Part 10 (1/2)

”I never hurt fair maid in all my time, Nor at my end shall it be; But give me my bent bow in my hand, And a broad arrow I'll let flee; And where this arrow is taken up, There shall my grave digged be.

”Lay me a green sod under my head, And another under my feet; And lay my bent bow by my side, Which was my music sweet; And make my grave of gravel and green, Which is most right and meet.

”Let me have length and breadth enough, With a green sod under my head; That they may say when I am dead, Here lies bold Robin Hood.”

These words they readily promised him, Which did bold Robin please; And there they buried bold Robin Hood, Near to the fair Kirkleys.

The Twa Corbies

As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a maen: The tane unto the t'ither did say, ”Whaur shall we gang and dine the day?”

”O doun beside yon auld fail d.y.k.e, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

”His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet.

”O we'll sit on his white hause bane, And I'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en; Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare.

”Mony a ane for him makes maen, But nane shall ken whaur he is gane.

Over his banes when they are bare, The wind shall blaw for evermair.”

Waly, Waly, Love be Bonny

A SCOTTISH SONG

O waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn side, Where I and my love were wont to gae.

I leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lichtly me.

O waly, waly, but gin love be bonny, A little time while it is new; But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades awa' like morning dew.

O wherfore shuld I busk my head?

Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair?

For my true love has me forsook, And says he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-Seat sall be my bed, The sheets shall neir be prest by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me.

Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the tree?

O gentle death, when wilt thou c.u.m?

For of my life I am weare.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaws inclemence; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

Whan we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad in black velvet, And I myself in cramase.