His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Her misty hair is faint and fair, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, The burnie that goes babbling by Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, The sorrows of thy line! She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha', The laird's ha' o' Wutherstanelaw, The cottar's cot by the birken shaw; An' aye she gret, To ilk ane she met, For the trumpet had blawn an' her lad was awa'. "Black, black,” sang she, "Black, black my weeds shall be, My love has widowed me! Black, black!" sang she. Daft Jean, The waesome wean, She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha', The cottar's cot by the birken shaw; Nae mair she creepit, Nae mair she weepit, She stept 'mang the lasses the queen o' them a’, The queen o' them a', The queen o' them a', She stept 'mang the lasses the queen o' them a'. For the fight it was fought i' the fiel' far awa', An' claymore in han' for his love an' his lan', The lad she lo'ed best he was foremost to fa'. "White, white," sang she, 66 White, white, my weeds shall be, I am no widow," sang she, 66 White, white, my wedding shall be, White, white! Daft Jean, sang she. The waesome wean, She gaed na' to cottage, she gaed na' to ha', But forth she creepit, While a' the house weepit, Into the snaw i' the eerie night-fa'. At morn we found her, The lammies stood round her, The snaw was her pillow, her sheet was the snaw; Pale she was lying, Singing and dying, A' for the laddie wha fell far awa'. 66 My love has married me, White, white, my weeds shall be, The Yerl o' Waterydeck≈ THE wind it blew, and the ship it flew, But up an' cried the skipper til his crew, Syne up an' spak the angry king : Quo the skipper, "My lord, this maunna be— 1 He tuik the helm intil his han'; He left the shore un'er the lee ; Syne croodit sail, an', east an' south, Stude awa' richt oot to sea. Quo the king, "Leise-majesty, I trow! Here lies some ill-set plan. 'Bout ship!" Quo the skipper, forgets Ye are king but o' the lan'!" Oot he heild to the open sea "Yer grace Quhill the north wind flaughtered and fell; Syne the east had a bitter word to say That waukent a watery hell. He turned her heid intil the north : Quo the nobles: "He's droon, by the mass!" The king creepit down the cabin-stair She turnt her face to the drivin' snaw, It claucht her snood, an' awa' like a clud |