Buchan's Manuscripts, II, 174; Buchan's Ballads of the North
of Scotland, II, 212.
| 1 |
Seven years the king he staid
Into the land of Spain,
And seven years True Thomas was
His daughter's chamberlain. |
| 2 |
But it fell ance upon a day
The king he did come home;
She baked and she benjed ben,
And did him there welcome. |
| 3 |
'What aileth you, my daughter Janet,
You look sae pale and wan?
There is a dreder in your heart,
Or else you love a man.' |
| 4 |
'There is no dreder in my heart,
Nor do I love a man;
But it is for your lang byding
Into the land of Spain.' |
| 5 |
'Ye'll cast aff your bonny brown gown,
And lay it on a stone,
And I'll tell you, my jelly Janet,
If ever ye lovd a man.' |
| 6 |
She's cast aff her bonny brown gown,
And laid it on a stone;
Her belly was big, her twa sides high,
Her colour it was quite gane. |
| 7 |
'Is it to a man o the might, Janet,
Or is it till a man o the main?
Or is it to one o my poor soldiers,
That I brought hame frae Spain?' |
| 8 |
'It's not till a man o the might,' she says,
'Nor yet to a man o the main;
But it's to Thomas o Winsbury,
That cannot longer len.' |
| 9 |
'O where are all my wall-wight men,
That I pay meat and fee,
That will go for him True Thomas,
And bring him in to me?
For the morn, ere I eat or drink,
High hanged shall he be.' |
| 10 |
She's turnd her right and round about,
The tear blinded her ee:
'If ye do any ill to True Thomas,
Ye'se never get gude o me.' |
| 11 |
When Thomas came before the king
He glanced like the fire;
His hair was like the threads o gold,
His eyes like crystal clear. |
| 12 |
'It was nae wonder, my daughter Janet,
Altho ye loved this man;
If he were a woman, as he is a man,
My bed-fellow he would been. |
| 13 |
'O will ye marry my daughter Janet?
The truth's in your right hand;
Ye's hae some o my gold, and some o my gear,
And the twalt part o my land.' |
| 14 |
'It's I will marry your daughter Janet;
The truth's in my right hand;
I'll hae nane o your gold, nor nane o your gear,
I've enough in my own land. |
| 15 |
'But I will marry your daughter Janet
With thirty ploughs and three,
And four and twenty bonny breast-mills,
And a' on the water o Dee.' |
