15 ‘O fare ye weel, then, May Margaret, Sin better manna be; I’ve win my mither’s malison, Coming this nicht to thee.’ 16 He’s mounted on his coal-black steed, O but his heart was wae! But, ere he came to Clyde’s water, ’Twas half up oer the brae. * * * * * * 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . he plunged in, But never raise again. * * * * * C Buchan’s Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 140. 1 Willie stands in his stable-door, And clapping at his steed, And looking oer his white fingers His nose began to bleed. 2 ‘Gie corn to my horse, mother, And meat to my young man, And I’ll awa to Maggie’s bower; I’ll win ere she lie down.’ 3 ‘O bide this night wi me, Willie, O bide this night wi me; The best an cock o a’ the reest At your supper shall be.’ 4 ‘A’ your cocks, and a’ your reests, I value not a prin, For I’ll awa to Meggie’s bower; I’ll win ere she lie down.’ 5 ‘Stay this night wi me, Willie, O stay this night wi me; The best an sheep in a’ the flock At your supper shall be.’ 6 ‘A’ your sheep, and a’ your flocks, I value not a prin, For I’ll awa’ to Meggie’s bower; I’ll win ere she lie down.’ 7 ‘O an ye gang to Meggie’s bower, Sae sair against my will, The deepest pot in Clyde’s water, My malison ye’s feel.’ 8 ‘The guid steed that I ride upon Cost me thrice thretty pound; And I’ll put trust in his swift feet To hae me safe to land.’ 9 As he rade ower yon high, high hill, And down yon dowie den, The noise that was in Clyde’s water Woud feard five huner men. 10 ‘O roaring Clyde, ye roar ower loud, Your streams seem wondrous strang; Make me your wreck as I come back, But spare me as I gang!’ 11 Then he is on to Maggie’s bower, And tirled at the pin; ‘O sleep ye, wake ye, Meggie,’ he said, ‘Ye’ll open, lat me come in.’ 12 ‘O wha is this at my bower-door, That calls me by my name?’ ‘It is your first love, sweet Willie, This night newly come hame.’ 13 ‘I hae few lovers thereout, thereout, As few hae I therein; The best an love that ever I had Was here just late yestreen.’ 14 ‘The warstan stable in a’ your stables, For my puir steed to stand! The warstan bower in a’ your bowers, For me to lie therein! My boots are fu o Clyde’s water, I’m shivering at the chin.’ 15 ‘My barns are fu o corn, Willie, My stables are fu o hay; My bowers are fu o gentlemen, They’ll nae remove till day.’ 16 ‘O fare ye well, my fause Meggie, O farewell, and adieu! I’ve gotten my mither’s malison This night coming to you.’