3 'What did ye get for your supper, Lord Donald, my son? What did ye get for your supper, my jollie 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.' 4 'Whare gat ye the fishes, Lord Donald, my son? Whare gat ye the fishes, my jollie young man?' 'In my father's black ditches; mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' 5 'What like were your fishes, Lord Donald, my son? What like were your fishes, my jollie young man?' 'Black backs and spreckld bellies; mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' 6 'O I fear ye are poisond, Lord Donald, my son! O I fear ye are poisond, my jollie young man!' 'O yes! I am poisond; mither mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' 7 'What will ye leave to your father, Lord Donald my son? What will ye leave to your father, my jollie 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.' 8 'What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your brither, my jollie young man?' 'My horse and the saddle; mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.' 9 'What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your sister, my jollie 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.' 10 'What will ye leave to your true-love, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your true-love, my jollie young man?' 'The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, And lat her hang there for the poysoning o me.' C Motherwell's MS., p. 69. From the recitation of Margaret Bain, in the parish of Blackford, Perthshire. 1 'What's become of your hounds, King Henrie, my son? What's become of your hounds, my pretty little one?' 'They all died on the way; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down.' 2 'What gat ye to your supper, King Henry, my son? What gat ye to your supper, my pretty little one?' 'I gat fish boiled in broo; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down.' 3 'What like were the fish, King Henry, my son? What like were the fish, my pretty little one?' 'They were spreckled on the back and white on the belly; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down.' 4 'What leave ye to your father, King Henry, my son? What leave ye to your father, my pretty little one?' 'The keys of Old Ireland, and all that's therein; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down.'