Ballads, English -- England -- Texts; Ballads, Scots -- Scotland -- Texts
"That wud be a pity,"
Said Lambert Linkin.
"Nae pity, nae pity,"
Said the fause nurse to him. 40
Belinkin he rocked,
And the fause nurse she sang,
Till a' the tores o' the cradle[L43]
Wi' the red blude down ran.
"O still my babe, nurice, 45
O still him wi' the knife."
"He'll no be still, lady,
Tho' I lay down my life."
"O still my babe, nurice,
O still him wi' the kame." 50
"He'll no be still, lady,
Till his daddy come hame."
"O still my babe, nurice,
O still him wi' the bell."
"He'll no be still, lady, 55
Till ye come down yoursell."
"It's how can I come doun,
This cauld frosty nicht,
Without e'er a coal
Or a clear candle licht?" 60
"There's twa smocks in your coffer,
As white as a swan;
Put ane o' them about you,
It will shew you licht doun."
She took ane o' them about her, 65
And came tripping doun;
But as soon as she viewed,
Belinkin was in.
"Gude morrow, gude morrow,"
Said Lambert Linkin. 70
"Gude morrow to yoursell, sir,"
Said the lady to him.
"O save my life, Belinkin,
Till my husband come back,
And I'll gie ye as much red gold 75
As ye'll haud in your hat."
"I'll not save your life, lady,
Till your husband come back,
Tho' you wud gie me as much red gold
As I could haud in a sack. 80
"Will I kill her?" quo' Belinkin,
"Will I kill her, or let her be?"
"You may kill her," said the fause nurse,
"She was ne'er gude to me;
And ye'll be laird o' the Castle, 85
And I'll be ladye."
Then he cut aff her head
Fra her lily breast bane,
And he hung 't up in the kitchen,
It made a' the ha' shine. 90
The lord sat in England
A-drinking the wine:
"I wish a' may be weel
Wi' my lady at hame;
For the rings o' my fingers 95
They're now burst in twain!"
He saddled his horse,
And he came riding doun;
But as soon as he viewed,
Belinkin was in. 100
He hadna weel stepped
Twa steps up the stair,
Till he saw his pretty young son
Lying dead on the floor.
He hadna weel stepped 105
Other twa up the stair,
Till he saw his pretty lady
Lying dead in despair.
He hanged Belinkin
Out over the gate; 110
And he burnt the fause nurice,
Being under the grate.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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