Verse > Anthologies > Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. > The Oxford Book of Ballads
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Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (1863–1944).  The Oxford Book of Ballads.  1910.
 
65. Edward, Edward
 
 
I

‘WHY does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
    Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
  And why sae sad gang ye, O?’—
‘O I hae ki’d my hawk sae gude,        5
    Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
  And I had nae mair but he, O.’
 
II

‘Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
    Edward, Edward;        10
Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
  My dear son, I tell thee, O.’—
‘O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
    Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my red-rian steed,        15
  That erst was sae fair and free, O.’
 
III

‘Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
    Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
  Some other dule ye dree, O.’—        20
‘O I hae kill’d my father dear,
    Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my father dear,
  Alas, and wae is me, O!’
 
IV

‘And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
        25
    Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
  My dear son, now tell me, O.’—
‘I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
    Mither, mither;        30
I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
  And I’ll fare over the sea, O.’
 
V

‘And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
    Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,        35
  That were sae fair to see, O?’—
‘I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
    Mither, mither;
I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
  For here never mair maun I be, O.’        40
 
VI

‘And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
    Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
  When ye gang owre the sea, O?’—
‘The warld’s room: let them beg through life,        45
    Mither, mither;
The warld’s room: let them beg through life;
  For them never mair will I see, O.’
 
VII

‘And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
    Edward, Edward?        50
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
  My dear son, now tell me, O?’—
‘The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
    Mither, mither;
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:        55
  Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!’
 
GLOSS:  dule ye dree] grief you suffer.
 

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