  IThere was a may, and a weel-far’d Lived high up in yon glen; Her name was Katharine Johnstone She was courted by mony men. IIDoun cam’ the Laird o’ Lamington Out frae the North Countrie, All for to court this pretty may, Her bridegroom for to be. IIIHe tell’d na her father, he tell’d na her mither, He tell’d na ane o’ her kin, But he tell’d the bonnie lass hersel’ An’ her consent did win. IVBut up then cam’ Lord Faughanwood Out frae the English Border, And for to court this pretty may, A’ mounted in good order. VHe’s tell’d her father, he’s tell’d her mither, And a’ the lave But he’s tell’d na the bonny lass hersel’ Till on her weddin’-e’en. VIShe’s sent unto her first fere Gin he would come to see, And Lamington has sent back word Weel answer’d should she be. VIIThen he has sent a messenger Right quietly thro’ the land, For four-and-twenty armÈd men To ride at his command. VIIIThe bridegroom from a high window Beheld baith dale and down, And there he spied her first fere love Cam’ riding to the toun. IXShe scoffÈd and she scornÈd him Upon her weddin’-day, And said it was the Fairy Court He saw in sic array! XWhen a’ were at the dinner set, Drinking the blude-red wine, In cam’ the Laird o’ Lamington The bridegroom ’should hae been. XI‘O come ye here to fight, young lord? Or come ye here to play? Or come ye here to drink good wine Upon the weddin’-day?’— XII‘I come na here to fight,’ he said ‘I come na here to play; I’ll but lead a dance wi’ the bonny bride, And mount and go my way.’ XIIIThere was a glass of the blude-red wine Was fill’d them up between, But aye she drank to Lamington, Wha her true love had been. XIVHe’s ta’en her by the milk-white hand, And by the grass-green sleeve; He’s mounted her high behind himsel’, At her kin he’s spier’d XVThere were four-and-twenty bonny boys A’ clad in the Johnstone grey, They swore they would tak’ the bride again By the strong hand, if they may. XVIIt’s up, it’s up the Cowden bank, It’s down the Cowden brae; The bride she gar’d the trumpet sound ‘It is a weel-won play!’ XVIIThe blude ran down by Cowden bank And down by Cowden brae, But aye she gar’d the trumpet sound ‘It’s a’ fair play!’ XVIII‘My blessing on your heart, sweet thing! Wae to your wilfu’ will! Sae mony a gallant gentleman’s blood This day as ye’ve gar’d spill.’ XIXBut a’ you lords of fair England, If you be English born, Come never to Scotland to seek a wife Or else ye’ll get the scorn. XXFOOTNOTES: |
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