The Conservative (Lovecraft)/July 1923/Fause Murdoch
Fause Murdoch
By James F. Morton, Jun.
Fause Murdoch stude in gude greenwode,
Aneath a tall elm-tree;
He’s set his horn intil his mouth,
An’ blawn laud blasts fu’ three.
He’ blawn sae laud as he can blaw,
Wi’ mickle micht an’ main;
An’ sune he saw his merry men a’
Cum ridin’ o’er the plain.
“Licht doon, licht doon, my merry men a’,
Ye’s need na steed today;
There roams a stag amang these trees,
Which we maun find an’ slay.”
Wi’ that out apak the bauld MacPhail;
His sister’s son was he;
“Sac mony men to slay ae stag,
I trow this needna be.”
“Thou brags too sune, thou bauld MacPhail!
The stag that we maun slay
Wears antlers keen an’ hoofs of steel,
An’ dreads na mortal fray.”
“I dinna fear his antlers keen,
Na mair his hoofs of steel;
An’ gin I meet him in the chase,
My knife he’s quickly feel.”
“Now hauld thy word, thou bauld MacPhail!
I pray thee hauld thy word!
That stag we seek’s the proud Gordon,
Wha ne’er shunn’d foeman’s sword.
“Fu’ mony a deep an’ deadly aith
I’ve sworn, his bluid to spill;
An’ I maun win his ladye’s luve,
Or bend her to my will.”
A’ this beheard a little footpage,
Fast hid ahind a tree;
An’ he’s awa’ to seek his laird,
Sae fast as he can hie.
“Why rinn’st thou sae, my little footpage?”
“O flee for luve of Heaven!
Fause Murdoch comes to seek thy life,
Bot’ an’ his followers seven!”
“Thou leest, thou leest, thou little footpage!
Sae loud’s I hear thee lee!
Young Murdoch is my ain cousin;
Wad ne’er wark ill to me.”
“Yet haste, yet haste, my ain dear laird!
lae rede thee haste awa’;
He’s sworn to win thy fair ladye,
An’ spill thy bluid today.”
“Rin fast, rin fast, thou little footpage!
Gae seek my brithers twain;
An’ bid them cum to succour me,
Before that I be slain.”
The little footpage sped sae fast,
Nae swallow sae micht fly;
Bot ere he fand those bauld brithren,
The Gordon’s face were nigh.
An’ foremaist cam’ the bauld MacPhail,
Wha aye socht bluid an’ strife;
An’ he is gane to the proud Gordon,
To reave him of his life.
He’s aimit a blaw at the Gordon’s head,
Wad gar an ox doon fa’;
The Gordon steppit swift aside,
An’ gat na hurt at a’.
He’s raised his arm, a’ wode wi’ rage,
To deal a deadly smart;
Bot the Gordon, wi’ a stroke sae keen,
Has pierc’d him to the heart.
He’s turned himsel’, an’ set his back
Until a braid aik-tree;
“Fause traitors, ere ye win my life,
There’s some of you sall dee!”
They’ve drawn their swords, wi’ murd’rous spite,
An’ ran at him amain;
Bot ere they had their wicked will,
Three traitors mair lay slain.
Bot aye wae warth the fause Murdoch!
And an ill death mout he dee!
He’s creppit behind wi’ a coward’s stroke,
An’ cut the Gordon’s knee.
“Wae warth, wae warth thee, fause Murdoch!
For I may ficht na mair,
Bot hadst thou fac’d me like a man,
Thou’st rued thy treason sair!”
An’ they hae slain the proud Gordon,
An’ left him in his bluid,
An’ gane to seek that fair ladye,
Wi’ a’ the speed they could.
The ladye stude on catle wa’,
Beheld baith dale an’ down;
She saw fause Murdoch an’ his men
Cum ridin’ to the town.
“What news, what news, gude young Murdoch?”
“Ill news, thou fair ladye;
Thy laird lyes wounded in the wode,
An’ cries for sicht of thee.”
“Gae not, tae not, my fair ladye!”
“Fye, fye, thou serving-dame!
Young Murdoch is my laird’s ain cousin;
An’ sall he wark me shame?”
They’ve mounted themseles on their steeds sae tall,
An’ her on a fair palfraye;
An’ they’re awa’ to gude greenwode,
Whereas her dear laird lay.
An’ when she saw his pale, cauld corse,
She’s flung her to the ground,
An’ wept sae laud, that hills an’ trees
Wi’ echoes rang around.
“O wha has dune this bluidy deed?”
“Be still, thou ladye fair;
Gif yon dead man has lo’ed thee much,
I’ll lo’e thee ten times mair.”
“Now woo me not, thou young Murdoch!
I swear by God abuve,
Sin’ my ain laird’s sae basely slain,
Ise hae na ither luve.”
“By fair or foul,” quo’ fause Murdoch,
“Thoust sune belang to me!
I’ve slain thy laird to win thy luve,
An’ winna let thee free.”
He’s taen her by her waist sae sma’,
An’ seized her lillye hand;
She shriek’d, an’ struggled a’ in vain
The traitor to withstand.
Richt then beheard her laird’s twa brithers,
Wha cam’ to seek him there;
They heard that bluidy traitor’s threats,
The ladye’s wild despair.
An’ they hae drawn their trusty brands,
An’ sped wi’ micht an’ main;
An’ sune fause Murdoch an’ his men
A’ on the ground lay slain.
“Weep not, weep not, thou fair ladye,
An’ gie thy sorrow o’er;
See where the traitor an’ his men
Lye yonder in their gore.”
“I canna joy, though the fause traitor
Lyes stiffening in his bluid;
I still maun weep for my ain dear laird,
To me he was e’er sae gude.”
