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Ballad Book by Katherine Lee Bates (ed.)

Part 3 out of 4

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"But I am Annie of Lochroyan;
O open the door to me!"

"O gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan,
As I trow not you be,
Now tell me some o' the love-tokens
That pass'd 'tween thee and me."

"O dinna ye mind, love Gregory,
When we sate at the wine,
How we chang'd the napkins frae our necks,
It's no sae lang sinsyne?

"And yours was gude, and gude eneugh,
But nae sae gude as mine;
For yours was o' the cambrick clear,
But mine o' the silk sae fine.

"And dinna ye mind, love Gregory,
As we twa sate at dine,
How we chang'd the rings frae our fingers,
And I can show thee thine?

"And yours was gude, and gude eneugh,
Yet nae sae gude as mine;
For yours was o' the gude red gold,
But mine o' the diamonds fine.

"Sae open the door, love Gregory,
And open it wi' speed;
Or your young son, that is in my arms,
For cauld will soon be dead!"

"Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
Gae frae my door for shame;
For I hae gotten anither fair love,
Sae ye may hie ye hame!"

"O hae ye gotten anither fair love,
For a' the oaths ye sware?
Then fare ye weel, fause Gregory,
For me ye'se never see mair!"

O hooly, hooly gaed she back,
As the day began to peep;
She set her foot on gude ship board,
And sair, sair did she weep.

"Tak down, tak down that mast o' gowd,
Set up the mast o' tree;
Ill sets it a forsaken lady
To sail sae gallantlie!"

Love Gregory started frae his sleep,
And to his mother did say;
"I dream'd a dream this night, mither,
That maks my heart right wae.

"I dream'd that Annie of Lochroyan,
The flower of a' her kin,
Was standing mournin' at iny door,
But nane wad let her in."

"Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan,
That ye mak a' this din;
She stood a' last night at your door,
But I trow she wan na in!"

"O wae betide ye, ill woman!
An ill deid may ye die,
That wadna open the door to her,
Nor yet wad waken me!"

O quickly, quickly raise he up,
And fast ran to the strand;
And then he saw her, fair Annie,
Was sailing frae the land.

And it's "Hey Annie!" and "How Annie!
O Annie, winna ye bide?"
But aye the mair that he cried "Annie!"
The faster ran the tide.

And it's "Hey Annie!" and "How Annie!
O Annie, speak to me!"
But aye the louder that he cried "Annie!"
The higher raise the sea.

The wind grew loud, and the sea grew rough,
And the ship was rent in twain;
And soon he saw her, fair Annie,
Come floating through the faem.

He saw his young son in her arms,
Baith toss'd abune the tide;
He wrang his hands, and fast he ran,
And plunged in the sea sae wide.

He catch'd her by the yellow hair,
And drew her to the strand;
But cauld and stiff was every limb,
Afore he reach'd the land.

O first he kiss'd her cherry cheek,
And syne he kiss'd her chin,
And sair he kiss'd her bonny lips,
But there was nae breath within.

And he has mourn'd o'er fair Annie,
Till the sun was ganging down,
Syne wi' a sigh his heart it brast,
And his soul to heaven has flown.

* * * * *


Lord Thomas and fair Annet
Sat a' day on a hill,
When night was come, and the sun was set,
They had na talk'd their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in jest,
Fair Annet took it ill;
"O I will never wed a wife,
Against my ain friends' will"

"Gif ye will never wed a wife,
A wife will ne'er wed ye."
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And kneel'd upon his knee.

"O rede, O rede, mither," he says,
"A gude rede gie to me;
O sall I tak' the nut-brown bride,
And let fair Annet be?"

"The nut-brown bride has gowd and gear,
Fair Annet she's gat nane,
And the little beauty fair Annet has,
O it will soon be gane."

And he has to his brither gane;
"Now, brither, rede ye me,
O sall I marry the nut-brown bride,
And let fair Annet be?"

"The nut-brown bride has owsen, brither,
The nut-brown bride has kye;
I wad hae you marry the nut-brown bride,
And cast fair Annet by."

"Her owsen may dee in the house, billie,
And her kye into the byre,
And I sall hae naething to mysel,
But a fat fadge by the fire."

And he has to his sister gane;
"Now, sister, rede to me;
O sall I marry the nut-brown bride,
And set fair Annet free?"

"I'se rede ye tak' fair Annet, Thomas,
And let the brown bride alane,
Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,
What is this we brought hame?"

"No! I will tak' my mither's counsel,
And marry me out o' hand;
And I will tak' the nut-brown bride,
Fair Annet may leave the land."

Up then rose fair Annet's father,
Twa hours or it were day,
And he has gane into the bower,
Wherein fair Annet lay.

"Rise up, rise up, fair Annet," he says,
"Put on your silken sheen,
Let us gae to Saint Marie's kirk,
And see that rich weddin'."

"My maids, gae to my dressing-room
And dress to me my hair,
Where'er ye laid a plait before,
See ye lay ten times mair.

"My maids, gae to my dressing-room
And dress to me my smock,
The ae half is o' the holland fine,
The ither o' needle-work."

The horse fair Annet rade upon,
He amblit like the wind,
Wi' siller he was shod before,
Wi' burning gowd behind.

Four-and-twenty siller bells,
Were a' tied to his mane,
Wi' ae tift o' the norlan' wind,
They tinkled ane by ane.

Four-and-twenty gay gude knights,
Rade by fair Annet's side,
And four-and-twenty fair ladies,
As gin she had been a bride.

And when she cam' to Marie's kirk,
She sat on Marie's stane;
The cleiding that fair Annet had on,
It skinkled in their e'en.

And when she cam' into the kirk,
She skimmer'd like the sun;
The belt that was about her waist,
Was a' wi' pearls bedone.

She sat her by the nut-brown bride,
And her e'en they were sae clear,
Lord Thomas he clean forgot the bride,
When fair Annet drew near.

He had a rose into his hand,
He gave it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-brown bride,
Laid it on Annet's knee.

Up then spak' the nut-brown bride,
She spak' wi' meikle spite;
"Where gat ye that rose-water, Annet,
That does mak' ye sae white?"

"O I did get the rose-water,
Where ye'll get never nane,
For I did get that rose-water,
Before that I was born.

"Where I did get that rose-water,
Ye'll never get the like;
For ye've been washed in Dunnie's well,
And dried on Dunnie's dyke.

"Tak' up and wear your rose, Thomas,
And wear't wi' meikle care;
For the woman sall never bear a son
That will mak' my heart sae sair."

When night was come, and day was gane,
And a' men boune to bed,
Lord Thomas and the nut-brown bride
In their chamber were laid.

They were na weel lyen down,
And scarcely fa'en asleep,
When up and stands she, fair Annet,
Just at Lord Thomas' feet.

"Weel bruik ye o' your nut-brown bride,
Between ye and the wa';
And sae will I o' my winding-sheet,
That suits me best of a'.

"Weel bruik ye o' your nut-brown bride,
Between ye and the stock;
And sae will I o' my black, black kist,
That has neither key nor lock!"

Lord Thomas rase, put on his claes,
Drew till him hose and shoon;
And he is to fair Annet's bower,
By the lee light o' the moon.

The firsten bower that he cam' till,
There was right dowie wark;
Her mither and her three sisters,
Were making fair Annet a sark.

The nexten bower that he cam' till
There was right dowie cheer;
Her father and her seven brethren,
Were making fair Annet a bier.

The lasten bower that he cam' till,
O heavy was his care,
The deid candles were burning bright,
Fair Annet was streekit there.

"O I will kiss your cheek, Annet,
And I will kiss your chin;
And I will kiss your clay-cauld lip,
But I'll ne'er kiss woman again.

"This day ye deal at Annet's wake,
The bread but and the wine;
Before the morn at twal' o'clock,
They'll deal the same at mine."

The tane was buried in Marie's kirk,
The tither in Marie's quire,
And out o' the tane there grew a birk,
And out o' the tither a brier.

And ay they grew, and ay they drew,
Until they twa did meet,
And every ane that pass'd them by,
Said, "Thae's been lovers sweet!"

* * * * *


Late at e'en, drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.

"What though ye be my sister's lord,
We'll cross our swords to-morrow."
"What though my wife your sister be,
I'll meet ye then on Yarrow."

"O stay at hame, my ain gude lord!
O stay, my ain dear marrow!
My cruel brither will you betray
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow."

"O fare ye weel, my lady dear!
And put aside your sorrow;
For if I gae, I'll sune return
Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow."

She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
As oft she'd dune before, O;
She belted him wi' his gude brand,
And he's awa' to Yarrow.

When he gaed up the Tennies bank,
As he gaed mony a morrow,
Nine armed men lay in a den,
On the dowie braes o' Yarrow.

"O come ye here to hunt or hawk
The bonny Forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow?"

"I come not here to hunt or hawk,
As oft I've dune before, O,
But I come here to wield my brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.

"If ye attack me nine to ane,
Then may God send ye sorrow!--
Yet will I fight while stand I may,
On the bonny banks o' Yarrow."

Two has he hurt, and three has slain,
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow;
But the stubborn knight crept in behind,
And pierced his body thorough.

"Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John,
And tell your sister sorrow,--
To come and lift her leafu' lord
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow."

Her brither John gaed ower yon hill,
As oft he'd dune before, O;
There he met his sister dear,
Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow.

"I dreamt a dream last night," she says,
"I wish it binna sorrow;
I dreamt I pu'd the heather green
Wi' my true love on Yarrow."

"I'll read your dream, sister," he says,
"I'll read it into sorrow;
Ye're bidden go take up your love,
He's sleeping sound on Yarrow."

She's torn the ribbons frae her head
That were baith braid and narrow;
She's kilted up her lang claithing,
And she's awa' to Yarrow.

She's ta'en him in her arms twa,
And gien him kisses thorough;
She sought to bind his mony wounds,
But he lay dead on Yarrow.

"O haud your tongue," her father says
"And let be a' your sorrow;
I'll wed you to a better lord
Than him ye lost on Yarrow."

"O haud your tongue, father," she says,
"Far warse ye mak' my sorrow;
A better lord could never be
Than him that lies on Yarrow."

She kissed his lips, she kaim'd his hair.
As oft she'd dune before, O;
And there wi' grief her heart did break
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.

"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says,
"And put on your armour so bright;
Lord William will hae Lady Margret awa
Before that it be light."

"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,
And put on your armour so bright,
And take better care of your youngest sister,
For your eldest's awa the last night."

He's mounted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on a dapple gray,
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And lightly they rode away.

Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder,
To see what he could see,
And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold,
Come riding over the lee.

"Light down, light down, Lady Margret," he said,
"And hold my steed in your hand,
Until that against your seven brethren bold,
And your father, I mak' a stand."

She held his steed in her milk-white hand,
And never shed one tear,
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa',
And her father hard fighting, who lov'd her so dear.

"O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said,
"For your strokes they are wondrous sair;
True lovers I can get many a ane,
But a father I can never get mair."

O she's ta'en out her handkerchief,
It was o' the holland sae fine,
And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds,
That were redder than the wine.

"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margret," he said,
"O whether will ye gang or bide?"
"I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said,
"For ye have left me nae other guide."

He's lifted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on a dapple gray,
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And slowly they baith rade away.

O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a' by the light of the moon,
Until they came to yon wan water,
And there they lighted down.

They lighted down to tak' a drink
Of the spring that ran sae clear,
And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood,
And sair she gan to fear.

"Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says,
"For I fear that you are slain;"
"'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak,
That shines in the water sae plain."

O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a' by the light of the moon,
Until they cam' to his mother's ha' door,
And there they lighted down.

"Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,
"Get up, and let me in!
Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,
"For this night my fair lady I've win.

"O mak' my bed, lady mother," he says,
"O mak' it braid and deep,
And lay Lady Margret close at my back,
And the sounder I will sleep."

Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
Lady Margret lang ere day,
And all true lovers that go thegither,
May they have mair luck than they!

Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk,
Lady Margret in Mary's quire;
Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose,
And out o' the knight's a briar.

And they twa met, and they twa plat,
And fain they wad be near;
And a' the warld might ken right weel
They were twa lovers dear.

But by and rade the Black Douglas,
And wow but he was rough!
For he pull'd up the bonny briar,
And flang't in St. Mary's Loch.

* * * * *


There were three sisters in a ha',
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
There came three lords amang them a',
(The red, green, and the yellow.)

The first o' them was clad in red,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
"O lady, will ye be my bride?"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

The second o' them was clad in green,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
"O lady, will ye be my queen?"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

The third o' them was clad in yellow,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
"O lady, will ye be my marrow?"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"O ye maun ask my father dear,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
Likewise the mother that did me bear;"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"And ye maun ask my sister Ann,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
And not forget my brother John;"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"O I have ask'd thy father dear,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
Likewise the mother that did thee bear;"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"And I have ask'd your sister Ann,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
But I forgot your brother John;"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

Now when the wedding day was come,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
The knight would take his bonny bride home,
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

And mony a lord, and mony a knight,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
Cam' to behold that lady bright,
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

There was nae man that did her see,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
But wished himsell bridegroom to be,
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

Her father led her down the stair,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
And her sisters twain they kiss'd her there;
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

Her mother led her through the close,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
Her brother John set her on her horse;
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"You are high, and I am low,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
Give me a kiss before you go,"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

She was touting down to kiss him sweet,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
When wi' his knife he wounded her deep,
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

She hadna ridden through half the town,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
Until her heart's blood stained her gown,
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"Ride saftly on," said the best young man,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
"I think our bride looks pale and wan!"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"O lead me over into yon stile,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
That I may stop and breathe awhile,"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"O lead me over into yon stair,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
For there I'll lie and bleed nae mair,"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"O what will you leave to your father dear?"
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
"The siller-shod steed that brought me here,"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"What will you leave to your mother dear?"
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
"My wedding shift which I do wear,"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"But she must wash it very clean,
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
For my heart's blood sticks in every seam."
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"What will you leave to your sister Ann?"
(Pine flowers i' the valley;)
"My silken gown that stands its lane,"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

"And what will you leave to your brother John?"
(Fine flowers i' the valley;)
"The gates o' hell to let him in,"
(Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)

* * * * *


"O well is me, my gay goss-hawk,
That ye can speak and flee;
For ye shall carry a love-letter
To my true-love frae me.

"O how shall I your true-love find,
Or how should I her knaw?
I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,
An eye that ne'er her saw."

"O well shall you my true-love ken,
Sae soon as her ye see,
For of a' the flowers o' fair England,
The fairest flower is she.

"And when ye come to her castle,
Light on the bush of ash,
And sit ye there, and sing our loves,
As she comes frae the mass.

"And when she goes into the house,
Light ye upon the whin;
And sit ye there, and sing our loves,
As she gaes out and in."

Lord William has written a love-letter,
Put in under the wing sae grey;
And the bird is awa' to southern land,
As fast as he could gae.

And when he flew to that castle,
He lighted on the ash,
And there he sat, and sang their loves,
As she came frae the mass.

And when she went into the house,
He flew unto the whin;
And there he sat, and sang their loves,
As she gaed out and in.

"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',
The wine flows you amang,
Till I gae to the west-window,
And hear a birdie's sang."

She's gane into the west-window,
And fainly aye it drew,
And soon into her white silk lap
The bird the letter threw.

"Ye're bidden send your love a send,
For he has sent you three;
And tell him where he can see you,
Or for your love he'll die."

"I send him the rings from my white fingers,
The garlands aff my hair,
I send him the heart that's in my breast,
What would my love hae mair?
And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland,
Ye'll bid him meet me there."

She's gane until her father dear,
As fast as she could hie,
"An asking, an asking, my father dear,
An asking grant ye me!
That if I die in merry England,
In Scotland you'll bury me.

"At the first kirk o' fair Scotland,
Ye'll cause the bells be rung;
At the neist kirk o' fair Scotland
Ye'll cause the mass be sung.

"At the third kirk o' fair Scotland,
Ye'll deal the gowd for me;
At the fourth kirk o' fair Scotland,
It's there you'll bury me."

She has ta'en her to her bigly bower,
As fast as she could hie;
And she has drapped down like deid,
Beside her mother's knee;
Then out and spak' an auld witch-wife,
By the fire-side sate she.

Says,--"Drap the het lead on her cheek,
And drap it on her chin,
And drap it on her rose-red lips,
And she will speak again;
O meikle will a maiden do,
To her true love to win!"

They drapt the het lead on her cheek,
They drapt it on her chin,
They drapt it on her rose-red lips,
But breath was nane within.

Then up arose her seven brothers,
And made for her a bier;
The boards were of the cedar wood,
The plates o' silver clear.

And up arose her seven sisters,
And made for her a sark;
The claith of it was satin fine,
The steeking silken wark.

The first Scots kirk that they cam' to,
They gar'd the bells be rung;
The neist Scots kirk that they cam' to,
They gar'd the mass be sung.

The third Scots kirk that they cam' to,
They dealt the gowd for her;
The fourth Scots kirk that they cam' to,
Her true-love met them there.

"Set down, set down the bier," he quoth,
Till I look on the dead;
The last time that I saw her face,
Her cheeks were rosy red."

He rent the sheet upon her face,
A little abune the chin;
And fast he saw her colour come,
And sweet she smiled on him.

"O give me a chive of your bread, my love,
And ae drap o' your wine;
For I have fasted for your sake,
These weary lang days nine!

"Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers;
Gae hame an' blaw your horn!
I trow ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,
But I've gi'ed you the scorn.

"I cam' not here to fair Scotland,
To lie amang the dead;
But I cam' here to fair Scotland,
Wi' my ain true-love to wed."

* * * * *


Fair Catherine from her bower-window
Looked over heath and wood;
She heard a smit o' bridle-reins,
And the sound did her heart good.

"Welcome, young Redin, welcome!
And welcome again, my dear!
Light down, light down from your horse," she
"It's long since you were here."

"O gude morrow, lady, gude morrow, lady;
God mak' you safe and free!
I'm come to tak' my last fareweel,
And pay my last visit to thee.

"I mustna light, and I canna light,
I winna stay at a';
For a fairer lady than ten of thee
Is waiting at Castleswa'."

"O if your love be changed, my dear,
Since better may not be,
Yet, ne'ertheless, for auld lang syne,
Bide this ae night wi' me."

She birl'd him wi' the ale and wine,
As they sat down to sup;
A living man he laid him down,
But I wot he ne'er rose up.

"Now lie ye there, young Redin," she says,
"O lie ye there till morn,--
Though a fairer lady than ten of me
Is waiting till you come home!

"O lang, lang is the winter night,
Till day begins to daw;
There is a dead man in my bower,
And I would he were awa'."

She cried upon her bower-maiden,
Aye ready at her ca':
"There is a knight into my bower,
'Tis time he were awa'."

They've booted him and spurred him,
As he was wont to ride,
A hunting-horn tied round his waist,
A sharp sword by his side;
And they've flung him into the wan water,
The deepest pool in Clyde.

Then up bespake a little bird
That sate upon the tree,
"Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady,
And pay your maid her fee."

"Come down, come down, my pretty bird,
That sits upon the tree;
I have a cage of beaten gold,
I'll gie it unto thee."

"Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady;
I winna come down to thee;
For as ye have done to young Redin,
Ye'd do the like to me."

O there came seeking young Redin
Mony a lord and knight,
And there came seeking young Redin
Mony a lady bright.

They've called on Lady Catherine,
But she sware by oak and thorn
That she saw him not, young Redin,
Since yesterday at morn.

The lady turned her round about,
Wi' mickle mournfu' din:
"It fears me sair o' Clyde water
That he is drowned therein."

Then up spake young Redin's mither,
The while she made her mane:
"My son kenn'd a' the fords o' Clyde,
He'd ride them ane by ane."

"Gar douk, gar douk!" his father he cried,
"Gar douk for gold and fee!
O wha will douk for young Redin's sake,
And wha will douk for me?"

They hae douked in at ae weil-head,
And out again at the ither:
"We'll douk nae mair for young Redin,
Although he were our brither."

Then out it spake a little bird
That sate upon the spray:
"What gars ye seek him, young Redin,
Sae early in the day?

"Leave aff your douking on the day,
And douk at dark o' night;
Aboon the pool young Redin lies in,
The candles they'll burn bright."

They left aff their douking on the day,
They hae douked at dark o' night;
Aboon the pool where young Redin lay,
The candles they burned bright.

The deepest pool in a' the stream
They found young Redin in;
Wi' a great stone tied across his breast
To keep his body down.

Then up and spake the little bird,
Says, "What needs a' this din?
It was Lady Catherine took his life,
And hided him in the linn."

She sware her by the sun and moon,
She sware by grass and corn,
She hadna seen him, young Redin,
Since Monanday at morn.

"It's surely been my bower-woman,--
O ill may her betide!
I ne'er wad hae slain my young Redin,
And thrown him in the Clyde."

Now they hae cut baith fern and thorn,
The bower-woman to brin;
And they hae made a big balefire,
And put this maiden in;
But the fire it took na on her cheek,
It took na on her chin.

Out they hae ta'en the bower-woman,
And put her mistress in;
The flame took fast upon her cheek,
Took fast upon her chin,
Took fast upon her fair bodie,
Because of her deadly sin.

* * * * *


Willie stands in his stable,
A-clapping of his steed;
And over his white fingers
His nose began to bleed.

"Gie corn to my horse, mither;
Gie meat unto my man;
For I maun gang to Margaret's bower,
Before the night comes on."

"O stay at home, my son Willie!
The wind blaws cold and stour;
The night will be baith mirk and late,
Before ye reach her bower."

"O tho' the night were ever sae dark,
O the wind blew never sae cauld,
I will be in May Margaret's bower
Before twa hours be tauld."

"O bide this night wi' me, Willie,
O bide this night wi' me!
The bestan fowl in a' the roost
At your supper, my son, shall be."

"A' your fowls, and a' your roosts,
I value not a pin;
I only care for May Margaret;
And ere night to her bower I'll win."

"O an ye gang to May Margaret
Sae sair against my will,
In the deepest pot o' Clyde's water
My malison ye's feel!"

He mounted on his coal-black steed,
And fast he rade awa';
But ere he came to Clyde's water
Fu' loud the wind did blaw.

As he rade over yon hie hie hill,
And doun yon dowie den,
There was a roar in Clyde's water
Wad feared a hundred men.

But Willie has swam through Clyde's water,
Though it was wide and deep;
And he came to May Margaret's door
When a' were fast asleep.

O he's gane round and round about,
And tirled at the pin,
But doors were steeked and windows barred,
And nane to let him in.

"O open the door to me, Margaret!
O open and let me in!
For my boots are fu' o' Clyde's water,
And frozen to the brim."

"I daurna open the door to you,
I daurna let you in;
For my mither she is fast asleep,
And I maun mak' nae din."

"O gin ye winna open the door,
Nor be sae kind to me,
Now tell me o' some out-chamber,
Where I this night may be."

"Ye canna win in this night, Willie,
Nor here ye canna be;
For I've nae chambers out nor in,
Nae ane but barely three.

"The tane is fu' to the roof wi' corn,
The tither is fu' wi' hay;
The third is fu' o' merry young men,
They winna remove till day."

"O fare ye weel, then, May Margaret,
Sin' better it mauna be.
I have won my mither's malison,
Coming this night to thee."

He's mounted on his coal-black steed,
O but his heart was wae!
But e'er he came to Clyde's water,
'Twas half-way up the brae.

When down he rade to the river-flood,
'Twas fast flowing ower the brim;
The rushing that was in Clyde's water
Took Willie's rod frae him.

He leaned him ower his saddle-bow
To catch his rod again;
The rushing that was in Clyde's water
Took Willie's hat frae him.

He leaned him ower his saddle-bow
To catch his hat by force;
The rushing that was in Clyde's water
Took Willie frae his horse.

O I canna turn my horse's head;
I canna strive to sowm;
I've gotten my mither's malison,
And it's here that I maun drown!"

The very hour this young man sank
Into the pot sae deep,
Up wakened his love, May Margaret,
Out of her heavy sleep.

"Come hither, come hither, my minnie dear,
Come hither read my dream;
I dreamed my love Willie was at our gates,
And nane wad let him in."

"Lie still, lie still, dear Margaret,
Lie still and tak' your rest;
Your lover Willie was at the gates,
'Tis but two quarters past."

Nimbly, nimbly rase she up,
And quickly put she on;
While ever against her window
The louder blew the win'.

Out she ran into the night,
And down the dowie den;
The strength that was in Clyde's water
Wad drown five hundred men.

She stepped in to her ankle,
She stepped free and bold;
"Ohone, alas!" said that ladye,
"This water is wondrous cold."

The second step that she waded,
She waded to the knee;
Says she, "I'd fain wade farther in,
If I my love could see."

The neistan step that she waded,
She waded to the chin;
'Twas a whirlin' pot o' Clyde's water
She got sweet Willie in.

"O ye've had a cruel mither, Willie!
And I have had anither;
But we shall sleep in Clyde's water
Like sister and like brither."

* * * * *


In London was young Beichan born,
He longed strange countries for to see,
But he was ta'en by a savage Moor,
Who handled him right cruellie.

For he viewed the fashions of that land,
Their way of worship viewed he,
But to Mahound or Termagant
Would Beichan never bend a knee.

So in every shoulder they've putten a bore,
In every bore they've putten a tree,
And they have made him trail the wine
And spices on his fair bodie.

They've casten him in a dungeon deep,
Where he could neither hear nor see,
For seven years they've kept him there,
Till he for hunger's like to dee.

This Moor he had but ae daughter,
Her name was called Susie Pye,
And every day as she took the air,
Near Beichan's prison she passed by.

And so it fell upon a day,
About the middle time of Spring,
As she was passing by that way,
She heard young Beichan sadly sing.

All night long no rest she got,
Young Beichan's song for thinking on;
She's stown the keys from her father's head,
And to the prison strang is gone.

And she has opened the prison doors,
I wot she opened two or three,
Ere she could come young Beichan at,
He was locked up so curiouslie.

But when she cam' young Beichan till,
Sore wondered he that may to see;
He took her for some fair captive:
"Fair lady, I pray, of what countrie?"

"O have ye any lands," she said,
"Or castles in your own countrie,
That ye could give to a lady fair,
From prison strang to set you free?"

"Near London town I have a hall,
And other castles two or three;
I'll give them all to the lady fair
That out of prison will set me free."

"Give me the truth of your right hand,
The truth of it give unto me,
That for seven years ye'll no lady wed,
Unless it be alang with me."

"I'll give thee the truth of my right hand,
The truth of it I'll freely gie,
That for seven years I'll stay unwed,
For the kindness thou dost show to me."

And she has brib'd the proud warder,
Wi' mickle gold and white monie,
She's gotten the keys of the prison strang,
And she has set young Beichan free.

She's gi'en him to eat the good spice-cake,
She's gi'en him to drink the blude-red wine,
She's bidden him sometimes think on her,
That sae kindly freed him out o' pine.

And she has broken her finger-ring,
And to Beichan half of it gave she:
"Keep it, to mind you in foreign land
Of the lady's love that set you free.

"And set your foot on good ship-board,
And haste ye back to your ain countrie,
And before that seven years have an end,
Come back again, love, and marry me."

But lang ere seven years had an end,
She longed full sore her love to see,
So she's set her foot on good ship-board,
And turned her back on her ain countrie.

She sailA"d east, she sailA"d west,
Till to fair England's shore she came,
Where a bonny shepherd she espied,
Was feeding his sheep upon the plain.

"What news, what news, thou bonny shepherd?
What news hast thou to tell to me?"
"Such news I hear, ladie," he says,
"The like was never in this countrie.

"There is a wedding in yonder hall,
And ever the bells ring merrilie;
It is Lord Beichan's wedding-day
Wi' a lady fair o' high degree."

She's putten her hand into her pocket,
Gi'en him the gold and white monie;
"Hay, take ye that, my bonny boy,
All for the news thou tell'st to me."

When she came to young Beichan's gate,
She tirlA"d saftly at the pin;
So ready was the proud porter
To open and let this lady in.

"Is this young Beichan's hall," she said,
"Or is that noble lord within?"
"Yea, he's in the hall among them all,
And this is the day o' his weddin."

"And has he wed anither love?
And has he clean forgotten me?"
And sighin said that ladie gay,
"I wish I were in my ain countrie."

And she has ta'en her gay gold ring
That with her love she brake sae free;
Says, "Gie him that, ye proud porter,
And bid the bridegroom speak wi' me."

When the porter came his lord before,
He kneeled down low upon his knee:
"What aileth thee, my proud porter,
Thou art so full of courtesie?"

"I've been porter at your gates,
It's now for thirty years and three;
But the lovely lady that stands thereat,
The like o' her did I never see.

"For on every finger she has a ring,
And on her mid-finger she has three,
And meikle gold aboon her brow.
Sae fair a may did I never see."

It's out then spak the bride's mother,
And an angry woman, I wot, was she:
"Ye might have excepted our bonny bride,
And twa or three of our companie."

"O hold your tongue, thou bride's mother,
Of all your folly let me be;
She's ten times fairer nor the bride,
And all that's in your companie.

"And this golden ring that's broken in twa,
This half o' a golden ring sends she:
'Ye'll carry that to Lord Beichan,' she says,
'And bid him come an' speak wi' me.'

"She begs one sheave of your white bread,
But and a cup of your red wine,
And to remember the lady's love
That last relieved you out of pine."

"O well-a-day!" said Beichan then,
"That I so soon have married me!
For it can be none but Susie Pye,
That for my love has sailed the sea."

And quickly hied he down the stair;
Of fifteen steps he made but three;
He's ta'en his bonny love in his arms
And kist and kist her tenderlie.

"O hae ye ta'en anither bride?
And hae ye clean forgotten me?
And hae ye quite forgotten her
That gave you life and libertie?"

She lookit o'er her left shoulder,
To hide the tears stood in her ee:
"Now fare thee well, young Beichan," she says,
"I'll try to think no more on thee."

"O never, never, Susie Pye,
For surely this can never be,
Nor ever shall I wed but her
That's done and dreed so much for me."

Then out and spak the forenoon bride:
"My lord, your love it changeth soon.
This morning I was made your bride,
And another chose ere it be noon."

"O hold thy tongue, thou forenoon bride,
Ye're ne'er a whit the worse for me,
And whan ye return to your ain land,
A double dower I'll send with thee."

He's ta'en Susie Pye by the milkwhite hand,
And led her thro' the halls sae hie,
And aye as he kist her red-rose lips,
"Ye're dearly welcome, jewel, to me."

He's ta'en her by the milkwhite hand,
And led her to yon fountain-stane;
He's changed her name from Susie Pye,
And call'd her his bonny love, Lady Jane.

* * * * *


Gilderoy was a bonnie boy,
Had roses till his shoon,
His stockings were of silken soy,
Wi' garters hanging doun:
It was, I ween, a comely sight,
To see sae trim a boy;
He was my joy and heart's delight,
My winsome Gilderoy.

O sic twa charming e'en he had,
A breath as sweet as rose,
He never ware a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes;
He gained the love of ladies gay,
Nane e'er to him was coy;
Ah, wae is me! I mourn this day
For my dear Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy and I were born
Baith in one toun together,
We scant were seven years beforn
We 'gan to luve each ither;
Our daddies and our mammies they
Were fill'd wi' meikle joy,
To think upon the bridal day
Of me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,
Gude faith, I freely bought
A wedding sark of Holland fine,
Wi' dainty ruffles wrought;
And he gied me a wedding-ring,
Which I received wi' joy;
Nae lad nor lassie e'er could sing
Like me and Gilderoy.

Wi' meikle joy we spent our prime,
Till we were baith sixteen,
And aft we passed the langsam time
Amang the leaves sae green;
Aft on the banks we'd sit us there,
And sweetly kiss and toy;
Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair
My handsome Gilderoy.

O that he still had been content
Wi' me to lead his life!
But ah, his manfu' heart was bent
To stir in feats of strife.
And he in many a venturous deed
His courage bold wad try;
And now this gars my heart to bleed
For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he took,
The tears they wat mine e'e;
I gied him sic a parting look:
"My benison gang wi' thee!
God speed thee weel, my ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;
My heart is rent sith we maun part,
My handsome Gilderoy."

The Queen of Scots possessA"d nought
That my luve let me want;
For cow and ewe he to me brought,
And e'en when they were scant:
All these did honestly possess,
He never did annoy
Who never failed to pay their cess
To my luve Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy, baith far and near,
Was fear'd in every toun,
And bauldly bare awa' the gear
Of many a lawland loun:
For man to man durst meet him nane,
He was sae brave a boy;
At length with numbers he was ta'en,
My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws,
To hang a man for gear;
To reive of life for sic a cause,
As stealing horse or mare!
Had not these laws been made sae strick,
I ne'er had lost my joy,
Wi' sorrow ne'er had wat my cheek,
For my dear Gilderoy.

Gif Gilderoy had done amiss,
He might have banished been.
Ah, what sair cruelty is this,
To hang sic handsome men!
To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy!
Nae lady had so white a hand
As thee, my Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae 'fraid they were,
They bound him meikle strong,
To Edinburgh they took him there,
And on a gallows hung:
They hung him high aboon the rest,
He was sae trim a boy;
There died the youth whom I lo'ed best,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Sune as he yielded up his breath,
I bare his corpse away,
Wi' tears that trickled for his death,
I wash'd his comely clay;
And sicker in a grave sae deep
I laid the dear-lo'ed boy;
And now forever I maun weep
My winsome Gilderoy.

* * * * *


It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a falling,
That Sir John Graeme, in the West Country,
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.

He sent his men down through the town,
To the place where she was dwelling:
"O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan."

O hooly, hooly rose she up,
To the place where he was lying,
And when she drew the curtain by,
"Young man, I think you're dying."

"O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick,
And it's a' for Barbara Allan;"
"O the better for me ye's never be,
Tho your heart's blood were a spilling.

"O dinna ye mind, young man," said she,
"When ye was in the tavern a drinking,
That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?"

He turned his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing;
"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allan."

And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighing said, she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.

She had not gane a mile but twa,
When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
And every jow that the dead-bell gied,
It cry'd, Woe to Barbara Allan!

"O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it saft and narrow!
Since my love died for me to-day,
I'll die for him to-morrow."

* * * * *


The gard'ner stands in his bower door,
Wi' a primrose in his hand,
And by there cam' a leal maiden,
As jimp as a willow wand.

"O ladie, can ye fancy me,
For to be my bride?
Ye'se get a' the flowers in my garden,
To be to you a weed.

"The lily white sail be your smock;
It becomes your bodie best;
Your head sail be buskt wi' gilly-flower,
Wi' the primrose in your breast.

"Your goun sall be the sweet-william;
Your coat the camovine;
Your apron o' the sallads neat,
That taste baith sweet and fine.

"Your hose sall be the brade kail-blade,
That is baith brade and lang;
Narrow, narrow at the cute,
And brade, brade at the brawn.

"Your gloves sail be the marigold,
All glittering to your hand,
Weel spread owre wi' the blue blaewort,
That grows amang corn-land."

"O fare ye well, young man," she says,
"Fareweil, and I bid adieu;
If you can fancy me," she says,
"I canna fancy you.

"Sin' ye've provided a weed for me
Amang the simmer flowers,
It's I'se provide anither for you,
Amang the winter-showers:

"The new fawn snaw to be your smock;
It becomes your bodie best;
Your head sall be wrapt wi' the eastern wind,
And the cauld rain on your breast."

* * * * *


Lady Margaret sits in her bower door,
Sewing her silken seam;
She heard a note in Elmond's wood,
And wished she there had been.

She loot the seam fa' frae her side,
And the needle to her tae,
And she is aff to Elmond's wood
As fast as she could gae.

She hadna pu'd a nut, a nut,
Nor broken a branch but ane,
Till by there cam' a young hynd chiel,
Says, "Lady, lat alane.

"O why pu' ye the nut, the nut,
Or why brake ye the tree?
For I am forester o' this wood:
Ye should spier leave at me."

"I'll spier leave at na living man,
Nor yet will I at thee;
My father is king o'er a' this realm,
This wood belangs to me."

"You're welcome to the wood, Marg'ret,
You're welcome here to me;
A fairer bower than e'er you saw.
I'll bigg this night for thee."

He has bigged a bower beside the thorn,
He has fenced it up wi' stane,
And there within the Elmond wood,
They twa has dwelt their lane.

He kept her in the Elmond wood,
For twelve lang years and mair;
And seven fair sons to Hynd Etin,
Did that gay lady bear.

It fell out ance upon a day,
To the hunting he has gane;
And he has ta'en his eldest son,
To gang alang wi' him.

When they were in the gay greenwood,
They heard the mavis sing;
When they were up aboon the brae,
They heard the kirk bells ring.

"O I wad ask ye something, father,
An' ye wadna angry be!"
"Say on, say on, my bonny boy,
Ye'se nae be quarrell'd by me."

"My mither's cheeks are aft-times weet,
It's seldom they are dry;
What is't that gars my mither greet,
And sob sae bitterlie?"

"Nae wonder she suld greet, my boy,
Nae wonder she suld pine,
For it is twelve lang years and mair,
She's seen nor kith nor kin,
And it is twelve lang years and mair,
Since to the kirk she's been.

"Your mither was an Earl's daughter,
And cam' o' high degree,
And she might hae wedded the first in the land,
Had she nae been stown by me.

"For I was but her father's page,
And served him on my knee;
And yet my love was great for her,
And sae was hers for me."

"I'll shoot the laverock i' the lift,
The buntin on the tree,
And bring them to my mither hames
See if she'll merrier be."

It fell upon anither day,
This forester thought lang;
And he is to the hunting gane
The forest leaves amang.

Wi' bow and arrow by his side,
He took his path alane;
And left his seven young children
To bide wi' their mither at hame.

"O I wad ask ye something, mither,
An ye wadna angry be."
"Ask on, ask on, my eldest son;
Ask ony thing at me."

"Your cheeks are aft-times weet, mither;
You're greetin', as I can see."
"Nae wonder, nae wonder, my little son,
Nae wonder though I should dee!

"For I was ance an Earl's daughter,
Of noble birth and fame;
And now I'm the mither o' seven sons
Wha ne'er gat christendame."

He's ta'en his mither by the hand,
His six brithers also,
And they are on through Elmond-wood
As fast as they could go.

They wistna weel wha they were gaen,
And weary were their feet;
They wistna weel wha they were gaen,
Till they stopped at her father's gate.

"I hae nae money in my pocket,
But jewel-rings I hae three;
I'll gie them to you, my little son,
And ye'll enter there for me.

"Ye'll gie the first to the proud porter,
And he will lat you in;
Ye'll gie the next to the butler-boy,
And he will show you ben.

"Ye'll gie the third to the minstrel
That's harping in the ha',
And he'll play gude luck to the bonny boy
That comes frae the greenwood shaw."

He gied the first to the proud porter,
And he opened and lat him in;
He gied the next to the butler-boy,
And he has shown him ben;

He gied the third to the minstrel
Was harping in the ha',
And he played gude luck to the bonny boy
That cam' frae the greenwood shaw.

Now when he cam' before the Earl,
He louted on his knee;
The Earl he turned him round about,
And the saut tear blint his e'e.

"Win up, win up, thou bonny boy,
Gang frae my companie;
Ye look sae like my dear daughter,
My heart will burst in three!"

"If I look like your dear daughter,
A wonder it is nane;
If I look like your dear daughter,
I am her eldest son."

"O tell me soon, ye little wee boy,
Where may my Margaret be?"
"She's e'en now standing at your gates.
And my six brithers her wi'."

"O where are a' my porter-boys
That I pay meat and fee,
To open my gates baith braid and wide,
And let her come in to me?"

When she cam' in before the Earl,
She fell doun low on her knee:
"Win up, win up, my daughter dear;
This day ye'se dine wi' me."

"Ae bit I canna eat, father,
Ae drop I canna drink,
Till I see Etin, my husband dear;
Sae lang for him I think!"

"O where are a' my rangers bold
That I pay meat and fee,
To search the forest far and wide,
And bring Hynd Etin to me?"

Out it speaks the little wee boy:
"Na, na, this maunna be;
Without ye grant a free pardon,
I hope ye'll na him see!"

"O here I grant a free pardon,
Well sealed wi' my ain han';
And mak' ye search for Hynd Etin,
As sune as ever ye can."

They searched the country braid and wide,
The forest far and near,
And they found him into Elmond-wood,
Tearing his yellow hair.

"Win up, win up now, Hynd Etin,
Win up and boun' wi' me;
For we are come frae the castle,
And the Earl wad fain you see."

"O lat him tak' my head," he says,
"Or hang me on a tree;
For sin' I've lost my dear lady,
My life's nae worth to me!"

"Your head will na be touched, Etin,
Nor sall you hang on tree;
Your lady's in her father's court,
And all he wants is thee."

When he cam' in before the Earl,
He louted on his knee:
"Win up, win up now, Hynd Etin;
This day ye'se dine wi' me."

As they were at their dinner set,
The boy he asked a boon:
"I wold we were in haly kirk,
To get our christendoun.

"For we hae lived in gude greenwood
These twelve lang years and ane;
But a' this time since e'er I mind
Was never a kirk within."

"Your asking's na sae great, my boy,
But granted it sall be:
This day to haly kirk sall ye gang,
And your mither sall gang you wi'."

When she cam' to the haly kirk,
She at the door did stan';
She was sae sunken doun wi' shame,
She couldna come farther ben.

Then out it spak' the haly priest,
Wi' a kindly word spak' he:
"Come ben, come ben, my lily-flower,
And bring your babes to me."

* * * * *


It's Lamkin was a mason good
As ever built wi' stane;
He built Lord Wearie's castle,
But payment gat he nane.

"O pay me, Lord Wearie,
Come, pay me my fee:"
"I canna pay you, Lamkin,
For I maun gang o'er the sea."

"O pay me now, Lord Wearie,
Come, pay me out o' hand:"
"I canna pay you, Lamkin,
Unless I sell my land."

"O gin ye winna pay me,
I here sall mak' a vow,
Before that ye come hame again,
Ye sall hae cause to rue."

Lord Wearie got a bonny ship,
To sail the saut sea faem;
Bade his lady weel the castle keep,
Ay till he should come hame.

But the nourice was a fause limmer
As e'er hung on a tree;
She laid a plot wi' Lamkin,
Whan her lord was o'er the sea.

She laid a plot wi' Lamkin,
When the servants were awa',
Loot him in at a little shot-window,
And brought him to the ha'.

"O where's a' the men o' this house,
That ca' me Lamkin?"
"They're at the barn-well thrashing;
'Twill be lang ere they come in."

"And where's the women o' this house,
That ca' me Lamkin?"
"They're at the far well washing;
'Twill be lang ere they come in."

"And where's the bairns o' this house,
That ca' me Lamkin?"
"They're at the school reading;
'Twill be night or they come hame."

"O where's the lady o' this house,
That ca's me Lamkin?"
"She's up in her bower sewing,
But we soon can bring her down."

Then Lamkin's tane a sharp knife,
That hang down by his gaire,
And he has gi'en the bonny babe
A deep wound and a sair.

Then Lamkin he rocked,
And the fause nourice she sang,
Till frae ilka bore o' the cradle
The red blood out sprang.

Then out it spak' the lady,
As she stood on the stair:
"What ails my bairn, nourice,
That he's greeting sae sair?

"O still my bairn, nourice,
O still him wi' the pap!"
"He winna still, lady,
For this nor for that."

"O still my bairn, nourice,
O still him wi' the wand!"
"He winna still, lady,
For a' his father's land."

"O still my bairn, nourice,
O still him wi' the bell!"
"He winna still, lady,
Till you come down yoursel."

O the firsten step she steppit,
She steppit on a stane;
But the neisten step she steppit,
She met him Lamkin.

"O mercy, mercy, Lamkin,
Hae mercy upon me!
Though you've ta'en my young son's life,
Ye may let mysel be."

"O sall I kill her, nourice,
Or sall I lat her be?"
"O kill her, kill her, Lamkin,
For she ne'er was good to me."

"O scour the bason, nourice,
And mak' it fair and clean,
For to keep this lady's heart's blood,
For she's come o' noble kin."

"There need nae bason, Lamkin,
Lat it run through the floor;
What better is the heart's blood
O' the rich than o' the poor?"

But ere three months were at an end,
Lord Wearie cam' again;
But dowie, dowie was his heart
When first he cam' hame.

"O wha's blood is this," he says,
"That lies in the chamer?"
"It is your lady's heart's blood;
'Tis as clear as the lamer."

"And wha's blood is this," he says,
"That lies in my ha'?"
"It is your young son's heart's blood;
'Tis the clearest ava."

O sweetly sang the black-bird
That sat upon the tree;
But sairer grat Lamkin,
When he was condemnd to die.

And bonny sang the mavis,
Out o' the thorny brake;
But sairer grat the nourice,
When she was tied to the stake.

* * * * *


Four and twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba',
And up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh,
The flower amang them a'.

He kicked the ba' there wi' his foot,
And keppit it wi' his knee,
Till even in at the Jew's window
He gart the bonny ba' flee.

"Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid,
Cast out that ba' o' mine."
"Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter,
"Till ye come up an' dine.

"Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,
Come up and get the ba'."
"I winna come, I mayna come,
Without my bonny boys a'."

She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden,
Where the grass grew lang and green,
She's pu'd an apple red and white,
To wyle the bonny boy in.

She's wyled him in through ae chamber,
She's wyled him in through twa,
She's wyled him into the third chamber,
And that was the warst o' a'.

She's tied the little boy, hands and feet,
She's pierced him wi' a knife,
She's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup,
And twinn'd him o' his life.

She row'd him in a cake o' lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep,
She cast him into a deep draw-well,
Was fifty fathom deep.

When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And every bairn went hame,
Then ilka lady had her young son,
But Lady Helen had nane.

She's row'd her mantle her about,
And sair, sair 'gan she weep;
And she ran unto the Jew's house,
When they were all asleep.

"My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh,
I pray thee to me speak!"
"Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-well
Gin ye your son wad seek."

Lady Helen ran to the deep draw-well,
And knelt upon her knee:
"My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here,
I pray thee speak to me!"

"The lead is wondrous heavy, mither,
The well is wondrous deep;
A keen penknife sticks in my heart,
It is hard for me to speak.

"Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,
Fetch me my winding-sheet;
And at the back o' merry Lincoln,
It's there we twa sall meet."

Now Lady Helen she's gane hame,
Made him a winding-sheet;
And at the back o' merry Lincoln,
The dead corpse did her meet.

And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln
Without men's hands were rung;
And a' the books o' merry Lincoln
Were read without men's tongue:

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