Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 195.
| 1 |
'I'll wager, I'll wager,' says Lord John,
'A hundred merks and ten,
That ye winna gae to the bonnie broom-fields,
And a maid return again.' |
| 2 |
'But I'll lay a wager wi you, Lord John,
A' your merks oure again,
That I'll gae alane to the bonnie broom-fields,
And a maid return again.' |
| 3 |
Then Lord John mounted his grey steed,
And his hound wi his bells sae bricht,
And swiftly he rade to the bonny broomfields,
Wi his hawks, like a lord or knicht. |
| 4 |
'Now rest, now rest, my bonnie grey steed,
My lady will soon be here,
And I'll lay my head aneath this rose sae red,
And the bonnie burn sae near.' |
| 5 |
But sound, sound was the sleep he took,
For he slept till it was noon,
And his lady cam at day, left a taiken and away,
Gaed as licht as a glint o the moon. |
| 6 |
She strawed the roses on the ground,
Threw her mantle on the brier,
And the belt around her middle sae jimp,
As a taiken that she'd been there. |
| 7 |
The rustling leaves flew round his head,
And rousd him frae his dream;
He saw by the roses, and mantle sae green,
That his love had been there and was gane. |
| 8 |
'O whare was ye, my gude grey steed,
That I coft ye sae dear,
That ye didna waken your master,
Whan ye kend that his love was here?' |
| 9 |
'I pautit wi my foot, master,
Garrd a' my bridles ring,
And still I cried, Waken, gude master,
For now is the hour and time.' |
| 10 |
'Then whare was ye, my bonnie grey hound,
That I coft ye sae dear,
That ye didna waken your master,
Whan ye kend that his love was here?' |
| 11 |
'I pautit wi my foot, master,
Garrd a' my bells to ring,
And still I cried, Waken, gude master,
For now is the hour and time.' |
| 12 |
'But whare was ye, my hawks, my hawks,
That I coft ye sae dear,
That ye didna waken your master,
Whan ye kend that his love was here?' |
| 13 |
'O wyte na me, now, my master dear,
I garrd a' my young hawks sing,
And still I cried, Waken, gude master,
For now is the hour and time.' |
| 14 |
'Then be it sae, my wager gane,
'Twill skaith frae meikle ill,
For gif I had found her in bonnie broomfields,
O her heart's blude ye'd drunken your fill.' |
