Lord John
THE BROOMFIELD HILL—D
[_]
Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 195.
1
‘I'll wager, I'll wager,’ says Lord John,
‘A hundred merks and ten,
That ye winna gae to the bonnie broom-fields,
And a maid return again.’
2
‘But I'll lay a wager wi you, Lord John,
A' your merks oure again,
That I'll gae alane to the bonnie broom-fields,
And a maid return again.’
3
Then Lord John mounted his grey steed,
And his hound wi his bells sae bricht,
And swiftly he rade to the bonny broomfields,
Wi his hawks, like a lord or knicht.
4
‘Now rest, now rest, my bonnie grey steed,
My lady will soon be here,
And I'll lay my head aneath this rose sae red,
And the bonnie burn sae near.’
5
But sound, sound was the sleep he took,
For he slept till it was noon,
And his lady cam at day, left a taiken and away,
Gaed as licht as a glint o the moon.
6
She strawed the roses on the ground,
Threw her mantle on the brier,
And the belt around her middle sae jimp,
As a taiken that she'd been there.
7
The rustling leaves flew round his head,
And rousd him frae his dream;
He saw by the roses, and mantle sae green,
That his love had been there and was gane.
8
‘O whare was ye, my gude grey steed,
That I coft ye sae dear,
That ye didna waken your master,
Whan ye kend that his love was here?’
9
‘I pautit wi my foot, master,
Garrd a' my bridles ring,
And still I cried, Waken, gude master,
For now is the hour and time.’
10
‘Then whare was ye, my bonnie grey hound,
That I coft ye sae dear,
That ye didna waken your master,
Whan ye kend that his love was here?’
11
‘I pautit wi my foot, master,
Garrd a' my bells to ring,
And still I cried, Waken, gude master,
For now is the hour and time.’
12
‘But whare was ye, my hawks, my hawks,
That I coft ye sae dear,
That ye didna waken your master,
Whan ye kend that his love was here?’
13
‘O wyte na me, now, my master dear,
I garrd a' my young hawks sing,
And still I cried, Waken, gude master,
For now is the hour and time.’
14
‘Then be it sae, my wager gane,
'Twill skaith frae meikle ill,
For gif I had found her in bonnie broomfields,
O her heart's blude ye'd drunken your fill.’
