6 Whan I was set in my coach and six, Taking fareweel o my babies three, ‘I beg your father’s grace to be kind, For your face again I’ll never see.’ * * * * * * 7 As I was walking up London streets, My father was coming to meet me, Wi trumpets sounding on every side; But that was na music at a’ for me. 8 ‘Hold your tongue, my dochter dear, And of your weeping let abee; A bill o divorcement I’ll send to him, A far better match I’ll get for thee.’ 9 ‘Hold your tongue, my father dear, And with your folly let abee; There’ll never man sleep in my twa arms, Sin my gude lord has forsaken me.’ * * * * * * 10 As I was sitting at my bouer-window, What a blythe sicht did I see! I saw four score of his soldiers bold, And I wishd that they were coming for me. 11 Out bespeaks the foremost man, And what a weel-spoken man was he! ‘If the Marquis o Douglas’s lady be within, You’ll bid her come doun and speak to me.’ 12 It’s out bespak my auld father then, I wat an angry man was he; ‘Ye may gang back the road ye cam, For her face again ye’ll never see.’ 13 ‘Hold your tongue, my father dear, And with your folly let abee; For I’ll ga back, and I’ll ne’er return; Do ye think I love you as weel as he?’ 14 As I cam in by the Orange gate, What a blythe sicht did I see! I saw Jamie Douglas coming me to meet, And at his foot war his babies three. 15 ‘Ga fetch, ga fetch a bottle of wine, That I may drink to my gay ladie;’ She took the cup into her hand, But her bonnie heart it broke in three. * * * * * E Kinloch MSS, VII, 127; 24 April, 1826, from the recitation of Jenny Watson, Lanark, aged 73, who had it from her grandmother. 1 I lay sick, and very sick, And I was bad, and like to dee; . . . . . . . A friend o mine cam to visit me, And Blackwood whisperd in my lord’s ear That he was oure lang in chamber wi me. 2 ‘O what need I dress up my head, Nor what need I caim doun my hair, Whan my gude lord has forsaken me, And says he will na love me mair! 3 ‘But oh, an my young babe was born, And set upon some nourice knee, And I mysel war dead and gane! For a maid again I’ll never be.’ 4 ‘Na mair o this, my dochter dear, And of your mourning let abee; For a bill of divorce I’ll gar write for him, A mair better lord I’ll get for thee.’ 5 ‘Na mair o this, my father dear, And of your folly let abee; For I wad na gie ae look o my lord’s face For aw the lords in the haill cuntree. 6 ‘But I’ll cast aff my robes o red, And I’ll put on my robes o blue, And I will travel to some other land, To see gin my love will on me rue.