t and cam the bonny heart's blude,
Where a' the life lay in.

She row'd him in a cake of lead,
Bad him lie still and sleep;
She cast him into the Jew's draw-well,
Was fifty fadom deep.

She's tane her mantle about her head,
Her pike-staff in her hand;
And prayed Heaven to be her guide
Unto some uncouth land.

His mither she cam to the Jew's castle,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'

She cam into the Jew's garden,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'

She cam unto the Jew's draw-well,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'

'How can I speak, how dare I speak,
How can I speak to thee?
The Jew's penknife sticks in my heart,
I canna speak to thee.

'Gang hame, gang hame, O mither dear,
And shape my winding-sheet,
And at the birks of Mirryland town
There you and I shall meet.'

When bells were rung and Mass was sung,
And a' men bound for bed,
Every mither had her son,
But sweet Sir Hugh was dead.

THE GYPSY COUNTESS

THERE come seven gypsies on a day,
Oh, but they sang bonny, O!
And they sang so sweet, and they sang so clear,
Down cam the earl's ladie, O.

They gave to her the nutmeg,
And they gave to her the ginger;
But she gave to them a far better thing,
The seven gold rings off her fingers.

When the earl he did come home,
Enquiring for his ladie,
One of the servants made this reply,
'She's awa with the gypsie laddie.'

'Come saddle for me the brown,' he said,
'For the black was ne'er so speedy,
And I will travel night and day
Till I find out my ladie.'

'Will you come home, my dear?' he said,
Oh will you come home, my honey?
And by the point of my broad sword,
A hand I'll ne'er lay on you.'

'Last night I lay on a good feather-bed,
And my own wedded lord beside me,
And to-night I'll lie in the ash-corner,
With the gypsies all around me.

'They took off my high-heeled shoes,
That were made of Spanish leather,
And I have put on coarse Lowland brogues,
To trip it o'er the heather.'

'The Earl of Cashan is lying sick;
Not one hair I'm sorry;
I'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips
Than all his gold and his money.'

THERE WERE THREE LADIES

THERE were three ladies play'd at the ba',
With a hey, hey, an' a lilly gay.

Bye cam three lords an' woo'd them a',
Whan the roses smelled sae sweetly.

The first o' them