“When first I met wi’ Hab o’ the Howe
I had scarce twice nine years seen,
And he swore by our Ladye o’ Rumbollow
I had set a’ his heart in a holy lowe
Wi’ the fire o’ my twa black een,
  Balow! 
Wi’ the fire o’ my twa black een.

“Of a’ the fair maidens on Rumbollow green
There was nane sae fair as me,
Wi’ my kilted kirtle o’ mazarine,
And buckles as bright as the siller sheen,
And my coatie o’ cramosie,
  Balow! 
And my coatie o’ cramosie.

“I was proud that he stood tall men abune,
Sae stalwart, sae bald and free;
But he cozened my heart and left me undune,
Wi’ tatters for claes and bachels for shune,
And a sin-wean on my knee,
  Balow! 
And a sin-wean on my knee.

“Last night, when the mune was in the wane,
And the winds were moaning low,
I wandered by his dead bodie alane,
And looked at the hole in his white hause bane,
And the gash on his bonnie brow,
  Balow! 
And the gash on his bonnie brow.

“Did I wail to the mune, and tear my hair,
And weep o’er his bodie?  Na! 
I leugh at the fause are wha left me to care,
And fought for Bess Cummock at Rumbollow Fair,
And there lies dead, ha! ha! 
  Balow! 
And there lies dead, ha! ha!”

She is up and going, no look bestowing
Through the dark forest, tra-la! tra-la! 
The roundelay still sounds away,
The wail and the wild ha, ha, ha, ha! 
Some wretched maiden with grief o’erladen,
Victim of man, ever so, ever so. 
The world needs mending and some God-sending,
All in the forest of Rumbollow.

The mill is yonder where she may wander;
The wheels they merrily row, they row;
The lade is gushing, the water’s rushing
On to the ocean below, below. 
The song is ending, or scattered and blending
In the wild winds as they blow, they blow;
She moves still faster with wilder gesture,
All in the forest of Rumbollow.

It is no seeming, hark! comes a screaming
The moaning forest all through, all through;
The miller is running, no danger shunning,
The foaming waters down flow, down, flow: 
Too late his braving, there is no saving—­
Down the mill lade they go, they go,
Mother and child ’midst the waters wild;
All in the forest of Rumbollow!

XIV.

THE LEGEND OF THE BURNING OF MISTRESS JAMPHRAY.

I.

From the dark old times that have gone before,
We have got in our day some little relief;
We don’t think of doing what they did of yore,
To saw a man through for a point of belief;
We do not believe in old women’s dreams,
And devils and ghosts we can do without;
Nor do we now set an old woman in flames,
But rather endeavour to put them out.