Percy papers; communicated to Percy by Paton, in 1768
or 69, and derived from a friend of Paton's.
| 1 |
Four and twenty bonny boys
War playing at the ba;
Then up and started sweet Sir Hew,
The flower amang them a'. |
| 2 |
He hit the ba a kick wi's fit,
And kept it wi his knee,
That up into the Jew's window
He gart the bonny ba flee. |
| 3 |
'Cast doun the ba to me, fair maid,
Cast doun the ba to me;'
'O neer a bit o the ba ye get
Till ye cum up to me. |
| 4 |
'Cum up, sweet Hew, cum up, dear Hew,
Cum up and get the ba;'
'I canna cum, I darna cum,
Without my play-feres twa.' |
| 5 |
'Cum up, sweet Hew, cum up, dear Hew,
Cum up and play wi me;'
'I canna cum, I darna cum,
Without my play-feres three.' |
| 6 |
She's gane into the Jew's garden,
Where the grass grew lang and green;
She powd an apple red and white,
To wyle the young thing in. |
| 7 |
She wyl'd him into ae chamber,
She wyl'd him into twa,
She wyl'd him to her ain chamber,
The fairest o them a'. |
| 8 |
She laid him on a dressing-board,
Where she did sometimes dine;
She put a penknife in his heart,
And dressed him like a swine. |
| 9 |
Then out and cam the thick, thick blude,
Then out and cam the thin;
Then out and cam the bonny heart's blude,
Where a' the life lay in. |
| 10 |
She rowd him in a cake of lead,
Bad him lie still and sleep;
She cast him in the Jew's draw-well,
Was fifty fadom deep. |
| 11 |
She's tane her mantle about her head,
Her pike-staff in her hand,
And prayed Heaven to be her guide
Unto some uncouth land. |
| 12 |
His mither she cam to the Jew's castle,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hew, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.' |
| 13 |
She cam into the Jew's garden,
And there ran thryse about;
'O sweet Sir Hew, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.' |
| 14 |
She cam unto the Jew's draw-well,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hew, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.' |
| 15 |
'How can I speak, how dare I speak,
How can I speak to thee?
The Jew's penknife sticks in my heart,
I canna speak to thee. |
| 16 |
'Gang hame, gang hame, O mither dear,
And shape my winding sheet,
And at the birks of Mirryland town
There you and I shall meet.' |
| 17 |
Whan bells war rung, and mass was sung,
And a' men bound for bed,
Every mither had her son,
But sweet Sir Hew was dead. |
