From tradition: Dr. Joseph Robertson's Note-Book,
"Adversaria," p. 86.
| 1 |
Lady Margaret was in her wearie room,
Sewin her silken seam,
And in cam Willie, her true-love,
Frae Lundin new come hame. |
| 2 |
'O are ye my father Philip,
Or are ye my brither John?
Or are ye my true-love, Willie,
Frae London new come home?' |
| 3 |
'I'm nae your father Philip,
Nor am I your brother John;
But I am your true-love, Willie,
An I'm nae a levin man. |
| 4 |
'But gie me my faith and troth, Margrat,
An let me pass on my way;
For the bells o heaven will be rung,
An I'll be mist away.' |
| 5 |
'Yere faith and troth ye'se never get,
Till ye tell me this ane;
Till ye tell me where the women go
That hang themsell for sin.' |
| 6 |
'O they gang till the low, low hell,
Just by the devil's knee;
It's a' clad ower wi burnin pitch,
A dreadfu sicht to see.' |
| 7 |
'But your faith and troth ye'se never get,
Till you tell me again;
Till you tell me where the children go
That die without a name.' |
| 8 |
'O they gang till the high, high heaven,
Just by our Saviour's knee,
An it's a' clad ower wi roses red,
A lovelie sicht to see. |
| 9 |
'But gie me my faith and troth, Margrat,
And let me pass on my way;
For the psalms o heaven will be sung,
An I'll be mist away.' |
| 10 |
'But your faith and troth yese never get
Till ye tell me again;
Till ye tell me where the women go
That die in child-beddin.' |
| 11 |
'O they gang till the hie, hie heaven,
Just by our Saviour's knee,
And every day at twal o clock
They're dipped oer the head. |
| 12 |
'But gie me my faith and troth, Margret,
And let me pass on my way;
For the gates o heaven will be shut,
And I'll be mist away.' |
| 13 |
Then she has taen a silver key,
Gien him three times on the breast;
Says, There's your faith and troth, Willie,
I hope your soul will rest. |
| 14 |
'But is there room at your head, Willie?
Or is there room at your feet?
Or is there room at any o your sides,
To let in a lover sweet?' |
| 15 |
'There is nae room at my head, Margrat,
There's nae room at my feet,
But there is room at baith my sides,
To lat in a lover sweet.' |
