Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 110. From Mrs.
Comie, Aberdeen.
| 1 |
'O whare hae ye been a' day, Lord Donald, my son?
O whare hae ye been a' day, my jollie young man?'
'I've been awa courtin; mither, mak my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' |
| 2 |
'What wad ye hae for your supper, Lord Donald, my son?
What wad ye hae for your supper, my jollie young man?'
'I've gotten my supper; mither, mak my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' |
| 3 |
'What did ye get for your supper, Lord Donald,my son?
What did ye get for your supper, my jollie young man?'
'A dish of sma fishes; mither mak my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' |
| 4 |
'Whare gat ye the fishes, Lord Donald, my son?
Whare gat ye the fishes, my jollie young man?'
'In my father's black ditches; mither, mak my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' |
| 5 |
'What like were your fishes, Lord Donald, my son?
What like were your fishes, my jollie young man?'
'Black backs and spreckld bellies; mither, mak my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' |
| 6 |
'O I fear ye are poisond, Lord Donald, my son!
O I fear ye are poisond, my jollie young man!'
'O yes! I am poisond; mither mak my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' |
| 7 |
'What will ye leave to your father, Lord Donald my son?
What will ye leave to your father, my jollie young man?'
'Baith my houses and land; mither, mak my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' |
| 8 |
'What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Donald, my son?
What will ye leave to your brither, my jollie young man?'
'My horse and the saddle; mither, mak my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' |
| 9 |
'What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Donald, my son?
What will ye leave to your sister, my jollie young man?'
'Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak my bed sune,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' |
| 10 |
'What will ye leave to your true-love, Lord Donald, my son?
What will ye leave to your true-love, my jollie young man?'
'The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree,
And lat her hang there for the poysoning o me.' |
