Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 169.
| 1 |
In Lauderdale I chanc'd to walk,
And heard a lady's moan,
Lamenting for her dearest dear,
And aye she cried, Ohon! |
| 2 |
'Sure never a maid that eer drew breath
Had harder fate than me;
I'd never a lad but one on earth,
They forc'd him to the sea. |
| 3 |
'The ale shall neer be brewin o malt,
Neither by sea nor land,
That ever mair shall cross my hause,
Till my love comes to hand. |
| 4 |
'A handsome lad, wi shoulders broad,
Gold yellow was his hair;
None of our Scottish youths on earth
That with him could compare.' |
| 5 |
She thought her love was gone to sea,
And landed in Bahome;
But he was in a quiet chamber,
Hearing his lady's moan. |
| 6 |
'Why make ye all this moan, lady?
Why make ye all this moan?
For I'm deep sworn on a book,
I must go to Bahome. |
| 7 |
'Traitors false for to subdue
Oer seas I'll make me boun,
That have trepand our kind Scotchmen,
Like dogs to ding them down.' |
| 8 |
'Weell, take this ring, this royal thing,
Whose virtue is unknown;
As lang's this ring's your body on,
Your blood shall neer be drawn. |
| 9 |
'But if this ring shall fade or stain,
Or change to other hue,
Come never mair to fair Scotland,
If ye're a lover true.' |
| 10 |
Then this couple they did part,
With a sad heavy moan;
The wind was fair, the ship was rare,
They landed in Bahome. |
| 11 |
But in that place they had not been
A month but barely one,
Till he lookd on his gay gold ring,
And riven was the stone. |
| 12 |
Time after this was not expir'd
A month but scarcely three,
Till black and ugly was the ring,
And the stone was burst in three. |
| 13 |
'Fight on, fight on, you merry men all,
With you I'll fight no more;
I will gang to some holy place,
Pray to the King of Glore.' |
| 14 |
Then to the chapel he is gone,
And knelt most piteouslie,
For seven days and seven nights,
Till blood ran frae his knee. |
| 15 |
'Ye'll take my jewels that's in Bahome,
And deal them liberallie,
To young that cannot, and old that mannot,
The blind that does not see. |
| 16 |
'Give maist to women in child-bed laid,
Can neither fecht nor flee;
I hope she's in the heavens high,
That died for love of me.' |
| 17 |
The knights they wrang their white fingers,
The ladies tore their hair;
The women that neer had children born,
In swoon they down fell there. |
| 18 |
But in what way the knight expir'd,
No tongue will eer declare;
So this doth end my mournful song,
From me ye'll get nae mair. |
