| |
| O WELL’S 1 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, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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, | |
| And sit ye down and sing thereon | 15 |
| As she gangs to the kirk. | |
| |
| ‘And four-and-twenty ladies fair | |
| Will wash and go to kirk, | |
| But well shall ye my true-love ken, | |
| For she wears goud on her skirt. | 20 |
| |
| ‘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 | 25 |
| There grows a bowing birk, | |
| And she sat down and sang thereon, | |
| As she ged to the kirk. | |
| |
| ‘O eat and drink, my marys a’, | |
| The wine flows you among, | 30 |
| 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’, | 35 |
| You’re frae my true-love sen’.’ | |
| |
| O first he sang a merry song, | |
| An’ then he sang a grave; | |
| An’ then he peck’d his feathers grey, | |
| To her the letter gave. | 40 |
| |
| ‘Ha, there’s a letter frae your love, | |
| He says he sent you three; | |
| He canno wait your love langer, | |
| But for your sake he’ll die. | |
| |
| He bids you write a letter to him; | 45 |
| He says he’s sent you five; | |
| He canna wait your love langer, | |
| Tho you’re the fairest woman alive.’ | |
| |
| ‘Ye bid him bake his bridal bread, | |
| And brew his bridal ale, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| I pray you, grant it me.’ | |
| |
| ‘Ask on, ask on, my daughter, | |
| And granted it sal be; | |
| Except ae squire in fair Scotlan’, | |
| An’ him you sall never see.’ | 60 |
| |
| ‘The only boon, my father dear, | |
| That I do crave of thee, | |
| Is, gin I die in southin’ lans, | |
| In Scotland to bury me. | |
| |
| ‘An’ the firstin’ kirk that ye come till, | 65 |
| Ye gar the bells be rung, | |
| An the nextin’ kirk that ye come till, | |
| Ye gar the mess be sung. | |
| |
| ‘And the thirdin’ kirk that ye come till, | |
| You deal gold for my sake, | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| That she had mixed wi’ care. | |
| |
| She’s laid her down upon her bed, | |
| An’ soon she’s fa’n asleep, | |
| And soon o’er every tender limb | |
| Cauld death began to creep. | 80 |
| |
| 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 | 85 |
| Gard make to her a bier; | |
| The tae half was o’ guid red gold, | |
| The tither o’ silver clear. | |
| |
| Her mither an’ her sisters fair | |
| Gard work for her a sark; | 90 |
| 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, | |
| And the nextin’ kirk that they came till, | 95 |
| 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! | 100 |
| |
| ‘Lay down, lay down the bigly bier, | |
| Lat me the dead look on; | |
| Wi’ cherry ckeeks and ruby lips | |
| She lay an’ smiled on him. | |
| |
| ‘O ae sheave o’ your bread, true-love, | 105 |
| 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; | 110 |
| An’ ye may boast in southin’ lans | |
| Your sister’s play’d you scorn.’ | |
