I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies
On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died for sake o’ me!

O think na but my heart was sair
When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair;
I laid her down wi’ meikle care
On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma’,
I hacked him in pieces sma’,
For her that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I’ll make a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair
Until the day I die.

O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, ‘Haste and come to me!’

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I were blest,
Where thou liest low and tak’st thy rest
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen’s arms lying,
On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
Since my Love died for me.

THE WIFE OF USHER’S WELL

These lived a wife at Usher’s Well
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them over the sea.

They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carlin wife
That her three sons were gane.

They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carlin wife
That her sons she’d never see.

‘I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood!’

It fell about the Martinmass,
When nights are lang and mirk,
The carlin wife’s three sons came hame,
And their hats were of the birk.

It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh;
But at the gates o’ Paradise
That birk grew fair eneugh.

‘Blow up the fire, my maidens!
Bring water from the well;
For a’ my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well.’

And she has made to them a bed,
She’s made it large and wide;
And she’s ta’en her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bedside.

Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the grey;
The eldest to the youngest said,
‘’Tis time we were awa!’

The cock he hadna crawed but once,
And clapped his wings at a’,
When the youngest to the eldest said,
‘Brother, we must awa,’

‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin’ worm doth chide;
Gin we be mist out o’ our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.

‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother’s fire!’

THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW

Late at e’en, drinking the wine
And e’er they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.

‘O stay at hame, my noble lord,
O stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.’

‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay!
O fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, though I ne’er return
Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.’

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
As oft she had done before, O;
She belted him with his noble brand,
And he’s awa to Yarrow.

As he gaed up the Terries’ bank,
I wot he gaed with sorrow,
Till down in a den he spied nine armed men
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.

‘O, come ye here to part your land,
The bonnie forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand
On the dowie houms of Yarrow?’

‘I come not here to part my land,
And neither to beg or borrow;
I come to wield my noble brand
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.

‘If I see all, ye’re nine to ane;
An’ that’s an unequal marrow:
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.’

Four has he hurt, and five has slain,
On the bloody braes of Yarrow;
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
And ran his body thorough.

‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,
And tell your sister Sarah,
To come and lift her leafu’ lord;
He’s sleeping sound on Yarrow.’

‘Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu’ dream;
I fear there will be sorrow!
I dreamed I pu’ed the heather green
With my true love, on Yarrow.

‘O gentle wind that bloweth south
From where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth.

‘But in the glen strive armed men;
They’ve wrought me dule and sorrow;
They’ve slain—the comeliest knight they’ve slain—
He bleeding lies on Yarrow.’

As she sped down yon high, high hill,
She gaed wi’ dule and sorrow,
And in the den spied ten slain men,
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
She searched his wounds all thorough,
She kissed them till her lips grew red,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.

‘Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear,
For a’ this breeds but sorrow;
I’ll wed ye to a better lord
Than him ye lost on Yarrow.’

‘O haud your tongue, my father dear,
Ye mind me but of sorrow;
A fairer rose did never bloom
Than now lies cropped on Yarrow.’

SWEET WILLIAM AND MAY MARGARET

There came a ghost to Marg’ret’s door,
With many a grievous groan;
And aye he tirled at the pin,
But answer made she none.

‘Is that my father Philip?
Or is’t my brother John?
Or is’t my true-love Willie,
From Scotland new come home?’

‘’Tis not thy father Philip,
Nor yet thy brother John,
But ’tis thy true-love Willie
From Scotland new come home.

‘O sweet Marg’ret, O dear Marg’ret!
I pray thee speak to me;
Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret,
As I gave it to thee.’

‘Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,
Nor it will I thee lend,
Till that thou come within my bower
And kiss me cheek and chin.’

‘If I should come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man;
And should I kiss thy ruby lips
Thy days would not be lang.

‘O sweet Marg’ret! O dear Marg’ret,
I pray thee speak to me;
Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret,
As I gave it to thee.’

‘Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,
Nor it will I thee lend,
Till thou take me to yon kirk-yard,
And wed me with a ring.’

‘My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard
Afar beyond the sea;
And it is but my spirit, Marg’ret,
That’s now speaking to thee.’

She stretched out her lily-white hand
And for to do her best:
‘Hae, there’s your faith and troth, Willie;
God send your soul good rest.’

Now she has kilted her robe o’ green
A piece below her knee,
And a’ the live-lang winter night
The dead corp followed she.

‘Is there any room at your head, Willie,
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willie,
Wherein that I may creep?’

‘There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret,
There’s nae room at my feet;
There’s nae room at my side, Marg’ret,
My coffin’s made so meet.’

Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up and crew the grey;
‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ret,
That you were gane awa.’

SIR PATRICK SPENS

The king sits in Dumfermline toun,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship o’ mine?’

O up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king’s right knee;
‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea.’

Our king has written a braid letter
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens
Was walking on the strand.

‘To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway ower the faem;
The king’s daughter o’ Noroway
’Tis thou must bring her hame.’

The first word that Sir Patrick read
So loud loud laughed he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read
The tear blinded his e’e.

‘O wha is this has done this deed
And tauld the king o’ me,
To send us out, at this time o’ year,
To sail upon the sea?

‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The king’s daughter o’ Noroway
’Tis we must fetch her hame.’

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi’ a’ the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week,
In Noroway but twae,
When that the lords o’ Noroway
Began aloud to say:

‘Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s goud,
And a’ our queenis fee.’
‘Ye lee, ye lee, ye liars loud!
Fu’ loud I hear ye lee.

‘For I have brought as much white monie
As gane my men and me,
And I hae brought a half-fou of gude red gould
Out o’er the sea wi’ me.

‘Make ready, make ready, my merry men a’!
Our good ship sails the morn.’
‘Now ever alack, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm.

‘I saw the new moon late yestreen
Wi’ the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we’ll come to harm.’

They hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the top-mast lap,
It was sic a deadly storm;
And the waves cam o’er the broken ship
Till a’ her sides were torn.

‘O where will I get a gude sailor
To tak the helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast,
To see if I can spy land?’

‘O here am I, a sailor gude,
To tak the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast,
But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’

He hadna gaen a step, a step
A step but barely ane,
When a boult flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.

‘Gae fetch a web o’ the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,
And wap them into our ship’s side,
And let nae the sea come in.’

They fetched a web o’ the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,
And they wapped them round that gude ship’s side,
But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To wet their cork-heeled shoon;
But lang or a’ the play was played
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather bed
That floated on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord’s son
That never mair came hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair,
A’ for the sake o’ their true loves,—
For them they’ll see nae mair.

O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi’ their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
With their goud kaims in their hair,
A’ waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they’ll see nae mair.

Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,
’Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!

HAME, HAME, HAME

Hame! hame! hame! O hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie.
When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o’ loyalty’s beginning now to fa’;
The bonnie white rose it is withering an’ a’;
But we’ll water it with the blude of usurping tyrannie,
And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie!
Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

O, there’s nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save,
But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open the grave,
That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, who attempted to save;
The green grass is growing abune their graves;
Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me
I’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!