15 He took a little horn out of his pocket, And he blew't both loud and shrill, And the little life that was in her, She hearkend to it full weel. 16 'Beet on, beet on, my brother dear, I value you not one straw, For yonder comes my own true-love, I hear his horn blaw. 17 'Beet on, beet on, my father dear, I value you not a pin, For yonder comes my own true-love, I hear his bridle ring.' 18 But when he came into the place, He lap unto the wa; He thought to get a kiss o her bonny lips, But her body fell in twa. 19 'Oh vow, oh vow, oh vow,' he said, 'Oh vow but ye've been cruel! Ye've taken the timber out of my own wood And burnt my ain dear jewel. 20 'Now for thy sake, Lady Marjorie, I'll burn both father and mother; And for thy sake, Lady Marjorie, I'll burn both sister and brother. 21 'And for thy sake, Lady Marjorie, I'll burn both kith and kin; But I will remember the pretty little boy That did thy errand rin.' F The Scots [Edinburgh] Magazine, 1822, LXXXIX, 734, communicated by W. W. 1 Fair Marjory's gaen into the school, Between six and seven, An she's come back richt big wi bairn, Between twalve and eleven. 2 It's out then sprung her mither dear, Stood stately on the flure: 'Ye're welcum back, young Marjory, But ye're sune becum a hure.' 3 'I'm not a hure, mither,' she said, 'Nor ever intend to be; But I'm wi child to a gentleman, An he swears he'll marry me.' 4 [It's out then sprung her father dear, Stood stately on the flure: 'Ye're welcum back, young Marjory, But ye're sune becum a hure.' 5 'I'm not a hure, father,' she said, 'Nor ever intend to be; But I'm wi child to a gentleman, An he swears he will marry me.' 6 It's out then sprung her brother dear, Stood stately on the flure: 'Ye're welcum back, young Marjory, But ye're sune becum a hure.' 7 'I'm not a hure, brother,' she said, 'Nor ever intend to be; But I'm wi child to a gentleman, An he swears he will marry me.' 8 It's out then sprung her sister dear, Stood stately on the flure: 'Ye're welcum back, young Marjory, But ye're sune becum a hure.' 9 'I'm not a hure, sister,' she said, 'Nor ever intend to be;] Ye're but a young woman, sister, An ye shuld speak sparinlie.' 10 Her father's to the grene-wude gaen, Her brither's to the brume; An her mither sits in her gowden chair, To see her dochter burn. * * * * * * * 11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The sister she culd do naething, And she sat down to greet.