The Queen Of Elfan's Nourice

The Text.--As printed in Sharpe's Ballad Book, from the Skene MS. (No. 8). It is fragmentary--regrettably so, especially as stanzas 10-12 belong to Thomas Rymer.     The Story is the well-known one of the abduction of a young mother to be the Queen of Elfland's nurse. Fairies, elves, water-sprites, and nisses or brownies, have constantly required mortal assistance in the nursing of fairy children. Gervase of Tilbury himself saw a woman stolen away for this purpose, as she was washing clothes in the Rhone.     The genuineness of this ballad, deficient as it is, is best proved by its lyrical nature, which, as Child says, 'forces you to chant, and will not be read.'     'Elfan,' of course, is Elfland; 'nourice,' a nurse.     THE QUEEN OF ELFAN'S NOURICE         1.         'I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,             An' a cow low down in yon glen;         Lang, lang, will my young son greet             Or his mother bid him come ben.         2.         'I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,             An' a cow low down in yon fauld;         Lang, lang will my young son greet             Or his mither take him frae cauld.             ***     ***     ***         3.         ' ...     ...     ...             ...     ...     ...         Waken, Queen of Elfan,             An' hear your nourice moan.'         4.         'O moan ye for your meat,             Or moan ye for your fee,         Or moan ye for the ither bounties             That ladies are wont to gie?'         5.         'I moan na for my meat,             Nor moan I for my fee,         Nor moan I for the ither bounties             That ladies are wont to gie.         6.         ' ...     ...     ...             ...     ...     ...         But I moan for my young son             I left in four nights auld.         7.         'I moan na for my meat,             Nor yet for my fee,         But I mourn for Christen land,             It's there I fain would be.'         8.         'O nurse my bairn, nourice,' she says,             'Till he stan' at your knee,         An' ye's win hame to Christen land,             Whar fain it's ye wad be.         9.         'O keep my bairn, nourice,             Till he gang by the hauld,         An' ye's win hame to your young son             Ye left in four nights auld.'             ***     ***     ***         10.         'O nourice lay your head             Upo' my knee:         See ye na that narrow road             Up by yon tree?         11.             ...     ...     ...             ...     ...     ...         That's the road the righteous goes,             And that's the road to heaven.         12.         'An' see na ye that braid road,             Down by yon sunny fell?         Yon's the road the wicked gae,             An' that's the road to hell.'