Lord John's Murder
YOUNG JOHNSTONE—E
[_]
Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, II, 20.
1
Lord John stands in his stable door,
Says he, I will gae ride,
His lady, in her bigly bower?
Desired him to bide.
2
‘How can I bide? how can I bide?
How shall I bide wi thee?
When I hae killd your ae brother;
You hae nae mair but he.’
3
‘If ye hae killd my ae brother,
Alas, and wae is me!
If ye be well yoursell, my love,
The less matter will be.
4
‘Ye'll do you to yon bigly bower,
And take a silent sleep,
And I'll watch in my highest tower,
Your fair body to keep.’
5
She has shut her bigly bower,
All wi a silver pin,
And done her to the highest tower,
To watch that nane come in.
6
But as she looked round about,
To see what she could see,
There she saw nine armed knights
Come riding oer the lea.
7
‘God make you safe and free, lady,
God make you safe and free!
Did you see a bludy knight
Come riding oer the lea?’
8
‘O what like was his hawk, his hawk?
And what like was his hound?
If his steed has ridden well,
He's passd fair Scotland's strand.
9
‘Come in, come in, gude gentlemen,
And take white bread and wine;
And aye the better ye'll pursue,
The lighter that ye dine.’
10
‘We thank you for your bread, lady,
We thank you for the wine,
And I woud gie my lands sae broad
Your fair body were mine.’
11
She has gane to her bigly bower,
Her ain gude lord to meet;
A trusty brand he quickly drew,
Gae her a wound sae deep.
12
‘What harm, my lord, provokes thine ire
To wreak itself on me,
When thus I strove to save thy life,
Yet served for sic a fee?’
13
‘Ohon, alas, my lady gay,
To come sae hastilie!
I thought it was my deadly foe,
Ye had trysted into me.
14
‘O live, O live, my gay lady,
The space o ae half hour,
And nae a leech in a' the land
But I'se bring to your bower.’
15
‘How can I live? how shall I live?
How can I live for thee?
Ye see my blude rin on the ground,
My heart's blude by your knee.
16
‘O take to flight, and flee, my love,
O take to flight, and flee!
I woudna wish your fair body
For to get harm for me.’
17
‘Ae foot I winna flee, lady,
Ae foot I winna flee;
I've dune the crime worthy o death,
It's right that I should die.
18
‘O deal ye well at my love's lyke
The beer but an the wine;
For ere the morn, at this same time,
Ye'll deal the same at mine.’
