Bonny Bee Hom
No: 92; variant: 92B
- IN Lauderdale I chanc’d to walk,
And heard a lady’s moan,
Lamenting for her dearest dear,
And aye she cried, Ohon!
- ‘Sure never a maid that eer drew breath
Had harder fate than me;
I’d never a lad but one on earth,
They forc’d him to the sea.
- ‘The ale shall neer be brewin o malt,
Neither by sea nor land,
That ever mair shall cross my hause,
Till my love comes to hand.
- ‘A handsome lad, wi shoulders broad,
Gold yellow was his hair;
None of our Scottish youths on earth
That with him could compare.’
- She thought her love was gone to sea,
And landed in Bahome;
But he was in a quiet chamber,
Hearing his lady’s moan.
- ‘Why make ye all this moan, lady?
Why make ye all this moan?
For I’m deep sworn on a book,
I must go to Bahome.
- ‘Traitors false for to subdue
Oer seas I’ll make me boun,
That have trepand our kind Scotchmen,
Like dogs to ding them down.’
- ‘Weell, take this ring, this royal thing,
Whose virtue is unknown;
As lang’s this ring’s your body on,
Your blood shall neer be drawn.
- ‘But if this ring shall fade or stain,
Or change to other hue,
Come never mair to fair Scotland,
If ye’re a lover true.’
- Then this couple they did part,
With a sad heavy moan;
The wind was fair, the ship was rare,
They landed in Bahome.
- But in that place they had not been
A month but barely one,
Till he lookd on his gay gold ring,
And riven was the stone.
- Time after this was not expir’d
A month but scarcely three,
Till black and ugly was the ring,
And the stone was burst in three.
- ‘Fight on, fight on, you merry men all,
With you I’ll fight no more;
I will gang to some holy place,
Pray to the King of Glore.’
- Then to the chapel he is gone,
And knelt most piteouslie,
For seven days and seven nights,
Till blood ran frae his knee.
- ‘Ye’ll take my jewels that’s in Bahome,
And deal them liberallie,
To young that cannot, and old that mannot,
The blind that does not see.
- ‘Give maist to women in child-bed laid,
Can neither fecht nor flee;
I hope she’s in the heavens high,
That died for love of me.’
- The knights they wrang their white fingers,
The ladies tore their hair;
The women that neer had children born,
In swoon they down fell there.
- But in what way the knight expir’d,
No tongue will eer declare;
So this doth end my mournful song,
From me ye’ll get nae mair.