Thy sire he is from home, ladye, For he hath a journey gone, And his shaggy blood-hound is sleeping sound, Beside the postern stone. Go, bring me some of thy father’s gold, And some of thy mother’s fee, And steeds twain of the best, in the stalls that rest Where they stand thirty and three. * * * * * She mounted her on her milk-white steed, And he on a dapple grey, And they forward did ride, till they reach’d the sea-side, Three hours before it was day. Then out and spake this strange knight, This knight of the north countrie, O, maiden fair, with the raven hair, Do thou at my bidding be. Alight thee, maid, from thy milk-white steed, And deliver it unto me; Six maids have I drown’d, where the billows sound, And the seventh one thou shalt be. But first pull off thy kirtle fine, And deliver it unto me; Thy kirtle of green is too rich, I ween, To rot in the salt, salt sea. Pull off, pull off thy silken shoon, And deliver them unto me; Methinks that they are too fine and gay To rot in the salt, salt sea. Pull off, pull off thy bonnie green plaid, That floats in the breeze so free; It is woven fine with the silver twine, And comely it is to see. If I must pull off my bonnie green plaid, O turn thy back to me; And gaze on the sun which has just begun To peer o’er the salt, salt sea. He turn’d his back on the dameselle And gaz’d on the bright sunbeam-- She grasp’d him tight with her arms so white, And plung’d him into the stream. Lie there, sir knight, thou false-hearted wight, Lie there instead of me; Six damsels fair thou hast drown’d there, But the seventh has drowned thee. That ocean wave was the false one’s grave, For he sunk right hastily; Though with dying voice faint, he pray’d to his saint, And utter’d an Ave Marie. No mass was said for that false knight dead, No convent bell did toll; But he went to his rest, unshriv’d and unblest-- Heaven’s mercy on his soul! * * * * * She mounted her on her dapple-grey steed, And led the steed milk-white; She rode till she reach’d her father’s hall, Three hours before the night. The parrot, hung in the lattice so high, To the lady then did say, Some ruffian, I fear, has led thee from home, For thou hast been long away. Do not prattle, my pretty bird, Do not tell tales of me; And thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold, Instead of the greenwood tree. The earl as he sat in his turret high, On hearing the parrot did say, What ails thee, what ails thee, my pretty bird? Thou hast prattled the live-long day.