The king but an his nobles a'

Sat birling at the wine;

He would ha' nane but his ae daughter

To wait on them at dine.

(ca'ed, drove. birling, drinking.)

She's serv'd them but, she's serv'd them ben,

Intill a gown of green,

But her ee was aye on Brown Robin

That stood low under the rain.

She's do'en her to her bigly bower,

As fast as she could gang,

An' there she's drawn her shot-window,

An' she's harped an' she's sang.

"There sits a bird i' my father's garden,

An O but she sings sweet!

I hope to live and see the day

When wi' my love I'll meet."

"O gin that ye like me as well

As your tongue tells to me,

What hour o' the night, my lady bright,

At your bower shall I be?"

"When my father and gay Gilbert

Are baith set at the wine,

O ready, ready I will be

To let my true-love in."

O she has birled her father's porter

Wi' strong beer an' wi' wine,

Until he was as beastly drunk

As ony wild-wood swine;

She's stown the keys o' her father's gates

An letten her true-love in.

(bigly, pleasant. shot, projecting.)

Whan night was gane, and day was come,

An the sun shone on their feet,

Then out it spake him Brown Robin:

"I'll be discovered yet."

Then out it spake that gay lady:

"My love, ye needna doubt;

For wi' ae wile I've got you in,

Wi' anither I'll bring you out."

She's taen her to her father's cellar,

As fast as she can fare;

She's drawn a cup o' the guid red wine,

Hung't low down by her gare;

An' she met wi' her father dear

Just coming down the stair.

"I wouldna gie that cup, daughter,

That ye hold i' your hand

For a' the wines in my cellar,

An' gauntrees where they stand."

'O wae be to your wine, father,

That ever't came o'er the sea;

'Tis putten my head in sick a steer

I' my bower I canna be."

"Gang out, gang out, my daughter dear,

Gang out an' take the air;

Gang out an' walk i' the good green wood,

An' a your marys fair."

(gare, skirt. steer, stir.)

Original

Then out it spake the proud porter—

Our lady wished him shame—

"Well send the marys to the wood,

But well keep our lady at hame."

"Theres thirty marys i' my bower,

There's thirty o' them an' three;

But there's na ane among them a'

Kens what flower gains for me."

She's do'en her to her bigly bower,

As fast as she could bang,

An' she has dressed him, Brown Robin,

Like ony bower-woman.

The gown she put upon her love

Was o' the dainty green,

His hose was o' the saft, saft silk,

His shoon o' the cordwain fine.

She's putten his bow in her bosom,

His arrow in her sleeve,

His sturdy bran' her body next,

Because he was her love.

Then she is unto her bower-door,

As fast as she could gang;

But out it spake the proud porter—

Our lady wished him shame—

"Well count our marys to the wood,

An well count them back again."

(cordwain, leather.)

The firsten mary she sent out

Was Brown Robin by name;

Then out it spake the king himsel',

"This is a sturdy dame."

O she went out in a May morning,

In a May morning so gay,

But she came never back again,

Her auld father to see.