What news, what news, my little wee boy, Bad news, bad news, my master, he says, Are any of my biggins brunt, my boy? Or is my dear ladye lichter yet, O' dear dochter, or son? There are nane o' your biggins brunt, master, Nor are your woods hewn doun; Nor is your ladye lichter yet O' dear dochter nor son. But ye 've a bouir i' fair Strathdon, And picturs roun' it sett; Where your ladye and little Munsgrove In fair Strathdon do sleep. O haed your tongue, why talk you so She is a gude and chaste woman As i' the north countrie. Ae word I dinna lee, my lord, Ae word I dinna lee; And if ye winna believe my word, Your ain twa een shall see. Gin this be a true tale ye tell, That hae tauld to me, I'll wed ye to my eldest dochter, And married ye shall be. But if it be a fause storie He's ca'd upon his landladye And pulled out twa handsfou o' gowd He ca'd upon his stable groom, There was a man in Lord Burnett's train, Was ane o' Munsgrove's kin; He set a horn to his mouth, And he blew loud and sma'; And aye at every soundin's end, Awa', Munsgrove, awa'. Then up it raise him little Munsgrove, And drew to him his shoon; Lye still, lye still, the ladye she cried, Why get ye up sae suin? I think I hear a horn blaw, And it blaws loud and sma'; And aye at every soundin's end, Awa', Munsgrove, awa'. Lye still, lye still, ye little Munsgrove, It's but my father's proud shepherd Lye still, my boy, lye still, my sweit; Hap my back frae the cauld; It's but the sough o' the westlin' wind, Blawin' ower the birks sae bauld. He turned him richt and roun' about, When up it started Lord Burnett, Is 't for luve o' my blankets, Munsgrove? Sae soun' in your arms she sleeps? It's nae for luve o' your blankets, my lord, Nor yet for luve o' your sheets; But wae be to your gay ladye, Sae soun' in my arms she sleeps. Win up, win up, ye little Munsgrove, I hae twa brands in ae scabbard, Tak' ye the best, gie me the warst, For ye're the weakest man. The first ane stroke that Munsgrove drew, Wounded Lord Burnett sair; The next ane stroke Lord Burnett drew, Munsgrove he spak' nae mair. He turned him to his ladye then, A' the time we've led our life, I ne'er thought this o' thee. How like ye noo this weel-faur'd face That stands straight by your side? Or will ye hate this ill-faur'd face Lyes weltering in his blude? O! better luve I this weel-faur'd face Then e'er I'll do this ill-faur'd face Then he's taen out a sharp dagger, A grave, a grave, cried Lord Burnett, To bury these twa in; And lay my ladye i' the hichest flat, She's chiefest o' the kin. A grave, a grave, said Lord Burnett, - He's deepest i' the sin. Ye 'll darken my windows up, secure, Wi' staunchions roun' about; And there is nae a livin' man Shall e'er see me walk out. |