Pitcairn's Manuscripts, III, 1,
from the singing of Widow Stevenson.
| 1 |
* * * *
She sailed west, she sailed east,
She sailed mony a mile,
Until she cam to Lord Gregor's yett,
And she tirled at the pin. |
| 2 |
'It's open, open, Lord Gregory,
Open, and let me in;
For the rain drops on my gouden hair,
And drops upon your son.' |
| 3 |
'Are you the Queen of Queensberry?
Or one of the marys three?
Or are you the lass of Ruchlaw hill,
Seeking Lord Gregory?' |
| 4 |
'I'm not the Queen of Queensberry,
Nor one of the marys three;
But I am the bonny lass of Ruchlawhill,
Seeking Lord Gregory.' |
| 5 |
'Awa, awa, ye fause thief,
I will not open to thee
Till you tell me the first token
That was tween you and me.' |
| 6 |
'Do not you mind, Lord Gregory,
When we birled at the wine,
We changed the rings of our fingers,
And ay the best was mine? |
| 7 |
'For mine was true and trusty goud,
But yours it was of tin;
Mine was of the true and trusty goud,
But yours was fause within.' |
| 8 |
She turned about her bonny ship,
Awa then did she sail:
'The sun shall never shine on man
That made my heart so sare.' |
| 9 |
Then up the old mother she got,
And wakened Lord Gregory:
'Awa, awa, ye fause gudeson,
A limmer was seeking thee.' |
| 10 |
'It's woe be to you, witch-mother,
An ill death may you die!
For you might hae set the yet open,
And then hae wakened me.' |
| 11 |
It's up he got, and put on his clothes,
And to the yet he ran;
The first sight of the ship he saw,
He whistled and he sang. |
| 12 |
But whan the bonny ship was out o sight,
He clapped his hands and ran,
. . . . .
. . . . . |
| 13 |
The first kirktoun he cam to,
He heard the death-bell ring,
The second kirktoun he cam to,
He saw her corpse come in. |
| 14 |
'Set down, set down this bonny corpse,
That I may look upon;
If she died late for me last night,
I'll die for her the morn. |
| 15 |
'Be merry, merry, gentlemen,
Be merry at the bread and wine;
For by the morn at this time o day
You'll drink as much at mine.' |
| 16 |
The one was buried in Mary's isle,
The other in Mary's quire;
Out of the one there grew a thorn,
And out of the other a brier. |
| 17 |
And aye they grew, and aye they blew,
Till their twa taps did meet;
And every one that passed thereby
Might see they were lovers sweet. |
