From "The Old Lady's Collection," formerly in the
possession of Sir Walter Scott, No 41.
| 1 |
Ther was a king, an a worthy king,
[an a king] of birth an fame;
He had an only dear daughter,
An Dayesie was her name. |
| 2 |
Ther was a boy about the house,
Bod Roben was his name;
He would not stay out of Dayese's bour,
Till he brought her body [to] shame. |
| 3 |
When bells was rung, . . . .
An a' man bon to rest,
The king went up to Lady Dayese's bour,
He was an unwelcom gast. |
| 4 |
'O Lady Dayes, dear, d[ea]r Dayisie,
What gars ye gae sae round?
We yer tua sides high an yer bellie bige,
Fra yer face the couller is gane.' |
| 5 |
'O have ye loved? or have he lang-sought?
Or die ye goo we barn?'
'It's all for you, fair father,
That ye stayed so long in Spain.' |
| 6 |
'It's aff ye take yer berry-broun goon,
An ye lay it on a ston,
An I will tell you in a very short time
If ye loued any man or no[n].' |
| 7 |
It's aff she has tane her berry-broun goon,
An laid it on a ston;
We her tua sides high, her belley turned bigg,
Fra her face the couller was gane. |
| 8 |
'O is it to lord? or is to lard?
Or till a man of mean?
Or is it to Bold Roben, the kittchen-boy?
Nou, Dayisie, dinne lea[n].' |
| 9 |
'It's no to leard, nor [to] lord,
Nor to a man of mean,
But it's to Bold Robien, our kittchen-boy;
Fatt neads me for to lea[n]?' |
| 10 |
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
It's the morn befor I eat or drink
His heart-blude I sall see.' |
| 11 |
He's tean Bold Robien by the hand
Lead him across the green;
His hear was leak the very threeds of goud,
His face shone leak the moon. |
| 12 |
He's tane out this bonny boy's hear[t]
Into a cupe of gold,
Had it to Lady Dayese's bour,
Says, No[u], Dayes, behold! |
| 13 |
'O welcom to me my heart's delight!
Nou welcom to me my joy!
Ye have dayed for me, an I'll day for ye,
Tho ye be but the kittchen-boy.' |
| 14 |
She has taen out the coup of gold,
Lead it belou her head,
An she wish it we the tears ran doun fra her eays,
An or midnight she was dead. |
| 15 |
She has tean out the coup of gold,
Laid it belou her hear,
An she wish it we the tears ran don fra her eays,
An alass! spak never mare. |
