The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 4/Chapter 96

'O 'rrS me o my gay goss-hawk, That he can speak and flee; He'll carry a letter to my love, Bring back another to me.' 'O how can I your true-love ken, Or how can I her know? Whan frae her mouth I never heard couth, Nor wi my eyes her saw.' 'O well sal ye my true-love ken, As soon as you her see; For, of a' the flowrs in fair Englan, The fairest flowr is she. 'At even at my love's bowr-door There grows a bowing birk, An sit ye down and sing thereon, As she gangs to the kirk. 'An four-an-twenty ladies fair Will wash and go to kirk, But well shall ye my true-love ken, For she wears goud on her skirt. 'An four and twenty gay ladies Will to the mass repair, But well sal ye my true-love ken, For she wears goud on her hair.' O even at that lady's bowr-door There grows a bowin birk, And she set down and sang thereon, As she ged to the kirk. 'O eet and drink, my marys a', The wine flows you among, Till I gang to my shot-window, An hear yon bonny bird's song. 'Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, The song ye sang the streen, For I ken by your sweet singin You're frae my true-love sen.' O first he sang a merry song, An then he sang a grave, An then he peckd his feathers gray, To her the letter gave. 'Ha, there's a letter frae your love, He says he sent you three; He canna wait your love langer, But for your sake he'll die. 'He bids you write a letter to him; He says he's sent you five; He canno wait your love langer, Tho you're the fairest woman alive.' 'Ye bid him bake his bridal-bread, And brew his bridal-ale, An I'll meet him in fair Scotlan Lang, lang or it be stale.' She's doen her to her father dear, Fa'n low down on her knee: 'A boon, a boon, my father dear, I pray you, grant it me.' 'Ask on, ask on, my daughter, An granted it sal be; Except ae squire in fair Scotlan, An him you sall never see.' 'The only boon, my father dear, That I do crave of the, Is, gin I die in southin lands, In Scotland to bury me. 'An the firstin kirk that ye come till, Ye gar the bells be rung, An the nextin kirk that ye come till, Ye gar the mess be sung. 'An the thirdin kirk that ye come till, You deal gold for my sake, An the fourthin kirk that ye come till, You tarry there till night.' She is doen her to her bigly bowr, As fast as she coud fare, An she has tane a sleepy draught, That she had mixed wi care. She's laid her down upon her bed, An soon she's fa'n asleep, And soon oer every tender limb Cauld death began to creep. Whan night was flown, an day was come, Nae ane that did her see But thought she was as surely dead As ony lady coud be. Her father an her brothers dear Gard make to her a bier; The tae half was o guide red gold, The tither o silver clear. Her mither an her sisters fair Gard work for her a sark; The tae half was o cambrick fine, The tither o needle wark. The firstin kirk that they came till, They gard the bells be rung, An the nextin kirk that they came till, They gard the mess be sung. The thirdin kirk that they came till, They dealt gold for her sake, An the fourthin kirk that they came till, Lo, there they met her make! 'Lay down, lay down the bigly bier, Lat me the dead look on;' Wi cherry cheeks and ruby lips She lay an smil'd on him. 'O ae sheave o your bread, true-love, An ae glass o your wine, For I hae fasted for your sake These fully days is nine. 'Gang hame, gang hame, my seven bold brothers, Gang hame and sound your horn; An ye may boast in southin lans Your sister's playd you scorn.'

then spoke the king of Scotland, And he spak wondrous clear: Where will I get a boy, and a pretty little boy, That will my tidings bear? Out then spak a pretty little bird, As it sat on a brier: What will ye gie me, king of Scotland, he said, If I your tidings will bear? 'One wing of the beaten gowd, And another of the silver clear; It's all unto thee, my pretty little bird, If thou my tidings will bear.' The bird flew high, the bird flew low, This bird flew to and fro, Until that he came to the king of England's dochter, Who was sitting in her bower-window. 'Here is a gift, a very rare gift, And the king has sent you three; He says if your father and mother winna let, You may come privately. 'Here is a gift, and a very rare gift, The king has sent you five; He says he will not wait any longer on you, If there be another woman alive.' She's away to her mother dear, Made a low beck on her knee: 'What is your asking of me, daughter? Queen of Scotland you never shall be.' 'That's not my asking of thee, mother, That's not my asking of thee; But that if I die in merry England, In Scotland you will bury me.' She's awa to her father dear, Made a low beck on her knee: 'What is your asking of me, daughter? Queen of Scotland you never shall be.' 'That's not my asking of thee, father, That's not my asking of thee; But that if I die in merry England, In Scotland you will bury me.' She walked to and fro, She walked up and down, But ye wud na spoken three words to an end Till she was in a deep swoon. Out then spoke an auld witch-wife, And she spoke random indeed: Honoured madam, I would have you to try Three drops of the burning lead. Her mother went weeping round and round, She dropped one on her chin; 'Och and alace,' her mother did say, 'There is no breath within!' Her mother went weeping round and round, She dropt one on her briest; 'Och and alace,' her mother did cry, 'For she's died without a priest!' Her mother went weeping round and round, She dropped one on her toe; 'Och and alace,' her mother did cry, 'To Scotland she must goe! 'Call down, call down her sisters five, To make to her a smock; The one side of the bonny beaten gold, And the other of the needle-work. 'Call down, call down her brothers seven, To make for her a bier; The one side of the bonny beaten gold, And the other of the silver clear.' Many a mile by land they went, And many a league by sea, Until that they came to the king of Scotland, Who was walking in his own valley. 'Here is a gift, and a very rare gift, And you to have made her your own; But now she is dead, and she's new come from her steed, And she's ready to lay in the ground.' O he has opened the lid of the coffin, And likewise the winding sheet, And thrice he has kissed her cherry, cherry cheek, And she smiled on him full sweet. 'One bit of your bread,' she says, 'And one glass of your wine; It's all for you and your sake I've fasted long days nine. 'One glass of your wine,' she says, 'And one bit of your bread; For it's all for you and for your sake I suffered the burning lead. 'Go home, go home, my brothers seven, You may go blow your horn; And you may tell it in merry England That your sister has given you the scorn. 'Go home, go home, my brothers seven, Tell my sisters to sew their seam; And you may tell it in merry England That your sister she is queen.'

'O is me, my jolly goshawk, That ye can speak and flee, For ye can carry a love-letter To my true-love from me.' 'O how can I carry a letter to her, When her I do not knaw? I bear the lips to her never spake, And the eyes that her never saw.' 'The thing of my love's face is white It's that of dove or maw; The thing of my love's face that's red Is like blood shed on snaw. 'And when you come to the castle, Light on the bush of ash, And sit you there and sing our loves, As she comes from the mass. 'And when she goes into the house, Sit ye upon the whin; And sit you there and sing our loves, As she goes out and in.' And when he flew to that castel, He lighted on the ash; And there he sat and sang their loves, As she came from the mass. And when she went into the house, He flew unto the whin; And there he sat and sang their loves, As she went out and in. 'Come hither, come hither, my maidens all, And sip red wine anon, Till I go to my west window, And hear a birdie's moan.' She's gone unto her 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 twa; And tell him where he can see you, Or he cannot live ava.' 'I send him the rings from my white fingers, The garlands off my hair; I send him the heart that's in my breast: What would my love have mair? And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland, Ye'll bid him meet me there.' She hied her to her father dear, As fast as gang could she: 'An asking, an asking, my father dear, An asking ye grant me; That, if I die in fair England, In Scotland bury me. 'At the first kirk of fair Scotland, You cause the bells be rung; At the second kirk of fair Scotland, You cause the mass be sung. 'At the third kirk of fair Scotland, You deal gold for my sake; And the fourth kirk of fair Scotland, O there you'll bury me at. 'And now, my tender father dear, This asking grant you me;' 'Your asking is but small,' he said, 'Weel granted it shall be.' She hied her to her mother dear, As fast as gang could she: 'An asking, an asking, my mother dear, An asking ye grant me; That if I die in fair England In Scotland bury me. 'And now, my tender mother dear, This asking grant you me;' 'Your asking is but small,' she said, 'Weel granted it shall be.' She hied her to her sister dear, As fast as gang could she: 'An asking, an asking, my sister dear, An asking ye grant me; That if I die in fair England, In Scotland bury me. 'And now, my tender sister dear, This asking grant you me:' 'Your asking is but small,' she said, 'Weel granted it shall be.' She hied her to her seven brothers, As fast as gang could she: 'An asking, an asking, my brothers seven, An asking ye grant me; That if I die in fair England, In Scotland ye bury me. 'And now, my tender brothers dear, This asking grant you me:' 'Your asking is but small,' they said, 'Weel granted it shall be.' Then down as dead that lady drapd, Beside her mother's knee; Then out it spoke an auld witch-wife, By the fire-side sat she. Says, Drap the hot lead on her cheek, And drop it on her chin, And drop it on her rose-red lips, And she will speak again: For much a lady young will do, To her true-love to win. They drapd the het lead on her cheek, So did they on her chin; They drapt it on her red-rose lips, But they breathed none again. Her brothers they went to a room, To make to her a bier; The boards of it was cedar wood, And the plates ow it gold so clear. Her sisters they went to a room, To make to her a sark; The cloth of it was satin fine, She bids you meet her there.' And the steeking silken wark. 'But well is me, my jolly goshawk, That ye can speak and flee; Come shew to my any love-tokens That you have brought to me.' 'She sends you the rings from her fingers, The garlands from her hair; She sends you the heart within her breast; And what would you have mair? And at the fourth kirk of fair Scotland, She bids you meet her there.' 'Come hither, all my merry young men, And drink the good red wine; For we must on to fair Scotland, To free my love frae pine.' At the first kirk of fair Scotland, They gart the bells be rung; At the second kirk of fair Scotland, They gart the mass be sung. At the third kirk of fair Scotland, They dealt gold for her sake; And the fourth kirk of fair Scotland Her true-love met them at. 'Set down, set down the corpse,' he said, 'Till I look on the dead; The last time that I saw her face, She ruddy was and red; But now, alas, and woe is me! She's wallowit like a weed.' He rent the sheet upon her face, A little above her chin; With lily-white cheeks, and lemin een, She lookt and laughd to him. 'Give me a chive of your bread, my love, A bottle of your wine; For I have fasted for your love These long days nine; There's not a steed in your stable But would have been dead ere syne. 'Go home, go home, my seven brothers, Go home and blow the horn; For you can say in the south of England Your sister gave you a scorn. 'I came not here to fair Scotland To lye amang the meal; But I came here to fair Scotland To wear the silks so weel. 'I came not here to fair Scotland To ly amang the dead; But I came here to fair Scotland To wear the gold so red.'

'O 'rr I get a pretty little bird That'll go my errand soon, That will fly to the Queen of England's dochter, And bid my trew-luve come?' 'Here am I, a pretty little bird, That'll go your errands soon, That will fly to the Queen of England's daughter, And bid your trew-luve come.' This wee birdie's taken its flight, And it's flown owre the sea, Until it cam to the Queen of England's daughter; She's sitting in her bower-windie. Then out bespoke these nine ladies, As they sat in a ring: 'O we'll awa to the west window, To hear this birdie sing.' This wee birdie's taken its flight, And it's flown owre them a', And at the lady's left shoulder It loot a letter fa. She has taken the letter up, And read it speedilie: 'O mother, the queen, O mother, the queen, Grant this request to me; Whenever I do chance for to die, In Scotland gar bury me.' 'Bring to me the red, red lead, And rub it on her chin; It's Oh and alace for my dochter Janet! But there is not a breath within. 'Bring to me the red, red lead, And rub it on her toe; It's Oh and alace for my daughter Janet! To Scotland she must go.' 'Rise up, rise up, ye seven sisters, And make her winding sheet, With the one side of the beaten gold, And the other o the needle-wark. 'Rise up, rise up, ye seven brethren, And make her carriage-bier, With the one side of the beaten gold, And the other o the silver clear.' 'They've carried east, they've carried west, They've carried her high and low, Until that they came to the king of Scotland, Was sitting in his bower-window. 'Here is a token of your trew-love, And here is a token come down, For she is dead, and she's ready to be buried, And she wants to be laid in your ground.' He's taen out his mickle knife, And tore her winding sheet, And there she lay like the crimson red, And she smiled in his face so sweet. 'Go home, go home, you seven brethren, Go home and saw your corn, For she if fit for the queen of Scotland now, And she's gien you the scorn. 'Go home, go home, you seven sisters, Go home and sew your seam, For she is fit for the queen of Scotland now, And she's ready to be my queen.'

'O, waly, my gay goss-hawk, Gin your feathering be sheen!' 'And waly, waly, my master dear, Gin ye look pale and lean! 'O have ye tint at tournament Your sword, or yet your spear? Or mourn ye for the southern lass, Whom you may not win near?' 'I have not tint at tournament My sword, nor yet my spear, But sair I mourn for my true-love, Wi mony a bitter tear. 'But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, Ye can baith speak and flee; Ye sall carry a letter to my love, Bring an answer back to me.' 'But how sall I your true-love find, Or how suld I her know? I bear a tongue neer wi her spake, An eye that neer her saw.' 'O weel sall ye my true-love ken, Sae sune as ye her see, For of a' the flowers of fair England, The fairest flower is she. 'The red that's on my true-love's cheik Is like blood-drops on the snaw; The white that is on her breast bare Like the down o the white sea-maw. 'And even at my love's bouer-door There grows a flowering birk, And ye maun sit and sing thereon, As she gangs to the kirk. 'And four-and-twenty fair ladyes Will to the mass repair, But weel may ye my ladye ken, The fairest ladye there.' Lord William has written a love-letter, Put it under his pinion gray, And he is awa to southern land, As fast as wings can gae. And even at that ladye's bour There grew a flowering birk, And he sat down and sang thereon, As she gaed to the kirk. And weel he kent that ladye feir Amang her maidens free, For the flower that springs in May morning Was not sae sweet as she. [He lighted at the ladye's yate, And sat him on a pin, And sang fu sweet the notes o love, Till a' was cosh within.] And first he sang a low, low note, And syne he sang a clear, And aye the oerword of the sang Was, Your love can no win here. 'Feast on, feast on, my maidens a', The wine flows you amang, While I gang to my shot-window, And hear yon bonny bird's sang. 'Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, The sang ye sung yestreen; For weel I ken by your sweet singing Ye are frae my true-love sen.' O first he sang a merry sang, And syne he sang a grave, And syne he peckd his feathers gray, To her the letter gave. 'Have there a letter from Lord William; He says he's sent ye three; He canna wait your love langer, But for your sake he'll die.' 'Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, And brew his bridal ale, And I sall meet him at Mary's kirk, Lang, lang ere it be stale.' The lady's gane to her chamber, And a moanfu woman was she, As gin she had taen a sudden brash, And were about to die. 'A boon, a boon, my father deir, A boon I beg of thee!' 'Ask not that paughty Scotish lord, For him you neer shall see. 'But, for your honest asking else, Weel granted it shall be:' 'Then, gin I die in southern land, In Scotland gar bury me. 'And the first kirk that ye come to, Ye's gar the mass be sung, And the next kirk that ye come to, Ye's gar the bells be rung. 'And when ye come to St Mary's kirk, Ye's tarry there till night:' And so her father pledged his word, And so his promise plight. She has taen her to her bigly bour, As fast as she could fare, And she has drank a sleepy draught, That she had mixed wi care. And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek, That was sae bright of blee, And she seemed to be as surely dead As any one could be. They drapt a drap o the burning red gowd, They drapt it on her chin; 'And ever alas,' her mother cried, 'There is nae life within!' They drapt a drap o the burning red gowd, They drapt it on her breast-bane; 'Alas,' her seven bauld brothers said, 'Our sister's dead and gane!' Then up arose her seven brethren, And hewd to her a bier; They hewd it frae the solid aik, Laid it oer wi silver clear. Then up and gat her seven sisters, And sewed to her a kell, And every steek that they pat in Sewd to a siller bell. The first Scots kirk that they cam to, They gard the bells be rung; The next Scots kirk that they cam to, They gard the mass be sung. But when they cam to St Mary's kirk, There stude spearmen all on raw, And up and started Lord William, The chieftane amang them a'. 'Set down, set down the bier,' he said, 'Let me looke her upon:' But as soon as Lord William touched her hand, Her colour began to come. She brightened like the lily-flower, Till her pale colour was gone; With rosy cheek, and ruby lip, She smiled her love upon. 'A morsel of your bread, my lord, And one glass of your wine, For I hae fasted these three lang days, All for your sake and mine. 'Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers, Gae hame and blaw your horn; I trow you wad hae gien me the skaith, But I've gien you the scorn. 'Ah woe to you, you light woman, An ill death may you die! For we left father and mother at hame Breaking their hearts for thee.'

got three drops of boiling lead, And dropped them on her hand: 'Oh and alas, my daughter dear, I'd rather all my land!' She got three drops of boiling lead, And dropped them on her chin: 'Oh and alas, my daughter dear, There is no life within!' She got three drops of boiling lead, And dropped them on her toe: 'Oh and alas, my daughter dear, To fair Scotland you must go!' 'Give me a cake of the new made bread, And a cup of the new made wine, For for your sake, Lord Thomas,' she said, 'I fasted those days nine.'

grass grew green on Lanark plains, And fruit and flowers did spring, A Scottish squire in cheerfu strains, Sae merrily thus did sing: 'O well fails me o my parrot That he can speak and flee; For he will carry love-letters Between my love and me. 'And well fails me o my parrot He can baith speak and gang; And he will carry love-letters To the maid in South England.' 'O how shall I your love find out? Or how shall I her know? When my tongue with her never spake, Nor my eyes her ever saw.' 'O what is red of her is red As blude drappd on the snaw; And what is white o her is white As milk, or the sea-maw. 'Even before that lady's yetts You'll find a bowing birk; And there ye'll sit, and sing thereon, Till she gaes to the kirk. 'Then even before that lady's yetts You'll find a bowing ash; And ye may sit and sing thereon, Till she comes frae the mass. 'And even before that lady's window You'll find a bed o tyme; And ye may sit and sing thereon, Till she sits down to dine. 'Even abeen that lady's window There's fixd a siller pin; And a' these words that I tell you, Ye'll sit and sing therein. 'Ye'll bid her send her love a letter, For he has sent her five; And he'll never send anither ane, To nae woman alive. 'Ye'll bid her send her love a letter, For he has sent her seven; And he'll never send anither send, To nae maid under heaven.' This little bird then took his flight, Beyond the raging sea, And lighted at that lady's yetts, On tower o gowd sae hie. Even before that lady's yetts He found a bowing birk; And there he sat, and sang thereon, Till she went to the kirk. Even before that lady's yetts He found a bowing ash; And then he sat and sang thereon, Till she came frae the mass. Even before that lady's window He found a bed o tyme; And then he sat and sang thereon, Till she sat down to dine. Even abeen that lady's window Was fixd a siller pin; And a' the word that were tauld him, He sat and sang them in. 'You're bidden send your love a letter, For he has sent you five; Or he'll never send anither send, To nae woman alive. 'You're bidden send your love a letter, For he has sent you seven; And he'll never send anither send, To nae maid under heaven.' 'Sit in the hall, good ladies all, And drink the wine sae red, And I will to yon small window, And hear you bridie's leed. 'Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, The sang ye sung just now;' 'I'll sing nae mair, ye lady fair, My errand is to you.' 'If ye be my true-lovie's bird, Sae well's I will you ken; You will gae in at my gown-sleeve, Come out at my gown-hem.' 'That I am come frae your true-love, You soon shall see right plain; And read these lines below my wing, That I hae brought frae him.' When she looked these lines upon, She read them, and she leuch: 'O well fails me, my true-love, now, O this I hae eneuch. 'Here is the broach on my breast-bane, The garlings frae my hair, Likewise the heart that is within; What woud my love hae mair? 'The nearest kirk in fair Scotland, Ye'll bid him meet me there:' She has gane to her dear father, Wi heart perplexd and sair. When she came to her auld father, Fell low down on her knee: 'An asking, asking, father dear, I pray you grant it me.' 'Ask what you will, my dear daughter, And I will grant it thee; Unless to marry yon Scottish squire; That's what shall never be.' 'O that's the asking, father,' she said, 'That I'll neer ask of thee; But if I die in South England, In Scotland ye'll bury me.' h5The asking's nae sae great, daughter, But granted it shall be; And tho ye die in South England, In Scotland we'll bury thee.' She has gane to her step-mother, Fell low down on her knee: 'An asking, asking, mother dear, I pray you grant it me.' 'Ask what ye please, my lily-white dove, And granted it shall be:' 'If I die in South England, In Scotland bury me.' 'Had these words spoke been in again, I woud not granted thee; You hae a love in fair Scotland, Sae fain's you woud be tee.' She scarce was to her chamber gane Nor yet was well set down, Till on the sofa where she sat Fell a deadly swoon. Her father and her seven brithers, They made for her a bier; The one half o 't was gude red gowd, The other siller clear. Her seven sisters were employed In making her a sark; The one half o 't was cambric fine, The other needle-wark. Then out it speaks her auld step-dame, Sat on the sofa's end: Ye'll drap the het lead on her cheek, Sae do you on her chin; For women will use mony a wile Their true-loves for to win. Then up it raise her eldest brither, Into her bower he's gane; Then in it came her youngest brither, The het leed to drap on. He drapt it by her cheek, her cheek, Sae did he by her chin; Sae did he by her comely hause; He knew life was therein. The bier was made wi red gowd laid, Sae curious round about; A private entrance there contriv'd, That her breath might win out. The first an kirk in fair Scotland, They gard the bells be rung; The niest an kirk in fair Scotland, They causd the mass be sung. The third an kirk in fair Scotland, They passd it quietly by; The fourth an kirk in fair Scotland, Clerk Sandy did them spy. 'O down ye'll set this corpse o clay, Lat me look on the dead; For I may sigh, and say, alas! For death has nae remeid.' Then he has cut her winding sheet A little below her chin, And wi her sweet ruby lips She sweetly smil'd on him. 'Gie me a sheave o your white bread, A bottle o your wine; For I hae fasted for your sake Fully these lang days nine. 'Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brithers, Gae hame and blaw your trumpet; And ye mat tell to your step-dame This day she is affronted. 'I camna here to fair Scotland To lye amo the dead; But came to be Clerk Sandy's wife, And lay gowd on my head. 'Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brithers, Gae hame and blaw your horn; And ye may tell in fair England In Scotland ye got the scorn. 'I came not here to fair Scotland To mix amang the clay; But came to be Clerk Sandy's wife, And wear gowd to my tae.' 'Sin ye hae gien us this ae scorn, We shall gie you anither; Ye sall hae naething to live upon But the bier that brought you hither.'

Lord William was walkin i the garden green, Viewin the roses red, An there he spyed his bonnie spier-hawk, Was fleein aboon his head. 'O could ye speak, my bonnie spier-hawk, As ye hae wings to flee, Then ye wad carry a luve-letter Atween my love an me.' 'But how can I your true-love ken? Or how can I her know? Or how can I your true-love ken, The face I never saw?' 'Ye may esily my love ken Amang them ye never saw; The red that's on o my love's cheek Is like bluid drapt on the snaw.' 'O what will be my meat, master? An what'll be my fee? An what will be the love-tokens That ye will send wi me?' 'Ye may tell my love I'll send her a kiss, A kiss, aye, will I three; If ever she come [to] fair Scotland, My wedded wife she's be. 'Ye may tell my love I'll send her a kiss, A kiss, aye, will I twae; An ever she come to fair Scotland, I the red gold she sall gae.' The hawk flew high, an she flew leugh, An south aneath the sun, Untill it cam, etc. 'Sit still, sit still, my six sisters, An sew your silken seam, Till I gae to my bower-window An hear yon Scottish bird sing.' Than she flew high, an she flew leugh, An' far aboon the wa; She drapit to that ladie's side, An loot the letter fa. 'What news, what news, my bonnie burd? An what word carry ye? An what are a' the love-tokens My love has sent to me?' 'O ye may send your love a kiss, For he has sent ye three; Ye hae the heart within his buik, What mair can he send thee?' 'O I will send my love a kiss, A kiss, I, will I three; If I can win to fair Scotland, His wedded wife I'll be. 'O I will send my love a kiss, An the caim out o my hair; He has the hart that's in my buik, What can I send him mair? 'An gae yer ways, my bonnie burd, An tell my love frae me, If [I] be na there gin Martinmas, Gin Yool I there will be.' 'Twas up an spak her ill step-minnie, An ill deed may she die! 'Yer daughter Janet's taen her bed, An she'll do nought but die.' 'An askin, an askin, dear father, An askin I crave o thee; If I should die just at this time, In Scotland burry me.' 'There's room eneugh in wide England To burry thee an me; But sould ye die, my dear daughter, I Scotland I'll burry thee.' She's warnd the wrights in lilly Londeen, She's warnd them ane an a', To mak a kist wi three windows, The cauler air to blaw. 'O will ye gae, my six sisters, An sew to me a sheet, The tae half o the silk sae fine, The tother o cambric white.' Then they hae askit the surgeon at, etc. Then said her cruel step-minnie, Take ye the boilin lead An some o 't drap on her bosom; We'll see gif she be dead. Then boilin lead than they hae taen An drappit on her breast; 'Alas! alas!' than her father he cried, 'For she's dead without the priest!' She neither chatterd in her teeth Nor shivert wi her chin; 'Alas! alas!' her father cried, 'For there nae life within!' 'It's nine lang days, an nine lang nights, She's wantit meat for me; But for nine days, nine langer nights, Her face ye salna see.' He's taen the coffin wi his fit, Gar it in flinders flie, etc. 'Fetch me,' she said, a+e cake o yer bread An a wi drap o your wine, For luve o you an for your sake I've fastit lang nights nine.' 'Twas up then spak an eldrin knight, A grey-haird knight was he; 'Now ye hae left yer auld father, For you he's like to die. 'An ye hae left yer sax sisters Lamentin a' for you; I wiss that this, my dear ladie, Ye near may hae to rue.' 'Commend me to my auld father, If eer ye come him niest; But nought say to my ill step-minnie, Gard burn me on the breist. 'Commend me to my six sisters, If ye gang bak again; But nought say to my ill step-minnie, Gard burn me on the chin. 'Commend me to my brethren bald, An ever ye them see; If ever they come to fair Scotland They's fare nae war than me. 'For I cam na to fair Scotland To lie amang the dead, But I cam down to fair Scotland To wear goud on my head. 'Nor did I come to fair Scotland To rot amang the clay, But I cam to fair Scotland To wear goud ilka day.'