made by the wardens of the English marches, September
12th, in 6th of Edward VI. that all, on this cry being raised, were
obliged to follow the fray, or chace, under pain of death. With
these explanations, the general purport of the ballad may be easily
discovered, though particular passages have become inexplicable,
probably through corruptions introduced by reciters. The present copy
is corrected from four copies, which differed widely from each other.

THE FRAY OF SUPORT.

* * * * *

Sleep'ry Sim of the Lamb-hill,
And snoring Jock of Suport-mill,
Ye are baith right het and fou';--
But my wae wakens na you.
Last night I saw a sorry sight--
Nought left me, o' four-and-twenty gude ousen and ky,
My weel-ridden gelding, and a white quey,
But a toom byre and a wide,
And the twelve nogs[193] on ilka side.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.

Weel may ye ken,
Last night I was right scarce o' men:
But Toppet Hob o' the Mains had guesten'd in my
house by chance;
I set him to wear the fore-door wi' the speir, while I
kept the back door wi' the lance;
But they hae run him thro' the thick o' the thie, and
broke his knee-pan,
And the mergh[194] o' his shin bane has run down on his
spur leather whang:
He's lame while he lives, and where'er he may gang.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.

But Peenye, my gude son, is out at the Hagbut-head,
His e'en glittering for anger like a fierye gleed;
Crying--"Mak sure the nooks
Of Maky's-muir crooks;
For the wily Scot takes by nooks, hooks, and crooks.
Gin we meet a' together in a head the morn,
We'll be merry men."
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a'
My gear's a' gane.

There's doughty Cuddy in the Heugh-head,
Thou was aye gude at a' need:
With thy brock-skin bag at thy belt,
Ay ready to mak a puir man help.
Thou maun awa' out to the cauf-craigs,
(Where anes ye lost your ain twa naigs)
And there toom thy brock-skin bag.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' taen.

Doughty Dan o' the Houlet Hirst,
Thou was aye gude at a birst:
Gude wi' a bow, and better wi' a speir,
The bauldest march-man, that e'er followed gear;
Come thou here.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a',
My gear's a' gane.

Rise, ye carle coopers, frae making o' kirns and tubs,
In the Nicol forest woods.
Your craft has na left the value