English and Scottish Ballads, Volume VIII

Ballads, English -- England -- Texts; Ballads, Scots -- Scotland -- Texts

Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,                                     25
      Sorely shent was the heire of Linne;
    His heart, i-wis, was near to-brast
      With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne.

    Never a word spake the heire of Linne,
      Never a word he spake but three:                                30
    "This is a trusty friend indeed,
      And is right welcome unto mee."

    Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
      And sprang aloft with his bodìe,
    When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,                             35
      And to the ground come tumbling hee.

    Astonyed lay the heire of Linne,
      Ne knewe if he were live or dead:
    At length he looked, and sawe a bille,
      And in it a key of gold so redd.                                40

    He took the bill, and lookt it on,
      Strait good comfort found he there:
    Itt told him of a hole in the wall,
      In which there stood three chests in-fere.

    Two were full of the beaten golde,                                45
      The third was full of white monèy;
    And over them in broad lettèrs
      These words were written so plaine to see.

    "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere;
      Amend thy life and follies past;                                50
    For but thou amend thee of thy life,
      That rope must be thy end at last."

    "And let it bee," sayd the heire of Linne,
      "And let it bee, but if I amend:
    For here I will make mine avow,                                   55
      This reade shall guide me to the end."

    Away then went with a merry cheare,
      Away then went the heire of Linne;
    I-wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,
      Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.                     60

    And when he came to John o' the Scales,
      Upp at the speere then looked hee;
    There sate three lords upon a rowe,
      Were drinking of the wine so free.

    And John himselfe sate at the bord-head,                          65
      Because now lord of Linne was hee;
    "I pray thee," he said, "good John o' the Scales,
      "One forty pence for to lend mee."

    "Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
      Away, away, this may not bee:                                   70
    For Christs curse on my head," he sayd,
      "If ever I trust thee one pennie."

    Then bespake the heire of Linne,
      To John o' the Scales wife then spake he:
    "Madame, some almes on me bestowe,                                75
      I pray for sweet saint Charitie."

    "Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
      I sweare thou gettest no almes of mee;
    For if we should hang any losel heere,
      The first we wold begin with thee."                             80

    Then bespake a good fellòwe,
      Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord;
    Sayd, "Turn againe, thou heir of Linne;
      Some time thou wast a well good lord.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

English and Scottish Ballads, Volume VIII

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