Lord Thomas o Winsbury; or,
Lord Thomas of Winesberry and the King's Daughter
WILLIE O WINSBURY—G
[_]
Buchan's MSS, II, 174; Buchan's Ballads of the North
of Scotland, II, 212.
1
Seven years the king he staid
Into the land of Spain,
And seven years True Thomas was
His daughter's chamberlain.
2
But it fell ance upon a day
The king he did come home;
She baked and she benjed ben,
And did him there welcome.
3
‘What aileth you, my daughter Janet,
You look sae pale and wan?
There is a dreder in your heart,
Or else you love a man.’
4
‘There is no dreder in my heart,
Nor do I love a man;
But it is for your lang byding
Into the land of Spain.’
5
‘Ye'll cast aff your bonny brown gown,
And lay it on a stone,
And I'll tell you, my jelly Janet,
If ever ye lovd a man.’
6
She's cast aff her bonny brown gown,
And laid it on a stone;
Her belly was big, her twa sides high,
Her colour it was quite gane.
7
‘Is it to a man o the might, Janet,
Or is it till a man o the main?
Or is it to one o my poor soldiers,
That I brought hame frae Spain?’
8
‘It's not till a man o the might,’ she says,
‘Nor yet to a man o the main;
But it's to Thomas o winsbury,
That cannot longer len.’
9
‘O where are all my wall-wight men,
That I pay meat and fee,
That will go for him True Thomas,
And bring him in to me?
For the morn, ere I eat or drink,
High hanged shall he be.’
10
She's turnd her right and round about,
The tear blinded her ee:
‘If ye do any ill to True Thomas,
Ye's never get gude o me.’
11
When Thomas came before the king
He glanced like the fire;
His hair was like the threads o gold,
His eyes like crystal clear.
12
‘It was nae wonder, my daughter Janet,
Altho ye loved this man;
If he were a woman, as he is a man,
My bed-fellow he would been.
13
‘O will ye marry my daughter Janet?
The truth's in your right hand;
Ye's hae some o my gold, and some o my gear,
And the twalt part o my land.’
14
‘It's I will marry your daughter Janet;
The truth's in my right hand;
I'll hae nane o your gold, nor nane o your gear,
I've enough in my own land.
15
‘But I will marry your daughter Janet
With thirty ploughs and three,
And four and twenty bonny breast-mills,
And a' on the water o Dee.’
