My gold is gone, my money is spent; My land now take it unto thee: Give me the gold, good John o' the Scales, And thine for aye my land shall be. Then John he did him to record draw, And John he cast him a gods-pennie; But for every pound that John agreed, The land, I wis, was well worth three. He told him the gold upon the bord, He was right glad his land to win: The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now I'll be the lord of Linne. Thus he bath sold his land so broad, Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, All but a poor and lonesome lodge, That stood far off in a lonely glen. For so he to his father hight. My son, when I am gone, said he, Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free: But swear me now upon the roode, That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; For when all the world doth frown on thee, Thou there shalt find a faithful friend. The heir of Linne is full of gold: And come with me, my friends, said he, Let 's drinke, and rant, and merry make, And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. They ranted, drank, and merry made, Till all his gold it waxed thin; And then his friends they slunk away; They left the unthrifty heir of Linne. He had never a penny left in his purse, Never a penny left but three, And one was brass, another was lead, And another it was white money. 'Now well-aday,' said the heir of Linne, 'Now well-aday, and woe is me, For when I was the lord of Linne, I never wanted gold nor fee. 'But many a trusty friend have I, And why should I feel dole or care? I'll borrow of them all by turns, So need I not be never bare.' But one, I wis, was not at home; Anther had payd his gold away; Another call'd him thriftless loon, And bade him sharply wend his way. Now well-aday, said the heir of Linne, Now well-aday, and woe is me! For when I had my lands so broad, On me they liv'd right merrilee. To beg my bread from door to door I wis, it were a burning shame: To rob and steal it were a sin: To work my limbs I cannot frame. Now I'll away to that lonesome lodge, For there my father bade me wend; When all the world should frown on me, I there shold find a trusty friend. PART II Away then hied the heir of Linne O'er hill and holt and moor and fen, Untill he came to the lonesome lodge, That stud so lowe in a lonely glenne. He looked up, he looked down, In hope some comfort for to win: But bare and lothly were the walls. Here's sorry cheer, quo' the heir of Linne. The little window dim and dark Was hung with ivy, brere, and yew; No shimmering sun here ever shone; No wholesome breeze here ever blew. Nor chair, nor table he mote spy, No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed, Nought save a rope with a running noose, That dangling hung up o'er his head. And over it in broad letters, These words were written so plain to see: 'Ah! graceless wretch, hast spent thine all, And brought thyself to penurie?