The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 2/Chapter 49

by Francis James Child

For works with similar titles, see The Two Brothers.

The Twa Brothers

A

THERE were twa brethren in the north,
They went to the school thegither;
The one unto the other said,
Will you try a warsle afore?
They warsled up, they warsled down,
Till Sir John fell to the ground,
And there was a knife in Sir Willie’s pouch,
Gied him a deadlie wound.
‘Oh brither dear, take me on your back,
Carry me to yon burn clear,
And wash the blood from off my wound,
And it will bleed nae mair.’
He took him up upon his back,
Carried him to yon burn clear,
And washd the blood from off his wound,
But aye it bled the mair.
‘Oh brither dear, take me on your back,
Carry me to yon kirk-yard,
And dig a grave baith wide and deep,
And lay my body there.’
He’s taen him up upon his back,
Carried him to yon kirk-yard,
And dug a grave baith deep and wide,
And laid his body there.
‘But what will I say to my father dear,
Gin he chance to say, Willie, whar’s John?’
‘Oh say that he’s to England gone,
To buy him a cask of wine.’
‘And what will I say to my mother dear,
Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar’s John?’
‘Oh say that he’s to England gone,
To buy her a new silk gown.’
‘And what will I say to my sister dear,
Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar’s John?’
‘Oh say that he’s to England gone,
To buy her a wedding ring.’
‘But what will I say to her you loe dear,
Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?’
‘Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair,
And home again will never come.’

B

THERE was two little boys going to the school,
And twa little boys they be,
They met three brothers playing at the ba,
And ladies dansing hey.
‘It’s whether will ye play at the ba, brither,
Or else throw at the stone?’
‘I am too little, I am too young,
O brother let me alone.’
He pulled out a little penknife,
That was baith sharp and sma,
He gave his brother a deadly wound
That was deep, long and sair.
He took the holland sark off his back,
He tore it frae breast to gare,
He laid it to the bloody wound,
That still bled mair and mair.
‘It’s take me on your back, brother,’ he says,
‘And carry me to yon kirk-yard,
And make me there a very fine grave,
That will be long and large.
‘Lay my bible at my head,’ he says,
‘My chaunter at my feet,
My bow and arrows by my side,
And soundly I will sleep.
‘When you go home, brother,’ he says,
‘My father will ask for me;
You may tell him I am in Saussif town,
Learning my lesson free.
‘When you go home, brother,’ he says,
‘My mother will ask for me;
You may tell her I am in Sausaf town,
And I’ll come home merrily.
‘When you go home, brother,’ he says,
‘Lady Margaret will ask for me;
You may tell her I’m dead and in grave laid,
And buried in Sausaff toun.’
She put the small pipes to her mouth,
And she harped both far and near,
Till she harped the small birds off the briers,
And her true love out of the grave.
‘What’s this? what’s this, lady Margaret?’ he says,
‘What’s this you want of me?’
‘One sweet kiss of your ruby lips,
That’s all I want of thee.’
‘My lips they are so bitter,’ he says,
‘My breath it is so strong,
If you get one kiss of my ruby lips,
Your days will not be long.’

C

THERE were twa brithers at ae scule;
As they were coming hame,
Then said the ane until the other
‘John, will ye throw the stane?’
‘I will not throw the stane, brither,
I will not play at the ba;
But gin ye come to yonder wood
I’ll warsle you a fa.’
The firsten fa young Johnie got,
It brought him to the ground;
The wee pen-knife in Willie’s pocket
Gied him a deadly wound.
‘Tak aff, tak aff, my holland sark,
And rive it frae gore to gore,
And stap it in my bleeding wounds,
They’ll aiblins bleed noe more.’
He pouit aff his holland sark,
And rave it frae gore to gore,
And stapt it in his bleeding wounds,
But ay they bled the more.
‘O brither, tak me on your back,
And bear me hence away,
And carry me to Chester kirk,
And lay me in the clay.’
‘What will I say to your father,
This night when I return?’
‘Tell him I’m gane to Chester scule,
And tell him no to murn.’
‘What will I say to your mother,
This nicht whan I gae hame?’
‘She wishd afore I cam awa
That I might neer gae hame.’
‘What will I say to your true-love,
This nicht when I gae hame?’
‘Tell her I’m dead and in my grave,
For her dear sake alane.’
He took him upon his back
And bore him hence away,
And carried him to Chester kirk,
And laid him in the clay.
He laid him in the cauld cauld clay,
And he cuirt him wi a stane,
And he’s awa to his fathers ha,
Sae dowilie alane.
‘You’re welcome, dear son,’ he said,
‘You’re welcome hame to me;
But what’s come o your brither John,
That gade awa wi thee?’
‘Oh he’s awa to Chester scule,
A scholar he’ll return;
He bade me tell his father dear
About him no to murn.’
‘You’re welcome hame, dear son,’ she said,
‘You’re welcome hame to me;
But what’s come o your brither John,
That gade awa wi thee?’
‘He bade me tell his mother dear,
This nicht when I cam hame,
Ye wisht before he gade awa,
That he might neer return.’
Then next came up his true-love dear,
And heavy was her moan;
‘You’re welcome hame, dear Will,’ she said,
‘But whare’s your brither John?’
‘O lady, cease your trouble now,
O cease your heavy moan;
He’s dead and in the cauld cauld clay,
For your dear sake alone.’
She ran distraught, she wept, she sicht,
She wept the sma brids frae the tree,
She wept the starns adoun frae the lift,
She wept the fish out o the sea.
‘O cease your weeping, my ain true-love,
Ye but disturb my rest;’
‘Is that my ain true lover John,
The man that I loe best?’
‘’Tis naething but my ghaist,’ he said,
‘That’s sent to comfort thee;
O cease your weeping, my true-love,
And ’twill gie peace to me.’

D

‘O WILL ye gae to the school, brother?
Or will ye gae to the ba?
Or will ye gae to the wood a-warslin,
To see whilk o’s maun fa?’
‘It’s I winna gae to the school, brother,
Nor will I gae to the ba;
But I will gae to the wood a-warslin,
And it is you maun fa.’
They warstled up, they warstled down,
The lee-lang simmer’s day;
. . . . .
. . . .
‘O lift me up upon your back,
Tak me to yon wall fair;
You’ll wash my bluidy wounds oer and oer,
And syne they’ll bleed nae mair.
‘And ye’ll tak aff my hollin sark,
And riv’t frae gair to gair;
Ye’ll stap it in my bluidy wounds,
And syne they’ll bleed nae mair.’
He’s liftit his brother upon his back,
Taen him to yon wall fair;
He’s washed his bluidy wounds oer and oer,
But ay they bled mair and mair.
And he’s taen aff his hollin sark,
And riven’t frae gair to gair;
He’s stappit it in his bluidy wounds,
But ay they bled mair and mair.
‘Ye’ll lift me up upon your back,
Tak me to Kirkland fair;
Ye’ll mak my greaf baith braid and lang,
And lay my body there.
Ye’ll lay my arrows at my head,
My bent bow at my feet,
My sword and buckler at my side,
As I was wont to sleep.
‘Whan ye gae hame to your father,
He’ll speer for his son John:
Say, ye left him into Kirkland fair,
Learning the school alone.
‘When ye gae hame to my sister,
She’ll speer for her brother John:
Ye’ll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair,
The green grass growin aboon.
‘Whan ye gae hame to my true-love,
She’ll speer for her lord John:
Ye’ll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair,
But hame ye fear he’ll never come.’
He’s gane hame to his father;
He speered for his son John:
‘It’s I left him into Kirkland fair,
Learning the school alone.’
And whan he gaed hame to his sister,
She speered for her brother John:
‘It’s I left him into Kirkland fair,
The green grass growin aboon.’
And whan he gaed home to his true-love,
She speerd for her lord John:
‘It’s I left him into Kirkland fair,
And hame I fear he’ll never come.’
‘But whaten bluid’s that on your sword, Willie?
Sweet Willie, tell to me;’
‘O it is the bluid o my grey hounds,
They wadna rin for me.’
‘It’s nae the bluid o your hounds, Willie,
Their bluid was never so red;
But it is the bluid o my true-love,
That ye hae slain indeed.’
That fair may wept, that fair may mournd,
That fair may mournd and pin’d:
‘When every lady looks for her love,
I neer need look for mine.’
‘O whaten a death will ye die, Willie?
Now, Willie, tell to me;’
‘Ye’ll put me in a bottomless boat,
And I’ll gae sail the sea.’
‘Whan will ye come hame again, Willie?
Now, Willie, tell to me;’
‘Whan the sun and moon dances on the green,
And that will never be.’

E

THERE were twa brothers at the scule,
And when they got awa,
‘It’s will ye play at the stane-chucking,
Or will ye play at the ba,
Or will ye gae up to yon hill head,
And there we’ll warsel a fa?’
‘I winna play at the stane-chucking,
Nor will I play at the ba;
But I’ll gae up to yon bonnie green hill,
And there we’ll warsel a fa.’
They warsled up, they warsled down,
Till John fell to the ground;
A dirk fell out of William’s pouch,
And gave John a deadly wound.
‘O lift me upon your back,
Take me to yon well fair,
And wash my bluidy wounds oer and oer,
And they’ll neer bleed nae mair.’
He’s lifted his brother upon his back,
Taen him to yon well fair;
He’s wash’d his bluidy wounds oer and oer,
But they bleed ay mair and mair.
‘Tak ye aff my holland sark,
And rive it gair by gair,
And row it in my bluidy wounds,
And they’ll neer bleed nae mair.’
He’s taken aff his holland sark,
And torn it gair by gair;
He’s rowit it in his bluidy wounds,
But they bleed ay mair and mair.
‘Tak now aff my green cleiding,
And row me saftly in,
And tak me up to yon kirk-style,
Whare the grass grows fair and green.’
He’s taken aff the green cleiding,
And rowed him saftly in;
He’s laid him down by yon kirk-style,
Whare the grass grows fair and green.
‘What will ye say to your father dear,
When ye gae hame at een?’
‘I’ll say ye’re lying at yon kirk-style,
Whare the grass grows fair and green.’
‘O no, O no, my brother dear,
O you must not say so;
But say that I’m gane to a foreign land,
Whare nae man does me know.’
When he sat in his father’s chair,
He grew baith pale and wan:
‘O what blude’s that upon your brow?
O dear son, tell to me;’
‘It is the blude of my gray steed,
He wadna ride wi me.’
‘O thy steed’s blude was neer sae red,
Nor eer sae dear to me:
O what blude’s this upon your cheek?
O dear son, tell to me;’
‘It is the blude of my greyhound,
He wadna hunt for me.’
‘O thy hound’s blude was neer sae red,
Nor eer sae dear to me:
O what blude’s this upon your hand?
O dear son, tell to me;’
‘It is the blude of my gay goss-hawk,
He wadna flee for me.’
‘O thy hawk’s blude was neer sae red,
Nor eer sae dear to me:
O what blude’s this upon your dirk?
Dear Willie, tell to me;’
‘It is the blude of my ae brother,
O dule and wae is me!’
‘O what will ye say to your father?
Dear Willie, tell to me;’
‘I’ll saddle my steed, and awa I’ll ride,
To dwell in some far countrie.’
‘O when will ye come hame again?
Dear Willie, tell to me;’
‘When sun and mune leap on yon hill,
And that will never be.’
She turnd hersel right round about,
And her heart burst into three:
‘My ae best son is deid and gane,
And my tother ane I’ll neer see.’

F

THERE were twa brothers in the east,
Went to the school o Ayr;
The one unto the other did say,
Come let us wrestle here.
They wrestled up and wrestled down,
Till John fell to the ground;
There being a knife in Willie’s pocket,
Gae John his deadly wound.
‘O is it for my gold, brother?
Or for my white monie?
Or is it for my lands sae braid,
That ye hae killed me?’
‘It is not for your gold,’ he said,
‘Nor for your white monie;
It is by the hand o accident
That I hae killed thee.’
‘Ye’ll take the shirt that’s on my back,
Rive it frae gair to gair,
And try to stop my bloody wounds,
For they bleed wonderous sair.’
He’s taen the shirt was on his back,
Reave it frae gare to gare,
And tried to stop his bleeding wounds,
But still they bled the mair.
‘Ye’ll take me up upon your back,
Carry me to yon water clear,
And try to stop my bloody wounds,
For they run wonderous sair.’
He’s taen him up upon his back,
Carried him to yon water clear,
And tried to stop his bleeding wounds,
But still they bled the mair.
‘Ye’ll take me up upon your back,
Carry me to yon church-yard;
Ye’ll dig a grave baith wide and deep,
And then ye’ll lay me there.
‘Ye’ll put a head-stane at my head,
Another at my feet,
Likewise a sod on my breast-bane,
The souner I may sleep.
‘Whenever my father asks of thee,
Saying, What’s become of John?
Ye’ll tell frae me, I’m ower the sea,
For a cargo of good wine.
‘And when my sweetheart asks of thee,
Saying, What’s become of John?
Ye’ll tell frae me, I’m ower the sea,
To buy a wedding gown.
‘And when my sister asks of thee,
Saying, William, where is John?
Ye’ll tell frae me, I’m ower the sea,
To learn some merry sang.
‘And when my mother asks of thee,
Saying, William, where is John?
Tell her I’m buried in green Fordland,
The grass growing ower my tomb.’
He’s taen him up upon his back,
Carried him to yon church-yard,
And dug a grave baith wide and deep,
And he was buried there.
He laid a head-stane at his head,
Another at his feet,
And laid a green sod on his breast,
The souner he might sleep.
His father asked when he came hame,
Saying, ‘William, where is John?’
Then John said, ‘He is ower the sea,
To bring you hame some wine.’
‘What blood is this upon you, William,
And looks sae red on thee?’
‘It is the blood o my grey-hound,
He woudna run for me.’
‘O that’s nae like your grey-hound’s blude,
William, that I do see;
I fear it is your own brother’s blood
That looks sae red on thee.’
‘That is not my own brother’s blude,
Father, that ye do see;
It is the blood o my good grey steed,
He woudna carry me.’
‘O that is nae your grey steed’s blude,
William, that I do see;
It is the blood o your brother John,
That looks sae red on thee.’
‘It’s nae the blood o my brother John,
Father, that ye do see;
It is the blude o my good grey hawk,
Because he woudna flee.’
‘O that is nae your grey hawk’s blood,
William, that I do see:’
‘Well, it’s the blude o my brother,
This country I maun flee.’
‘O when will ye come back again,
My dear son, tell to me?’
‘When sun and moon gae three times round,
And this will never be.’
‘Ohon, alas! now William, my son,
This is bad news to me;
Your brother’s death I’ll aye bewail,
And the absence o thee.’

G

AS John and William were coming home one day,
One Saturday afternoon,
Says John to William, Come and try a fight,
Or will you throw a stone?
Or will you come down to yonder, yonder town
Where the maids are all playing ball, ball, ball,
Where the maids are all playing ball?
Says William to John, I will not try a fight,
Nor will I throw a stone,
Nor will I come down to yonder town,
Where the maids are all playing ball.
So John took out of his pocket
A knife both long and sharp,
And stuck it through his brother’s heart,
And the blood came pouring down.
Says John to William, Take off thy shirt,
And tear it from gore to gore,
And wrap it round your bleeding heart,
And the blood will pour no more.’
So John took off his shirt,
And tore it from gore to gore,
And wrapped it round his bleeding heart,
And the blood came pouring more.
‘What shall I tell your dear father,
When I go home to-night?’
‘You’ll tell him I’m dead and in my grave,
For the truth must be told.’
‘What shall I tell your dear mother,
When I go home to-night?’
‘You’ll tell her I’m dead and in my grave,
For the truth must be told.’
‘How came this blood upon your knife?
My son, come tell to me;’
‘It is the blood of a rabbit I have killed,
O mother, pardon me.’
‘The blood of a rabbit couldnt be so pure,
My son, come tell to me:’
‘It is the blood of a squirrel I have killed,
O mother, pardon me.’
‘The blood of a squirrel couldnt be so pure,
My son, come tell to me:’
‘It is the blood of a brother I have killed,
O mother, pardon me.’

H

Two pretty boys lived in the North,
The went to the school so rare;
The one unto the other said,
We’ll try some battle of war.
The worselaid up, the worselaid down,
Till John lay on the ground;
A pen-knife out of William’s pocket
Gave John a deadly wound.
‘O is it for my gold?’ he said,
‘Or for my rich monie?
Or is it for my land sa broad,
That you have killed me?’
‘It’s neither for your gold,’ he said,
‘Or for your rich monie,
But it is for your land sa broad
That I have killed thee.’
‘You’ll take [me] up upon your back,
Carry me to Wastlen kirk-yard;
You’ill houk a hole large and deep,
And lay my body there.
‘You’ll put a good stone ou my head,
Another at me feet,
A good green turf upon my breast,
That the sounder I m[a]y sleep.
‘And if my father chance to ask
What’s come of your brother John,
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
* * * * *
‘What blood is this upon your coat?
I pray come tell to me;’
‘It is the blood of my grey hound,
It would not run for me.’
‘The blood of your greyhound was near so red,
I pray come tell to me;’
‘It is the blood of my black horse,
It would not hunt for me.’
‘The blood of your black horse was near so red,
I pray come tell to me;’
‘It is the blood of my brother John,
Since better canna be.’
* * * * *
He put his foot upon a ship,
Saying, I am gane our the sea;
‘O when will you come back again,
I pray come tell to me.’
‘When the sun and the moon passes over the broom,
That[’s] the day you’ll never see.’