What news, what news, my little wee boy,
Ye bring sae hastilie?

Bad news, bad news, my master, he says,
As ye will plainly see.

Are any of my biggins brunt, my boy?
Or are my woods hewn doun?

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
About my gay ladye;

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,
ye

I'll wed ye to my eldest dochter,

And married ye shall be.

But if it be a fause storie
That ye hae tauld to me,
A hich gallows I'll gar be built,
And hangit shall ye be.

He's ca'd upon his landladye
The reckonin' for to pay;

And pulled out twa handsfou o' gowd
Says, We'll reckon anither day.

He ca'd upon his stable groom,
To saddle for him his steed;
And trampled ower yon rocky hills,
Till his horse's hoofs did bleed.

There was a man in Lord Burnett's train,

Was ane o' Munsgrove's kin;
And aye as fast's the horsemen rade
Sae nimbly's he did rin.

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,
Hap my back frae the win';

It's but my father's proud shepherd
Caain' his hogs to toun.

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,
And he fell fast asleep;

When up it started Lord Burnett,
And stood at their bed feet.

Is 't for luve o' my blankets, Munsgrove?
Or is 't for luve o' my sheets?
Or is 't for luve o' my gay ladye,

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,
Put a' your armour on;
It's never be said anither day,
I killed a naked man.

I hae twa brands in ae scabbard,
Cost me merks twenty-nine;

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,
And thus to her said he;

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
Lyes welterin' in his blude,

Then e'er I'll do this ill-faur'd face
That stands straicht by my side.

Then he's taen out a sharp dagger,
It was baith keen and smart;
And he has wounded that gay ladye
A deep wound to the heart.

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, -
To bury these twa in;
Lay Munsgrove i' the lowest flat,

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.