The Earl of Aboyne

No: 235; variant: 235C

  1. THE Earl of Aboyne he’s careless an kin, An he is new come frae London; He sent his man him before, To tell o his hame-comin.
  2. First she called on her chamberline, Sin on Jeanie, her gentlewoman: ‘Bring me a glass o the best claret win, To drink my good lord’s well-hame-comin.
  3. ‘My servants all, be ready at a call, . . . . . . . . For the Lord of Aboyne is comin
  4. ‘My cooks all, be ready at a call . . . . Wi the very best of meat, For the Lord of Aboyne is comin.
  5. ‘My maids all, be ready at a call, . . . . The rooms I’ve the best all to be dressd, For the Lord af Aboyn is comin.’
  6. She did her to the closs to take him fra his horse, An she welcomed him frae London: . . . . ‘Ye’r welcome, my good lord, frae London!’
  7. ‘An I be sae welcome, he says, ‘Ye’ll kiss me for my comin, For the morn sud hae bin my weddin-day Gif I had staid in London.’
  8. She turned her about wi a disdainfull look, Dear, she was a pretty woman! ‘Gif the morn shud hae bin yer weddin-day, Ye may kiss your whores in London.’
  9. . . . . . . . . ‘So I shall, madam, an ye’s hae na mare to sey, For I’ll dine wi the Marquis of Huntley.’
  10. She did her to his servant-man, I wat they caed him Peter Gordon: ‘Ye will ask my good lord if he will let me Wi him a single mile to ride [to London].’
  11. ‘Ye need not, madam, . . I have asked him already; He will not let ye a single mile ride, For he is to dine with the Marquis o Huntly.’
  12. She called on her chamber-maid, Sin on Jean, her gentlewoman: ‘Ge make my bed, an tye up my head, Woe’s me for his hame-comin!’
  13. She lived a year and day, wi mickle grief and wae, The doctors were wi her dealin; Within a crack, her heart it brack, As the letters they went to London.
  14. He gae the table wi his foot, An koupd it wi his knee, Gared silver cup an easer dish In flinders flee.
  15. . . . . . . . . ‘I wad I had lost a’ the lands o Aboyne Or I had lost bonny Margat Irvine.’
  16. He called on his best serving-man, I wat the caed him Peter Gordon: ‘Gae get our horses sadled wi speed, Woe’s me for our hame-comin!
  17. . . . . . . . . ‘For we will a’ be in black, fra the hose to the hat, Woe’s me for bonny Margat Irvine!
  18. ‘We must to the North, to bury her corps, Alas for our hame-comin! I rather I had lost a’ the lands o Aboyne Or I had lost bonny Margat Irvine.’