Motherwell's Manuscript, p. 649.
From the recitation of Mrs. cunningham, Ayr.
| 1 |
There were twa brithers at ae scule;
As they were coming hame,
Then said the ane until the other
'John, will ye throw the stane?' |
| 2 |
'I will not throw the stane, brither,
I will not play at the ba;
But gin ye come to yonder wood
I'll warsle you a fa.' |
| 3 |
The firsten fa young Johnie got,
It brought him to the ground;
The wee pen-knife in Willie's pocket
Gied him a deadly wound. |
| 4 |
'Tak aff, tak aff, my holland sark,
And rive it frae gore to gore,
And stap it in my bleeding wounds,
They'll aiblins bleed noe more.' |
| 5 |
He pouit aff his holland sark,
And rave it frae gore to gore,
And stapt it in his bleeding wounds,
But ay they bled the more. |
| 6 |
'O brither, tak me on your back,
And bear me hence away,
And carry me to Chester kirk,
And lay me in the clay.' |
| 7 |
'What will I say to your father,
This night when I return?'
'Tell him I'm gane to Chester scule,
And tell him no to murn.' |
| 8 |
'What will I say to your mother,
This nicht whan I gae hame?'
'She wishd afore I cam awa
That I might neer gae hame.' |
| 9 |
'What will I say to your true-love,
This nicht when I gae hame?'
'Tell her I'm dead and in my grave,
For her dear sake alane.' |
| 10 |
He took him upon his back
And bore him hence away,
And carried him to Chester kirk,
And laid him in the clay. |
| 11 |
He laid him in the cauld cauld clay,
And he cuirt him wi a stane,
And he's awa to his fathers ha,
Sae dowilie alane. |
| 12 |
'You're welcome, dear son,' he said,
'You're welcome hame to me;
But what's come o your brither John,
That gade awa wi thee?' |
| 13 |
'Oh he's awa to Chester scule,
A scholar he'll return;
He bade me tell his father dear
About him no to murn.' |
| 14 |
'You're welcome hame, dear son,' she said,
'You're welcome hame to me;
But what's come o your brither John,
That gade awa wi thee?' |
| 15 |
'He bade me tell his mother dear,
This nicht when I cam hame,
Ye wisht before he gade awa,
That he might neer return.' |
| 16 |
Then next came up his true-love dear,
And heavy was her moan;
'You're welcome hame, dear Will,' she said,
'But whare's your brither John?' |
| 17 |
'O lady, cease your trouble now,
O cease your heavy moan;
He's dead and in the cauld cauld clay,
For your dear sake alone.' |
| 18 |
She ran distraught, she wept, she sicht,
She wept the sma brids frae the tree,
She wept the starns adoun frae the lift,
She wept the fish out o the sea. |
| 19 |
'O cease your weeping, my ain true-love,
Ye but disturb my rest;'
'Is that my ain true lover John,
The man that I loe best?' |
| 20 |
''Tis naething but my ghaist,' he said,
'That's sent to comfort thee;
O cease your weeping, my true-love,
And 'twill gie peace to me.' |
