'Gang hame, gang hame, O mither dear, And shape my winding-sheet, And at the birks of Mirryland town There you and I shall meet.' When bells were rung and Mass was sung, And a' men bound for bed, Every mither had her son, But sweet Sir Hugh was dead. THE GYPSY COUNTESS THERE come seven gypsies on a day, Oh, but they sang bonny, O! And they sang so sweet, and they sang so clear, Down cam the earl's ladie, O. They gave to her the nutmeg, And they gave to her the ginger; But she gave to them a far better thing, The seven gold rings off her fingers. When the earl he did come home, Enquiring for his ladie, One of the servants made this reply, 'She's awa with the gypsie laddie.' 'Come saddle for me the brown,' he said, 'For the black was ne'er so speedy, And I will travel night and day Till I find out my ladie.' 'Will you come home, my dear?' he said, Oh will you come home, my honey? And by the point of my broad sword, A hand I'll ne'er lay on you.' 'Last night I lay on a good feather-bed, And my own wedded lord beside me, And to-night I'll lie in the ash-corner, With the gypsies all around me. 'They took off my high-heeled shoes, That were made of Spanish leather, And I have put on coarse Lowland brogues, To trip it o'er the heather.' 'The Earl of Cashan is lying sick; Not one hair I'm sorry; I'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips Than all his gold and his money.' THERE WERE THREE LADIES THERE were three ladies play'd at the ba', With a hey, hey, an' a lilly gay. Bye cam three lords an' woo'd them a', Whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. The first o' them was clad in yellow: 'O fair May, will ye be my marrow?' Whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. The niest o' them was clad i' ried: O fair May, will ye be my bride?' The thrid o' them was clad i' green: He said, 'O fair May, will ye be my queen?' THE HEIR OF LINNE PART I LITHE and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will begin: It is of a lord of faire Scotland, Which was the unthrifty heir of Linne. His father was a right good lord, His mother a lady of high degree; But they, alas! were dead, him froe, And he lov'd keeping companie. To spend the day with merry cheer, To drinke and revell every night, To card and dice from eve to morne, It was, I weep, his heart's delight. To ride, to run, to rant, to roar, To alwaye spend and never spare, I wot, an' it were the king himself, Of gold and fee he mote be bare. So fares the unthrifty lord of Linne Till all his gold is gone and spent; And he maun sell his lands so broad, His house, and lands, and all his rent. His father had a keen stewarde, And John o' the Scales was called he: But John is become a gentel-man, And John has got both gold and fee. Says, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, Let nought disturb thy merry cheer; If thou wilt sell thy lands soe broad, Good store of gold I 'll give thee here.