Johnson's Museum, No 346, p. 357, 1792; communicated
by Robert Burns.
| 1 |
There was a battle in the north,
And nobles there was many,
And they hae killd Sir Charlie Hay,
And they laid the wyte on Geordie. |
| 2 |
O he has written a lang letter,
He sent it to his lady:
'Ye maun cum up to Enbrugh town,
To see what word's o Geordie.' |
| 3 |
When first she lookd the letter on,
She was baith red and rosy;
But she had na read a word but twa
Till she wallowt like a lily. |
| 4 |
'Gar get to me my gude grey steed,
My menyie a' gae wi me,
For I shall neither eat nor drink
Till Enbrugh town shall see me.' |
| 5 |
And she has mountit her gude grey steed,
Her menyie a' gaed wi her,
And she did neither eat nor drink
Till Enbrugh town did see her. |
| 6 |
And first appeard the fatal block,
And syne the aix to head him,
And Geordie cumin down the stair,
And bands o airn upon him. |
| 7 |
But tho he was chaind in fetters strang,
O airn and steel sae heavy,
There was na ane in a' the court
Sae bra a man as Geordie. |
| 8 |
O she's down on her bended knee,
I wat she's pale and weary:
'O pardon, pardon, noble king,
And gie me back my dearie! |
| 9 |
'I hae born seven sons to my Geordie dear,
The seventh neer saw his daddie;
O pardon, pardon, noble king,
Pity a waefu lady!' |
| 10 |
'Gar bid the headin-man mak haste,'
Our king reply'd fu lordly:
'O noble king, tak a' that's mine,
But gie me back my Geordie!' |
| 11 |
The Gordons cam, and the Gordons ran,
And they were stark and steady,
And ay the word amang them a'
Was, Gordons, keep you ready! |
| 12 |
An aged lord at the king's right hand
Says, Noble king, but hear me;
Gar her tell down five thousand pound,
And gie her back her dearie. |
| 13 |
Some gae her marks, some gae her crowns,
Some gae her dollars many,
And she's telld down five thousand pound,
And she's gotten again her dearie. |
| 14 |
She blinkit blythe in her Geordie's face,
Says, Dear I've bought thee, Geordie;
But there sud been bluidy bouks on the green
Or I had tint my laddie. |
| 15 |
He claspit her by the middle sma,
And he kist her lips sae rosy:
'The fairest flower o woman-kind
Is my sweet, bonie lady!' |
