Kinloch Manuscripts, V, 331, in the handwriting of John Hill
Barton; from a reciter who came from the vicinity of
Craigievar.
| 1 |
There came Gyptians to Corse Field yeats,
Black, tho they warna bonny;
They danced so neat and they danced so fine,
Till down came the bonny lady. |
| 2 |
She came trippin down the satir,
And her nine maidens afore her;
But up and starts him Johny Fa,
And he cast the glamour oer her. |
| 3 |
'Ye'll take frae me this gay mantle,
And ye'll gie to me a plaidie;
For I shall follow Johny Fa,
Lat weel or woe betide me.' |
| 4 |
They've taen frae her her fine mantle,
And they've gaen to her a plaidie,
And she's awa wi Johny Fa,
Whatever may betide her. |
| 5 |
When they came to a wan water,
I wite it wasna bonny,
. . . . .
. . . . . |
| 6 |
'Yestreen I wade this wan water,
And my good lord was wi me;
The night I man cast aff my shoes and wide,
And the black bands widen wi me. |
| 7 |
'Yestreen I lay in a well made bed,
And my good lord lay wi me;
The night I maun ly in a tenant's barn,
And the black bands lyin wi me.' |
| 8 |
'Come to yer bed,' says Johnie Fa,
'Come to yer bed, my dearie,
And I shall swer, by the coat that I wear,
That my hand it shall never go near thee.' |
| 9 |
'I will never come to yer bed,
I will never be yer dearie;
For I think I hear his horse's foot
That was once called my dearie.' |
| 10 |
'Come to yer bed,' says Johny Fa,
'Come to yer bed, my dearie,
And I shall swear, by the coat that I wear,
That my hand it shall never go oer thee.' |
| 11 |
'I will niver come to yer bed,
I will niver be yer dearie;
For I think I hear his bridle ring
That was once called my dearie.'
* * * * * |
| 12 |
When that good lord came hame at night,
He called for his lady;
The one maid said, and the other replied,
'She's aff wi the Gyptian laddy.' |
| 13 |
'Ye'll saddle to me the good black steed,
Tho the brown it was never so bonny;
Before that ever I eat or drink,
I shall have back my lady.'
* * * * * |
| 14 |
'Yestreen we were fifteen good armed men;
Tho black, we werena bonny;
The night we a' ly slain for one,
It's the Laird o Corse Field's lady.' |
