Motherwell's Manuscript, p. 643,
from the recitation of Mrs. McConechie, Kilmarnock.
| 1 |
Lord Barnard's awa to the green wood,
To hunt the fallow deer;
His vassals a' are gane wi him,
His companies to bear. |
| 2 |
His lady wrate a braid letter,
And seald it wi her hand,
And sent if aff to Wee Messgrove,
To come at her command. |
| 3 |
When Messgrove lookt the letter on,
A waefu man was he;
Sayin, Gin I'm gript wi Lord Barnard's wife,
Sure hanged I will be. |
| 4 |
When he came to Lord Barnard's castel
He tinklit at the ring,
And nane was so ready as the lady hersell
To let Wee Messgrove in. |
| 5 |
'Welcome, welcome, Messgrove,' she said,
'You're welcome here to me;
Lang hae I loed your bonnie face,
And lang hae ye loed me. |
| 6 |
'Lord Barnard is a hunting gane,
I hope he'll neer return,
And ye sall sleep into his bed,
And keep his lady warm.' |
| 7 |
'It cannot be,' Messgrove he said,
'I ween it cannot be;
Gin Lord Barnard suld come hame this nicht,
What would he do to me?' |
| 8 |
'Ye naething hae to fear, Messgrove,
Ye naething hae to fear;
I'll set my page without the gate,
To watch till morning clear.' |
| 9 |
But wae be to the wee fut-page,
And an ill death mat he die!
For he's awa to the green wood,
As hard as he can flee. |
| 10 |
And whan he to the green wood cam,
'Twas dark as dark could bee,
And he fand his maister and his men
Asleep aneth a tree. |
| 11 |
'Rise up, rise up, maister,' he said,
'Rise up, and speak to me;
Your wife's in bed wi Wee Messgrove,
Rise up richt speedilie.' |
| 12 |
'Gin that be true ye tell to me,
A lord I will mak thee;
But gin it chance to be a lie,
Sure hanged ye sall be.' |
| 13 |
'It is as true, my lord,' he said,
'As ever ye were born;
Messgrove's asleep in your lady's bed,
All for to keep her warm.' |
| 14 |
He mounted on his milk-white steed,
He was ane angry man;
And he reachd his stately castell gate
Just as the day did dawn. |
| 15 |
He put his horn unto his mouth,
And he blew strong blasts three;
Sayin, He that's in bed with anither man's wife,
He suld be gaun awa. |
| 16 |
Syne out and spak the Wee Messgrove,
A frichtit man was he;
'I hear Lord Barnard's horn,' he said,
'It blaws baith loud and hie.' |
| 17 |
'Lye still, lye still, my Wee Messgrove,
And keep me frae the cauld;
'Tis but my father's shepherd's horn,
A sounding in the fauld.' |
| 18 |
He put his horn unto his mouth,
And he blew loud blasts three;
Saying, He that's in bed wi anither man's wife,
'Tis time he was awa. |
| 19 |
Syne out and spak the Wee Messgrove,
A frichtit man was he:
'Yon surely is Lord Barnard's horn,
And I maun een gae flee.' |
| 20 |
'Lye still, lye still, Messgrove,' she said,
'And keep me frae the cauld;
'Tis but my father's shepherd's horn,
A sounding in the fauld.' |
| 21 |
And ay Lord Barnard blew and blew,
Till he was quite wearie;
Syne he threw down his bugle horn,
And up the stair ran he. |
| 22 |
'How do you like my blankets, Sir?
How do you like my sheets?
How do ye like my gay ladie,
That lies in your arms asleep?' |
| 23 |
'Oh weel I like your blankets, Sir,
And weel I like your sheet;
But wae be to your gay ladie,
That lyes in my arms asleep!' |
| 24 |
'I'll gie you ae sword, Messgrove,
And I will take anither;
What fairer can I do, Messgrove,
Altho ye war my brither?' |
| 25 |
The firsten wound that Messgrove gat,
It woundit him richt sair;
And the second wound that Messgrove gat,
A word he neer spak mair. |
| 26 |
'Oh how do ye like his cheeks, ladie?
Or how do ye like his chin?
Or how do ye like his fair bodie,
That there's nae life within?' |
| 27 |
'Oh weel I like his cheeks,' she said,
'And weel I like his chin;
And weel I like his fair bodie,
That there's nae life within.' |
| 28 |
'Repeat these words, my fair ladie,
Repeat them ower agane,
And into a basin of pure silver
I'll gar your heart's bluid rin.' |
| 29 |
'Oh weel I like his cheeks,' she said,
'And weel I like his chin;
And better I like his fair bodie
Than a' your kith and kin.' |
| 30 |
Syne he took up his gude braid sword,
That was baith sharp and fine,
And into a basin of pure silver
Her heart's bluid he gart rin. |
| 31 |
'O wae be to my merrie men,
And wae be to my page,
That they didna hald my cursed hands
When I was in a rage!' |
| 32 |
He leand the halbert on the ground,
The point o't to his breast,
Saying, Here are three sauls gaun to heaven,
I hope they'll a' get rest. |
