And dull and drowsy was his een. She thought it had been a loathsome sweat, I wot it had fallen these twa between; But it was the blood of his fair body, I wot his life-days were na lang. O Saunders, I'll do for your sake What other ladies would na thole; When seven years is come and gone, There's ne'er a shoe go on my sole. O Saunders, I'll do for your sake What other ladies would think mair; When seven years is come and gone, There's ne'er a comb go in my hair. O Saunders, I'll do for your sake What other ladies would think lack; (_thole_, endure. _lack_, loss.) When seven long years is come and gone, I'll wear nought but dowie black. The bells gaed clinking through the town, To carry the dead corpse to the clay, An sighing says her may Margaret, I wot I bide a doleful day. In and came her father dear, Stout stepping on the floor. ***** "Hold your tongue, my daughter dear, Let all your mourning a'be; I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay, And I'll came back and comfort thee." "Comfort well your seven sons, For comforted will I never be: I ween 'twas neither lord nor loon That was in bower last night wi' me."-- (_dowie_, sad.) [Illustration: 0064] LORD DONALD |O where hae ye been a' day, Lord Donald, my son? O where hae ye been a' day, my jolly young man?" "I've been awa courtin':--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie doun." "What wad ye hae for your supper, Lord Donald, my son? What wad ye hae for your supper, my jolly young man?" "I've gotten my supper:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie doun." "What did ye get for your supper, Lord Donald, my son? What did ye get for your supper, my jolly young man?" "A dish of sma' fishes:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "Where gat ye the fishes, Lord Donald, my son? Where gat ye the fishes, my jolly young man? '' "In my fathers black ditches:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie doun." "What like were your fishes, Lord Donald, my son? What like were your fishes, my jolly young man?" "Black backs and speckl'd bellies:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie doun." [Illustration: 0066] "O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Donald, my son! O I fear ye are poison'd, my jolly young man!" "O yes! I am poison'd:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your father, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your father, my jolly young man?" "Baith my houses and land:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your brither, my jolly young man?"