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319

The Enchanted Ring

BONNY BEE HOM—B

[_]

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 169.

1

In Lauderdale I chanc'd to walk,
And heard a lady's moan,
Lamenting for her dearest dear,
And aye she cried, Ohon!

2

‘Sure never a maid that eer drew breath
Had harder fate than me;
I'd never a lad but one on earth,
They forc'd him to the sea.

3

‘The ale shall neer be brewin o malt,
Neither by sea nor land,
That ever mair shall cross my hause,
Till my love comes to hand.

4

‘A handsome lad, wi shoulders broad,
Gold yellow was his hair;
None of our Scottish youths on earth
That with him could compare.’

5

She thought her love was gone to sea,
And landed in Bahome;
But he was in a quiet chamber,
Hearing his lady's moan.

6

‘Why make ye all this moan, lady?
Why make ye all this moan?
For I'm deep sworn on a book,
I must go to Bahome.

7

‘Traitors false for to subdue
Oer seas I'll make me boun,
That have trepand our kind Scotchmen,
Like dogs to ding them down.’

8

‘Weell, take this ring, this royal thing,
Whose virtue is unknown;
As lang's this ring's your body on,
Your blood shall neer be drawn.

9

‘But if this ring shall fade or stain,
Or change to other hue,
Come never mair to fair Scotland,
If ye're a lover true.’

10

Then this couple they did part,
With a sad heavy moan;
The wind was fair, the ship was rare,
They landed in Bahome.

11

But in that place they had not been
A month but barely one,
Till he lookd on his gay gold ring,
And riven was the stone.

12

Time after this was not expir'd
A month but scarcely three,
Till black and ugly was the ring,
And the stone was burst in three.

13

‘Fight on, fight on, you merry men all,
With you I'll fight no more;
I will gang to some holy place,
Pray to the King of Glore.’

14

Then to the chapel he is gone,
And knelt most piteouslie,
For seven days and seven nights,
Till blood ran frae his knee.

15

‘Ye'll take my jewels that's in Bahome,
And deal them liberallie,
To young that cannot, and old that mannot,
The blind that does not see.

16

‘Give maist to women in child-bed laid,
Can neither fecht nor flee;
I hope she's in the heavens high,
That died for love of me.’

17

The knights they wrang their white fingers,
The ladies tore their hair;
The women that neer had children born,
In swoon they down fell there.

18

But in what way the knight expir'd,
No tongue will eer declare;
So this doth end my mournful song,
From me ye'll get nae mair.
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