"My horse and the saddle:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your sister, my jolly young man?" "Baith my gold box and rings mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your true-love, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your true-love, my jolly young man?" "The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, And lat her hang there for the poisoning o' me." (_tozu_, rope.) FINE FLOWERS IN THE VALLEY [Illustration: 9068] |She sat down below a thorn, _Fine flowers in the valley;_ And there she has her sweet babe born, _And the green leaves they grow rarely._ "Smile na sae sweet, my bonnie babe, _Fine flowers in the valley,_ And ye smile sae sweet, ye'll smile me dead," _And the green leaves they grow rarely._ She's ta'en out her little penknife, _Fine flowers in the valley,_ And twinn'd the sweet babe o' its life, _And the green leaves they grow rarely._ She's howket a grave by the light o' the moon, _Fine flowers in the valley,_ And there she's buried her sweet babe in, _And the green leaves they grow rarely._ As she was going to the church, _Fine flowers in the valley,_ She saw a sweet babe in the porch, _And the green leaves they grow rarely._ "O sweet babe, and thou were mine, _Fine flowers in the valley,_ I wad clead thee in the silk so fine," _And the green leaves they grow rarely._ "O mother dear, when I was thine, _Fine flowers in the valley,_ Ye did na prove to me sae kind," _And the green leaves they grow rarely._ (_howket,_ digged. _clead_, clad.) YOUNG HUNTING "O Lady, rock never your young son, One hour longer for me; For I have a sweetheart in Garlicks Wells, I love thrice better than thee. "The very soles of my love's feet Is whiter than thy face:" "But, nevertheless, now, Young Hunting, Ye'll stay with me a' night?" She has birled in him, Young Hunting, The good ale and the beer; Till he was as love-drunken As any wild-wood steer. She has birled in him, Young Hunting, The good ale and the wine: Till he was as love-drunken As any wild-wood swine. Up she has ta'en him, Young Hunting, And she has had him to her bed. ***** And she has minded her of a little penknife, That hangs low down by her gare, (_birled in_, poured out drink for. _gare_, skirt.) And she has gi'en him, Young Hunting, A deep wound and a sair. Out and spake the bonny bird That flew abune her head; "Lady! keep weel your green clothing Frae that good lords blood."-- "O better I'll keep my green clothing Frae that good lord's blood, Nor thou can keep thy flattering tongue, That flatters in thy head."