,
And cast his body ahind the wa.