The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 8/Chapter 235

Earl of Aboyne he's courteous and kind, He's kind to every woman, And the Earl of Aboyne he's courteous and kind, But he stays ower lang in London. The ladie she stood on her stair-head, Beholding his grooms a coming; She knew by their livery and raiment so rare That their last voyage was from London. 'My grooms all, ye'll be well in call, Hold all the stables shining; With a bretther o degs ye'll clear up my nags, Sin my gude lord Aboyne is a coming. 'My minstrels all, be well in call, Hold all my galleries ringing; With music springs ye'll try well your strings, Sin my gude lord's a coming. 'My cooks all, be well in call, Wi pots and spits well ranked; And nothing shall ye want that ye call for, Sin my gude Lord Aboyne's a coming. 'My chamber-maids, ye'll dress up my beds, Hold all my rooms in shining; With Dantzic waters ye'll sprinkle my walls, Sin my good lord's a coming.' Her shoes was of the small cordain, Her stockings silken twisting; Cambrick so clear was the pretty lady's smock, And her stays o the braided sattin. Her coat was of the white sarsenent, Set out wi silver quiltin, And her gown was o the silk damask, Set about wi red gold walting. Her hair was like the threads of gold, Wi the silk and sarsanet shining, Wi her fingers sae white, and the gold rings sae grite, To welcome her lord from London. Sae stately she steppit down the stair, And walkit to meet him coming; Said, O ye'r welcome, my bonny lord, Ye'r thrice welcome home from London! 'If this be so that ye let me know, Ye'll come kiss me for my coming, For the morn should hae been my bonny wedding-day Had I stayed the night in London.' Then she turned her about wi an angry look, O for such a sorry woman! 'If this be so that ye let me know, Gang kiss your ladies in London.' Then he looked ower his left shoulder To the worthie companie wi him; Says he, Isna this an unworthy welcome The we've got, comin from London! 'Get yer horse in call, my nobles all, And I'm sorry for yer coming, But we'll horse, and awa to the bonny Bog o Gight, And then we'll go on to London.' 'If this be Thomas, as they call you, You'll see if he'll hae me with him; And nothing shall he be troubled with me But myself and my waiting-woman.' 'I've asked it already, lady,' he says, 'And your humble servant, madam; But one single mile he winna lat you ride Wi his company and him to London.' A year and mare she lived in care, And docters wi her dealin, And with a crack her sweet heart brack, And the letters is on to London. When the letters he got, they were all sealed in black, And he fell in a grievous weeping; He said, She is dead whom I loved best If I had but her heart in keepin. Then fifteen o the finest lords That London could afford him, From their hose to their hat, they were all clad in black, For the sake of her corpse, Margaret Irvine. The furder he gaed, the sorer he wept, Come keping her corpse, Margaret Irvine. Until that he came to the yetts of Aboyne, Where the corpse of his lady was lying.

Earl o Aboyne to old England's gone, An a his nobles wi him; Sair was the heart his fair lady had Because she wanna wi him. As she was a walking in her garden green, Amang her gentlewomen, Sad was rhe letter that came to her, Her lord was wed in Lunan. 'Is this true, my Jean,' she says, 'My lord is wed in Lunan?' 'O no, O no, my lady gay, For the Lord o Aboyne is comin.' When she was looking oer her castell-wa, She spied twa boys comin: 'What news, what news, my bonny boys? What news hae ye frae Lunan?' 'Good news, good news, my lady gay, The Lord o Aboyne is comin; He's scarcely twa miles frae the place, Ye'll hear his bridles ringin.' 'O my grooms all, be well on call, An hae your stables shinin; Of corn an hay spare nane this day, Sin the Lord o Aboyne is comin. 'My minstrels all, be well on call, And set your harps a tunin, Wi the finest springs, spare not the strings, Sin the Lord o Aboyne is comin. 'My cooks all, be well on call, An had your spits a runnin, Wi the best o roast, an spare nae cost, Sin the Lord o Aboyne is comin. 'My maids all, be well on call, An hae your flours a shinin; Cover oer the stair wi herbs sweet an fair, Cover the fours wi linen, An dress my bodie in the finest array, Sin the Lord o Aboyne is comin.' Her gown was o the guid green silk, Fastned wi red silk trimmin; Her apron was o the guid black gaze, Her hood o the finest linen. Sae stately she stept down the stair, To look gin he was comin; She called on Kate, her chamer-maid, An Jean, her gentlewoman, To bring her a bottle of the best wine, To drink his health that's comin. She's gaen to the close, taen him from frae's horse, Says, You'r thrice welcome fra Lunan! 'If I be as welcome hauf as ye say, Come kiss me for my comin, For tomorrow should been my wedding-day Gin I'd staid on langer in Lunan.' She turned about wi a disdainful look To Jean, her gentlewoman: 'If tomorrow should been your wedding-day, Go kiss your whores in Lunan.' 'O my nobles all, now turn your steeds, I'm sorry for my comin; For the night we'll alight at the bonny Bog o Gight, Tomorrow tak horse for Lunan.' 'O Thomas, my man, gae after him, An spier gin I'll win wi him;' 'Yes, madam, I hae pleaded for thee, But a mile ye winna win wi him.' Here and there she ran in care, An doctors wi her dealin; But in a crak her bonny heart brak, And letters gaed to Lunan. When he saw the letter sealed wi black, He fell on 's horse weeping: 'If she be dead that I love best, She has my heart a keepin. 'My nobles all, ye'll turn your steeds, That comely face [I] may see then; Frae the horse to the hat, a' must be black, And mourn for bonny Peggy Irvine.' When they came near to the place, They heard the dead-bell knellin, And aye the turnin o the bell Said, Come bury bonny Peggy Irvine.

Earl of Aboyne he's careless an kin, An he is new come frae London; He sent his man him before, To tell o his hame-comin. First she called on her chamberline, Sin on Jeanie, her gentlewoman: 'Bring me a glass o the best claret win, To drink my good lord's well-hame-comin. 'My servants all, be ready at a call, . . . . . . . . For the Lord of Aboyne is comin 'My cooks all, be ready at a call . . . . Wi the very best of meat, For the Lord of Aboyne is comin. 'My maids all, be ready at a call, . . . . The rooms I've the best all to be dressd, For the Lord af Aboyn is comin.' She did her to the closs to take him fra his horse, An she welcomed him frae London: . . . . 'Ye'r welcome, my good lord, frae London!' 'An I be sae welcome, he says, 'Ye'll kiss me for my comin, For the morn sud hae bin my weddin-day Gif I had staid in London.' She turned her about wi a disdainfull look, Dear, she was a pretty woman! 'Gif the morn shud hae bin yer weddin-day, Ye may kiss your whores in London.' . . . . . . . . 'So I shall, madam, an ye's hae na mare to sey, For I'll dine wi the Marquis of Huntley.' She did her to his servant-man, I wat they caed him Peter Gordon: 'Ye will ask my good lord if he will let me Wi him a single mile to ride [to London].' 'Ye need not, madam,. . I have asked him already; He will not let ye a single mile ride, For he is to dine with the Marquis o Huntly.' She called on her chamber-maid, Sin on Jean, her gentlewoman: 'Ge make my bed, an tye up my head, Woe's me for his hame-comin!' She lived a year and day, wi mickle grief and wae, The doctors were wi her dealin; Within a crack, her heart it brack, As the letters they went to London. He gae the table wi his foot, An koupd it wi his knee, Gared silver cup an easer dish In flinders flee. . . . . . . . . 'I wad I had lost a' the lands o Aboyne Or I had lost bonny Margat Irvine.' He called on his best serving-man, I wat the caed him Peter Gordon: 'Gae get our horses sadled wi speed, Woe's me for our hame-comin! . . . . . . . . 'For we will a' be in black, fra the hose to the hat, Woe's me for bonny Margat Irvine! 'We must to the North, to bury her corps, Alas for our hame-comin! I rather I had lost a' the lands o Aboyne Or I had lost bonny Margat Irvine.'

guid Earl o Boyn's awa to Lonon gone, An a' his gallan grooms wie him, But, for a' the ribbons that hing at her hat, He has left his fair lady behind him. He had not been in London toun A month but barely one, O, Till the letters an the senes they came to her hand That he was in love with another woman. 'O what think ye o this, my bonny boy?' she says, 'What think ye o my lord at london? What think ye o this, my bonny boy?' she says, 'He's in love wie another woman.' That lady lookd out at her closet-window, An saw the gallan grooms coming; 'What think ye o this, my bonny boy?' she says, 'For yonder the gallan grooms coming.' Stately, stately steppit she doun To welcome the gallan grooms from London: 'Ye're welcome, ye're welcome, gallan grooms a'; Is the guid Earl o Boyn a coming? 'What news, what news, my gallan grooms a'? What news have ye from London? What news, what news, my gallan grooms a'? Is the guid Earl o Boyn a-coming?' 'No news, no news,' said they gallan grooms a', 'No news hae we from London; No news, no news,' said the gallan grooms a', 'But the guid Earl o Boyn's a coming, An he's not two miles from the palace-gates, An he's fast coming hame from London.' 'Ye stable-grooms a', be ready at the ca, An have a' your stables in shening, An sprinkle them over wie some costly water, Since the guid Earl o Boyn's a coming. 'Ye pretty cooks a', be ready at the ca, An have a' your spits in turning, An see that ye spare neither cost nor pains, Since the guid Earl o Boyn's a coming. 'Ye servant-maids, ye'll trim up the beds, An wipe a' the rooms oer wie linnen, An put a double daisy at every stair-head, Since the guid Earl o Boyn's a coming. 'Ye'll call to me my chambermaid, An Jean, my gentlewoman, An they'll dress me in some fine array, Since the good Earl o Boyn's a coming.' Her stockens were o the good fine silk, An her shirt it was o the camric, An her goun it was a' giltit oer, An she was a' hung oer wie rubbies. That lady lookd out at her closet-window, An she thought she saw him coming: 'Go fetch to me some fine Spanish wine, That I may drink his health that's a coming.' Stately, stately steppit she doun To welcome her lord from london, An as she walked through the close She's peed him from his horse. 'Ye're welcome, ye're welcome, my dearest dear, Ye're three times welcome from London!' 'If I be as welcome as ye say, Ye'll kiss my for my coming; Come kiss me, come kiss me, my dearest dear, Come kiss me, my bonny Peggy Harboun.' O she threw her arms aroun his neck, To kiss him for his coming: 'If I had stayed another day, I'd been in love wie another woman. She turned her about wie a very stingy look, She was as sorry as any woman; She threw a napkin out-oure her face, Says, Gang kiss your whore at London. 'Ye'll mount an go, my gallan grooms a', Ye'll mount and back again to London; Had I known this to be the answer my Meggy's gein me, I had stayed some longer at London.' 'Go, Jack, my livery boy,' she says, 'Go ask if he'll take me wie him; An he shall hae nae cumre o me But mysel an my waiting-woman.' 'O the laus o London the're very severe, They are not for a woman; And ye are too low in coach for to ride, I'm your humble servant, madam. 'My friends they were a' angry at me For marrying ane o the house o Harvey; And ye are too low in coach for to ride, I'm your humble servant, lady. 'Go saddle for me my steeds,' he says, 'Go saddle them soon and softly, For I maun awa to the Bogs o the Geich, An speak wi the Marquess o Huntly.' The guid Earl o Boyn's awa to London gone, An a' his gallan gro[o]ms wie him; But his lady fair he's left behind Both a sick an a sorry woman. O many were the letter she after him did send, A' the way back again to London, An in less than a twelvemonth her heart it did break, For the loss o her lord at London. He was not won well to the Bogs o the Geich, Nor his horses scarcely batit, Till the letters and the senes they came to his hand That his lady was newly Strickit. 'O is she dead? or is she sick? O woe's me for my coming! I'd rather lost a' the Bogs o the Geich Or I'd lost my bonny Peggy Harboun.' He took the table wi his foot, Made a' the room to tremble: 'I'd rather a lost a' the Bogs o the Geich Or I'd lost my bonny Peggy Harboun. 'Oh an alas! an O woe's me! An wo to the Marquess o Huntly, Wha causd the Earl o Boyn prove sae very unkin To a true an a beautiful lady!' There were fifteen o the bravest gentlemen, An the bravest o the lords o London, They went a' to attend her burial-day, But the Earl o Boyn could not go wi them.

' maidens fair, yoursels prepare.' You may weel knaw by her hair, wi the diamonds sae rare, That the Earl of Aboyne was comin. 'My minstrels all, be at my call, Haud a' your rooms a ringin, . . . . For the Earl of Aboyne is comin.' 'Tomorrow soud hae been my bonnie waddin-day, If I had staid in London.' She turned her aboot wi an angry look, An sic an angry woman! 'Gin tomorrow soud hae been your bonnie waddin-day, Gae back to your miss in Lunnon.' For mony a day an year that lady lived in care, An doctors wi her dealin, Till just in a crack her very heart did brak, An her letters went on to Lunnon. There waur four-and-twenty o the noblest lords That Lonnon could aford him, A' clead in black frae the saidle to the hat, To convey the corpse o Peggy Ewan. 'I'd rather hae lost a' the lands o Aboyne Than lost my pretty Peggy Ewan.'

Earl of Aboyne is to London gane, And a' his nobles with him; He's left his lady him behin, He's awa, to remain in Lundon. She's called upon her waiting-maid To busk her in her claithin; Her sark was o cambrick very fine, And her bodice was the red buckskin. Her stockings were o silk sae fine, And her shoon o the fine cordan; Her coat was o the guid green silk, Turnit up wi a siller warden. Her goun was also o the silk, Turned up wi a siller warden, And stately tripped she doun the stair, As she saw her gude lord comin. She gaed thro the close and grippit his horse, Saying, Ye're welcome hame frae London! 'Gin that be true, come kiss me now, Come kiss me for my coming. 'For blythe and cantie may ye be, And thank me for my comin, For the morn would hae been my wedding-day Had I remained in London.' She turnd her richt and round about, She was a waefu woman: 'Gin the morn would hae been your weddin-day, Gae kiss your whores in London.' He turned him richt and round about, He was sorry for his comin: 'Loup on your steeds, ye nobles a', The morn we'll dine in London.' She lived a year in meikle wae, And the doctors dealin wi her; At lang and last her heart it brast And the letters gade to London. And when he saw the seals o black, He fell in a deadly weeping; He said, She's dead whom I loed best, And she had my heart in keeping. 'Loup on your steeds, ye nobles a', I'm sorry for our comin; Frae our horse to our hat, we'll gae in black, And we'll murn for Peggy Irwine.' They rade on but stap or stay Till they came to her father's garden, Whare fifty o the bravest lords Were convoying Peggy Irwine.

Earl Aboyne to London has gane, And all his nobles with him; For a' the braw ribbands he wore at his hat, He has left his lady behind him. She's called on her little foot-page, And Jean, her gentlewoman; Said, Fill to me a full pint of wine, And I'll drink it at my lord's coming. 'You're welcome, you're welcome, you're welcome,' she says, 'You're welcome home from London!' 'If I be as welcome as you now say, Come kiss me, my bonnie Peggy Irvine. 'Come kiss me, come kiss me, my lady,' he says, 'Come kiss me for my coming, For the morn should hae been my wedding-day, Had I staid any longer in London.' She turned about with an angry look, Said, Woe's me for your coming! If the morn should hae been your wedding-day, Go back to your whore in London. He's called on his little foot-page, Said, Saddle both sure and swiftly, And I'l away to the Bogs o the Gay, And speak wi the Marquis o Huntly. She has called on her little foot-page, Said, See if he'll take me with him; And he shall hae nae mair cumber o me But myself and my servant-woman. 'O London streets they are too strait, They are not for a woman, And it is too low to ride in coach wi me With your humble servant-woman.' He had not been at the Bogs o the Gay, Nor yet his horse was baited, Till a boy with a letter came to his hand That his lady was lying streekit. 'O woe! O woe! O woe!' he says, 'O woe's me for my coming! I had rather lost the Bogs o the Gay Or I'd lost my bonny Peggy Irvine. 'O woe! O woe! O woe!' he said, 'O woe to the Marquis o Huntly, Gard the Earl of Aboyne prove very unkind To a good and a dutiful lady!'

Earl of Boon's to London gone, And all his merry men with him; For a' the ribbonds hang at his horse's main, He has left his lady behind him. He had not been a night in town, Nor a day into the city, Until that the letters they came to him, And the ladies they did invite him. His lady has lookit oer her left shoulder, To see if she saw him coming, And then she saw her ain good lord, Just newly come from London. 'Come kiss me, my dear, come kiss me,' he said, 'Come kiss me for my coming, For if I had staid another day in town Tomorrow I would hae been married in Lunnon.' She turned about wi a very saucy look, As saucy as eer did a woman; Says, If a' be true that I've heard of you, You may go back and kiss your whores in Lunnon. 'Go call on Jack, my waiting-man,' he said, 'Go saddle and make him ready; For I maun away to the Bughts o Gight, To speak to the Marquess of Huntly.' He had not been at the Bughts of the Gight, Nor the horses yet weel bated, Until that the letters came ta him That his lady was newly streeket. 'Wae's me, my dear! wae's me!' he said, 'It waes me for my coming; For I wad rather lost a' the Bughts o the Gight Or I had lost my bonny Peggy Irvine.'

Earl of Aboyne to London has gone, And all his nobles with him; For all the braw ribbands he wore at his hat, He has left his lady behind him. She has to her high castle gane, To see if she saw him coming; And who did she spy but her own servant Jack, Coming riding home again from London. 'What news, what news, my own servant Jack? What news have you got from London?' 'Good news, good news, my lady,' he says, 'For the Earl of Aboyne he is coming.' She has to her kitchen-maid gane: 'Set your pots and your pans all a boiling; Have every thing fine for gentry to dine, For the Earl of Aboyne he is coming. 'Stable-grooms all, pray be well employed, Set your stable-bells all a ringing; Let your hecks be overlaid with the finest of good hay, For the Earl of Aboyne he is coming.' She has to her low gates gane, To see if she saw him coming, And long seven miles before they came to town She heard their bridles ringing. 'Come kiss me, come kiss me, madam,' he says, 'Come kiss me for my coming, For the morn should hae been my wedding-day Had I staid any longer in London.' She's turned about with an angry look, Says, Woe's me for thy coming! If the morn should hae been your wedding-day Go back and kiss your whores in London. They've turned their horses' heads around, Their faces all for London; With their hands to their hats they all rode off, And they're all away to London.

Earl of Aboyne has up to London gone, And all his nobles with him, And three broad letters he sent into his love He would wed another woman in London. She has turned the honey month about, To see if he was coming, And lang three miles ere he came to the town She heard his bridle ringing. She's went down unto the close and she's taen him from his horse, Says, Ye're welcome home from London! 'If I be as welcome, dear Peggy, as you say, Come kiss me for my coming. 'Come kiss me, come kiss me, dear Peggy,' he said, 'Come kiss me for my coming, For tomorrow should have been my wedding-day Had I tarried any longer in London.' She has turned herself round about, And she was an angry woman: 'If tomorrow should have been your wedding-day, You may kiss with your sweethearts in London.' 'Go saddle me my steed,' he said, 'Saddle and make him ready; For I must away to the bonny Bog of Keith, For to visit the Marquis of Huntley.' 'Go ask him, go ask, dear Thomas,' she said, 'Go ask if he'll take me with him;' 'I've asked him once, and I'll ask him no more, For ye'll never ride a mile in his company.' 'Go make to me my bed,' she said, 'Make it soft and narrow; For since my true lover has slighted me so, I will die for him ere morrow.' She has called her waiting-man, And Jean her gentlewoman: 'Go bring to me a glass of red wine, For I'm as sick as any woman.' The bed it was not made nor well laid down, Nor yet the curtains drawn on, Till stays and gown and all did burst, And it's alace for bonny Peggy Irvine! The Earl of Aboyne was not at the Bog of Keith, Nor met wi the Marquis of Huntley, Till three broad etters were sent after him That his pretty Peggy Irvine had left him. He gave such a rap on the table where he sat It made all the room for to tremble: 'I would rather I had lost all the rents of Aboyne Than have lost my pretty Peggy Irvine.'

Earl o Aboyne is awa to Lunnon gane, An he's taen Joannan wi him, An it ill be Yule ere he come again; But he micht hae taen taen his bonnie Peggie Ewan. Cook-maidens all, be ready at my call, Hae a' your pats an pans a-reekin; For the finest o flowrs, gae through your bowrs, For the Earl o Aboyne's a comin.

Lord Aboyn's to London gone, And his hail court wi him; Better he had staid at hame, Or taen his lady wi him.