There's mair ways than ane o' keeping craws frae the stack.
Related quotes
Fareweel, ye bughts
*
1. Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bIoomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.
CHORUS.
Nae mair I'll hear wi' pleasure sing
The cheerfu' lav'rock in the Spring,
But sad in grief now I maun mourn,
Far, far frae her, o'er Logan-burn.
2. Alas! nae mair we'll meetings keep
At bughts, whan herds ca' in their sheep;
Nae mair amang the threshes green
We'll row, where we hae aften been.
CHORUS
3. Nae mair for me , ye vi'lets blaw,
Or lilies whiter than the snaw;
Nae mair your pleasures I can bear,
While I am absent frae my dear.
CHORUS
4. I ken the cause of my hard fate;
In courtin' her I was too blate;
I never kiss'd my lass at a'
But when we met an' gaed awa'.
CHORUS
5. Oh could my tears again bring back
The days now past, I'd no' be slack
For ev'ry kiss she got before
I wad gie to her now a score.
CHORUS
6. O fortune I wad you favour me
In some snug corner her to see.
My heart I wad to her reveal,
An' in her arms my pardon seal.
CHORUS
*
poem by James Thomson
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Edward, Edward
'Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude
And why sae sad gang ye, O?'
'O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,
And I hae nae mair but he, O.'
'Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
Edward, Edward;
Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O.'
'O I hae killed my red-roan steed,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my red-roan steed,
That was sae fair and free, O.'
'Your steed was auld, and ye've plenty mair,
Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye've plenty mair;
Some ither dule ye dree, O.'
'O I hae killed my father dear,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my father dear,
Alas, and wae is me, O!'
'And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mither, mither;
I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I'll fare over the sea, O.'
'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?'
'I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
Mither, mither;
I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
For here never mair maun I be, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
When ye gang ower the sea, O?'
'The warld's room: let them beg through life,
Mither, mither;
The warld's room: let them beg through life;
For them never mair will I see, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
My dear son, now tell me, O?'
'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
Mither, mither;
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:
Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!'
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bloody Sun
“O WHERE have ye been the morn sae late,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
O where have ye been the morn sae late?
And I wot I hae but anither.”
“By the water-gate, by the water-gate,
O dear mither.”
“And whatten kin’ o’ wark had ye there to make,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And whatten kin’ o’ wark had ye there to make?
And I wot I hae but anither.”
“I watered my steeds with water frae the lake,
O dear mither.”
“Why is your coat sae fouled the day,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
Why is your coat sae fouled the day?
And I wot I hae but anither.”
“The steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay,
O dear mither.”
“And where gat ye thae sleeves of red,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And where gat ye thae sleeves of red?
And I wot I hae but anither.”
“I have slain my ae brither by the weary water-head,
O dear mither.”
“And where will ye gang to mak your mend,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And where will ye gang to mak your mend?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“The warldis way, to the warldis end,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave your father dear,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your father dear?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“The wood to fell and the logs to bear,
For he’ll never see my body mair,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave your mither dear,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your mither dear?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“The wool to card and the wool to wear,
For ye’ll never see my body mair,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave for your wife to take,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave for your wife to take?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“A goodly gown and a fair new make,
For she’ll do nae mair for my body’s sake,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave your young son fair,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your young son fair?
And I wot ye hae not anither.”
“A twiggen school-rod for his body to bear,
Though it garred him greet he’ll get nae mair,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet?
And I wot ye hae not anither.”
“Wild mulberries for her mouth to eat,
She’ll get nae mair though it garred her greet,
O dear mither.”
“And when will ye come back frae roamin’,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And when will ye come back frae roamin’?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“When the sunrise out of the north is comen,
O dear mither.”
“When shall the sunrise on the north side be,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
When shall the sunrise on the north side be?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“When chuckie-stanes shall swim in the sea,
O dear mither.”
“When shall stanes in the sea swim,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
When shall stanes in the sea swim?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“When birdies’ feathers are as lead therein,
O dear mither.”
“When shall feathers be as lead,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
When shall feathers be as lead?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“When God shall judge between the quick and dead,
O dear mither.”
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Unfortunately, I'm not one of those people who take pictures, you know, carry a camera. Because if I did I'd have stack's and stack's and stack's of different act's. I got a lot here - I know what I done.
quote by Edwin Starr
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Edward, Edward
'WHY does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
And why sae sad gang ye, O?'
'O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude,
And I had nae mair but he, O.'
'Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
Edward, Edward;
Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O.'
'O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed,
That erst was sae fair and free, O.'
'Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
Some other dule ye dree, O.'
'O I hae kill'd my father dear,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill'd my father dear,
Alas, and wae is me, O!'
'And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mither, mither;
I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I'll fare over the sea, O.'
'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?'
'I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
Mither, mither;
I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
For here never mair maun I be, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
When ye gang owre the sea, O?'
'The warld's room: let them beg through life,
Mither, mither;
The warld's room: let them beg through life;
For them never mair will I see, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
My dear son, now tell me, O?'
'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
Mither, mither;
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:
Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!'
Edward, Edward
Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid,
Edward, Edward?
Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid?
And why sae sad gang ye, O?
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
Edward, Edward,
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
My deir son I tell thee, O.
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and frie, O.
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
Edward, Edward,
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
Sum other dule ye drie, O.
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither,
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas, and wae is mee, O.
And whatten penance wul ye drie for that,
Edward, Edward?
And whatten penance will ye drie for that?
My deir son, now tell me, O.
Ile set my feit in yonder boat,
Mither, mither,
Il set my feit in yonder boat,
And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.
And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?
Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
Mither, mither,
Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
Whan ye gang ovir the sea, O?
The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,
Mither, mither,
The warldis room, let them beg thrae life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,
Edward, Edward?
And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir?
My deir son, now tell mee, O.
The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
Mither, mither,
The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
Sic counseils ye gave to me, O.
poem by Thomas Percy
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Johnie Faa
The gypsies came to our good lord's gate
And wow but they sang sweetly!
They sang sae sweet and sae very complete
That down came the fair lady.
And she came tripping doun the stair,
And a' her maids before her;
As soon as they saw her weel-far'd face,
They coost the glamer o'er her.
'O come with me,' says Johnie Faw,
'O come with me, my dearie;
For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword,
That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.'
Then she gied them the beer and the wine,
And they gied her the ginger;
But she gied them a far better thing,
The goud ring aff her finger.
'Gae take frae me this yay mantle,
And bring to me a plaidie;
For if kith and kin, and a' had sworn,
I'll follow the gypsy laddie.
'Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed,
Wi' my good lord beside me;
But this night I'll lye in a tenant's barn,
Whatever shall betide me!'
'Come to your bed,' says Johnie Faw,
'Oh, come to your bed, my dearie:
For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword,
Your lord shall nae mair come near ye.'
'I'll go to bed to my Johnie Faw,
I'll go to bed to my dearie;
For I vow and I swear by the fan in my hand,
My lord shall nae mair come near me.
'I'll mak a hap to my Johnie Faw,
I'll mak a hap to my dearie;
And he's get a' the coat gaes round,
And my lord shall nae mair come near me.'
And when our lord came hame at e'en,
And spier'd for his fair lady,
The tane she cry'd, and the other reply'd,
'She's awa' wi' the gypsy laddie!'
'Gae saddle to me the black black steed,
Gae saddle and make him ready;
Before that I either eat or sleep,
I'll gae seek my fair lady.'
And we were fifteen weel-made men,
Altho' we were na bonny;
And we were a' put down but ane,
For a fair young wanton lady.
poem by Andrew Lang
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To Charles Baxter
OUR Johnie's deid. The mair's the pity!
He's deid, an' deid o' Aqua-vitae.
O Embro', you're a shrunken city,
Noo Johnie's deid!
Tak hands, an' sing a burial ditty
Ower Johnie's heid.
To see him was baith drink an' meat,
Gaun linkin' glegly up the street.
He but to rin or tak a seat,
The wee bit body!
Bein' aye unsicken on his feet
Wi' whusky toddy.
To be aye tosh was Johnie's whim,
There's nane was better teut than him,
Though whiles his gravit-knot wad clim'
Ahint his ear,
An' whiles he'd buttons oot or in
The less ae mair.
His hair a' lang about his bree,
His tap-lip lang by inches three -
A slockened sort 'mon,' to pree
A' sensuality -
A droutly glint was in his e'e
An' personality.
An' day an' nicht, frae daw to daw,
Dink an' perjink an' doucely braw,
Wi' a kind o' Gospel ower a',
May or October,
Like Peden, followin' the Law
An' no that sober.
Whusky an' he were pack thegether.
Whate'er the hour, whate'er the weather,
John kept himsel' wi' mistened leather
An' kindled spunk.
Wi' him, there was nae askin' whether -
John was aye drunk.
The auncient heroes gash an' bauld
In the uncanny days of auld,
The task ance fo(u)nd to which th'were called,
Stack stenchly to it.
His life sic noble lives recalled,
Little's he knew it.
Single an' straucht, he went his way.
He kept the faith an' played the play.
Whusky an' he were man an' may
Whate'er betided.
Bonny in life - in death - this twae
Were no' divided.
An' wow! but John was unco sport.
Whiles he wad smile about the Court
Malvolio-like - whiles snore an' snort
Was heard afar.
The idle winter lads' resort
Was aye John's bar.
What's merely humorous or bonny
The Worl' regairds wi' cauld astony.
Drunk men tak' aye mair place than ony;
An' sae, ye see,
The gate was aye ower thrang for Johnie -
Or you an' me.
John micht hae jingled cap an' bells,
Been a braw fule in silks an' pells,
In ane o' the auld worl's canty hells
Paris or Sodom.
I wadnae had him naething else
But Johnie Adam.
He suffered - as have a' that wan
Eternal memory frae man,
Since e'er the weary worl' began -
Mister or Madam,
Keats or Scots Burns, the Spanish Don
Or Johnie Adam.
We leuch, an' Johnie deid. An' fegs!
Hoo he had keept his stoiterin' legs
Sae lang's he did's a fact that begs
An explanation.
He stachers fifty years - syne plegs
To's destination.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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There's mair ways o' killing a dog than hanging him.
The Broomfield Hill
There was a knight and lady bright
Set trysts amo the broom,
The one to come at morning eav,
The other at afternoon.
'I'll wager a wager wi' you,' he said,
'An hundred marks and ten,
That ye shall not go to Broomfield Hills,
Return a maiden again.'
'I'll wager a wager wi' you,' she said,
'A hundred pounds and ten,
That I will gang to Broomfield Hills,
A maiden return again.'
The lady stands in her bower door,
And thus she made her mane:
'Oh, shall I gang to Broomfield Hills,
Or shall I stay at hame?
'If I do gang to Broomfield Hills
A maid I'll not return;
But if I stay from Broomfield Hills,
I'll be a maid mis-sworn.'
Then out it speaks an auld witch wife,
Sat in the bower aboon:
'O ye shall gang to Broomfield Hills,
Ye shall not stay at hame.
'But when ye gang to Broomfield Hills,
Walk nine times round and round;
Down below a bonny burn bank,
Ye'll find your love sleeping sound.
'Ye'll pu the bloom frae off the broom,
Strew't at his head and feet,
And aye the thicker that ye do strew,
The sounder he will sleep.
'The broach that is on your napkin,
Put it on his breast bane,
To let him know, when he does wake,
That's true love's come and gane.
'The rings that are on your fingers,
Lay them down on a stane,
To let him know, when he does wake,
That's true love's come and gane.
'And when he hae your work all done,
Ye'll gang to a bush o' broom,
And then you'll hear what he will say,
When he sees ye are gane.'
When she came to Broomfield Hills,
She walked it nine times round,
And down below yon burn bank,
She found him sleeping sound.
She pu'd the bloom frae off the broom,
Strew'd it at 's head and feet,
And aye the thicker that she strewd,
The sounder he did sleep.
The broach that was on her napkin,
She put it on his breast-bane,
To let him know, when he did wake,
His love was come and gane.
The rings that were on her fingers,
She laid upon a stane,
To let him know, when he did wake,
His love was come and gane.
Now when she had her work all dune,
She went to a bush o' broom,
That she might hear what he did say,
When he saw that she was gane.
'O where were ye my guid grey hound,
That I paid for sae dear,
Ye didna waken me frae my sleep
When my true love was sae near?'
'I scraped wi' my foot, master,
Till a' my collars rang,
But still the mair that I did scrape,
Waken woud ye nane.'
'Where were ye, my bony brown steed,
That I paid for sae dear,
That ye woudna waken me out o' my sleep
When my love was sae near?'
'I patted wi my foot, master,
Till a' my bridles rang,
But the mair that I did patt,
Waken woud ye nane.'
'O where were ye, my gay goss-hawk
That I paid for sae dear,
That ye woudna waken me out o' my sleep
When ye saw my love near?'
'I flapped wi my wings, master,
Till a' my bells they rang,
But still, the mair that I did flap,
Waken woud ye nane.'
'O where were ye, my merry young men
That I pay meat and fee,
That ye woudna waken me out o' my sleep
When my love ye did see?'
'Ye'll sleep mair on the night, master,
And wake mair on the day;
Gae sooner down to Broomfield Hills
When ye've sic pranks to play.
'If I had seen any armed men
Come riding over the hill--
But I saw but a fair lady
Come quietly you until.'
'O wae mat worth yow, my young men,
That I pay meat and fee,
That ye woudna waken me frae sleep
When ye my love did see?
'O had I waked when she was nigh,
And o her got my will,
I shoudna cared upon the morn
The sma birds o her were fill.'
When she went out, right bitter she wept,
But singing came she hame;
Says, 'I hae been at Broomfield Hills,
And maid returned again.'
poem by Andrew Lang
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Son Davie! Son Davie!
'What bluid's that on thy coat lap?
Son Davie! Son Davie!
What bluid's that on thy coat lap?
And the truth come tell to me, O.'
'It is the bluid of my great hawk,
Mother lady, Mother lady!
It is the bluid of my great hawk,
And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.'
'Hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red,
Son Davie! Son Davie!
Hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red,
And the truth come tell to me, O.'
'It is the bluid of my grey hound,
Mother lady! Mother lady!
It is the bluid of my grey hound,
And it wudna rin for me, O.'
'Hound's bluid was ne'er sae red,
Son Davie! Son Davie!
Hound's bluid was ne'er sae red,
And the truth come tell to me, O.'
'It is the bluid o' my brother John,
Mother lady! Mother lady!
It is the bluid o' my brother John,
And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.'
'What about did the plea begin?
Son Davie! Son Davie!'
'It began about the cutting o' a willow wand,
That would never hae been a tree, O.'
'What death dost thou desire to die?
Son Davie! Son Davie!
What death dost thou desire to die?
And the truth come tell to me, O.'
'I'll set my foot in a bottomless ship,
Mother lady! mother lady!
I'll set my foot in a bottomless ship,
And ye'll never see mair o' me, O.'
'What wilt thou leave to thy poor wife?
Son Davie! Son Davie!'
'Grief and sorrow all her life,
And she'll never get mair frae me, O.'
'What wilt thou leave to thy young son?
Son Davie! son Davie!'
'The weary warld to wander up and down,
And he'll never get mair o' me, O.'
'What wilt thou leave to thy mother dear?
Son Davie! Son Davie!'
'A fire o' coals to burn her wi' hearty cheer,
And she'll never get mair o' me, O.'
poem by Andrew Lang
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Stack A Lee
Hawlin alley on a dark and drizzly night,
Billy lyons and stack-a-lee had one terrible fight.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Stack-a-lee walked to the bar-room, and he called for a glass of beer,
Turned around to billy lyons, said, what are you doin here?
Waitin for a train, please bring my woman home.
Stack-a-lee, oh stack-a-lee. please dont take my life.
Got three little children and a-weepin, lovin wife.
Youre a bad man, bad man, stack-a-lee.
God bless your children and Ill take care of your wife.
You stole my john b., now Im bound to take your life.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Stack-a-lee turned to billy lyons and he shot him right through the head,
Only taking one shot to kill billy lyons dead.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Sent for the doctor, well the doctor he did come,
Just pointed out stack-a-lee, said, now what have you done?
Youre a bad man, bad man, stack-a-lee.
Six big horses and a rubber-tired hack,
Taking him to the cemetery, buy they failed to bring him back.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Hawlin alley, thought I heard the bulldogs bark.
It must have been old stack-a-lee stumbling in the dark.
Hes a bad man, gonna land him right back in jail.
High police walked on to stack-a-lee, he was lying fast asleep.
High police walked on to stack-a-lee, and he jumped forty feet.
Hes a bad man, gonna land him right back in jail.
Well they got old stack-a-lee and they laid him right back in jail.
Couldnt get a man around to go stack-a lees bail
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Stack-a-lee turned to the jailer, he said, jailer, I cant sleep.
round my bedside billy lyons began to creep.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Queen's Marie
Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane,
Wi ribbons in her hair;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than ony that were there.
Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane,
Wi ribbons on her breast;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than he listend to the priest.
Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane,
Wi gloves upon her hands;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than the queen and a' her lands.
She hadna been about the king's court
A month, but barely one,
Till she was beloved by a' the king's court,
And the king the only man.
She hadna been about the king's court
A month, but barely three,
Till frae the king's court Marie Hamilton,
Marie Hamilton durst na be.
The king is to the Abbey gane,
To pu the Abbey tree,
To scale the babe frae Marie's heart;
But the thing it wadna be.
O she has rowd it in her apron,
And set it on the sea:
'Gae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe,
Ye's get na mair o me.'
Word is to the kitchen gane,
And word is to the ha,
And word is to the noble room,
Amang the ladyes a',
That Marie Hamilton's brought to bed,
And the bonny babe's mist and awa.
Scarcely had she lain down again,
And scarcely faen asleep,
When up then started our gude queen,
Just at her bed-feet,
Saying 'Marie Hamilton, where's your babe?
For I am sure I heard it greet.'
'O no, O no, my noble queen!
Think no such thing to be!
'Twas but a stitch into my side,
And sair it troubles me.'
'Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton,
Get up, and follow me,
For I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding for to see.'
O slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly put she on;
And slowly rode she out the way,
Wi mony a weary groan.
The queen was clad in scarlet,
Her merry maids all in green;
And every town that they cam to,
They took Marie for the queen.
'Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen,
Ride hooly now wi' me!
For never, I am sure, a wearier burd
Rade in your cumpanie.'
But little wist Marie Hamilton,
When she rade on the brown,
That she was ga'en to Edinburgh town,
And a' to be put down.
'Why weep ye so, ye burgess-wives,
Why look ye so on me?
O, I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding for to see!'
When she gaed up the Tolbooth stairs,
The corks frae her heels did flee;
And lang or eer she cam down again,
She was condemned to die.
When she cam to the Netherbow Port,
She laughed loud laughters three;
But when she cam to the gallows-foot,
The tears blinded her ee.
'Yestreen the queen had four Maries,
The night she'll hae but three;
There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaten,
And Marie Carmichael, and me.
'O, often have I dressd my queen,
And put gold upon her hair;
But now I've gotten for my reward
The gallows to be my share.
'Often have I dressd my queen,
And often made her bed:
But now I've gotten for my reward
The gallows-tree to tread.
'I charge ye all, ye mariners,
When ye sail ower the faem,
Let neither my father nor mother get wit,
But that I'm coming hame.
'I charge ye all, ye mariners,
That sail upon the sea,
Let neither my father nor mother get wit,
This dog's death I'm to die.
'For if my father and mother got wit,
And my bold brethren three,
O mickle wad be the gude red blude,
This day wad be spilt for me!
'O little did my mother ken,
The day she cradled me,
The lands I was to travel in,
Or the death I was to die!'
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Queen's Marie
MARIE HAMILTON 's to the kirk gane,
Wi' ribbons in her hair;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton
Than ony that were there.
Marie Hamilton 's to the kirk gane
Wi' ribbons on her breast;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton
Than he listen'd to the priest.
Marie Hamilton 's to the kirk gane,
Wi' gloves upon her hands;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton
Than the Queen and a' her lands.
She hadna been about the King's court
A month, but barely one,
Till she was beloved by a' the King's court
And the King the only man.
She hadna been about the King's court
A month, but barely three,
Till frae the King's court Marie Hamilton,
Marie Hamilton durstna be.
The King is to the Abbey gane,
To pu' the Abbey tree,
To scale the babe frae Marie's heart;
But the thing it wadna be.
O she has row'd it in her apron,
And set it on the sea--
'Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe,
Ye'se get nae mair o' me.'
Word is to the kitchen gane,
And word is to the ha',
And word is to the noble room
Amang the ladies a',
That Marie Hamilton 's brought to bed,
And the bonny babe 's miss'd and awa'.
Scarcely had she lain down again,
And scarcely fa'en asleep,
When up and started our gude Queen
Just at her bed-feet;
Saying--'Marie Hamilton, where 's your babe?
For I am sure I heard it greet.'
'O no, O no, my noble Queen!
Think no sic thing to be;
'Twas but a stitch into my side,
And sair it troubles me!'
'Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton:
Get up and follow me;
For I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding for to see.'
O slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly put she on;
And slowly rade she out the way
Wi' mony a weary groan.
The Queen was clad in scarlet,
Her merry maids all in green;
And every town that they cam to,
They took Marie for the Queen.
'Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen,
Ride hooly now wi' me!
For never, I am sure, a wearier burd
Rade in your companie.'--
But little wist Marie Hamilton,
When she rade on the brown,
That she was gaen to Edinburgh town,
And a' to be put down.
'Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives,
Why look ye so on me?
O I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding to see.'
When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs,
The corks frae her heels did flee;
And lang or e'er she cam down again,
She was condemn'd to die.
When she cam to the Netherbow port,
She laugh'd loud laughters three;
But when she came to the gallows foot
The tears blinded her e'e.
'Yestreen the Queen had four Maries,
The night she'll hae but three;
There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton,
And Marie Carmichael, and me.
'O often have I dress'd my Queen
And put gowd upon her hair;
But now I've gotten for my reward
The gallows to be my share.
'Often have I dress'd my Queen
And often made her bed;
But now I've gotten for my reward
The gallows tree to tread.
'I charge ye all, ye mariners,
When ye sail owre the faem,
Let neither my father nor mother get wit
But that I'm coming hame.
'I charge ye all, ye mariners,
That sail upon the sea,
That neither my father nor mother get wit
The dog's death I'm to die.
'For if my father and mother got wit,
And my bold brethren three,
O mickle wad be the gude red blude
This day wad be spilt for me!
'O little did my mother ken,
The day she cradled me,
The lands I was to travel in
Or the death I was to die!
The Outlaw
Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade,
To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade.
Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,-
Let them die o' rent wha like, mither, and I'll die by sword.
Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben,
Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a weary weary pen;
Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o' sky,
Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.
Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown,
Trailing strings o' footsore horses through the noisy dusty town;
Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o'er his wares,
Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares.
Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian bands,
Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands.
Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o' war-
There's blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it's ill to make it mair.
If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha' been douce and still,
And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill;
Sat at hame wi' the woman I looed, and wi' bairnies at my knee:
But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve's no for me.
For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well
How you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell;
And so it was that I won the heart to wander far and near,
Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonnie dun deer.
Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals;
I do but hunt God's cattle, upon God's ain hills;
For no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are free
To a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me.
So I'm aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer,
Ranging far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here;
Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping down the screes,
Looking out frae craig and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze.
Oh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o' the brae,
As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a' the day.
Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky-
That's a bonnier life than stumbling ower the muck to colt and kye.
And when I'm taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o' my deer,
Ye'll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to dangle in the air;
But ye'll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye'll steal me frae the tree,
And bury me up on the brown brown muirs, where I aye looed to be.
Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away,
Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great harts bray;
And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I'll go glowering at the sky,
The livelong night on the black hill sides where the dun deer lie.
In the New Forest, 1847.
poem by Charles Kingsley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He's like the craws, he eats himsel' out o' ply.