Classic Poem

There lives a maid down under yon brae,
In a bower biggit wi' stone;
Her name is Katherine Jaffray,
And she 's loved by many a one.

There cam' a lord from Southsea baulks,
I mean from fair England;
He lichtit at her father's gate,
And his name 's Lord Lamington.

He socht her frae her father and mither,
And her kinsfolk ane and a';
But he never taul' the lassie hersel'
Till he set her wedding day.

Then ben it cam' her father dear,
Just stepping ben the floor:
Prepare, prepare, my own daughter,
For your wedding prepare.

The day it is on Wednesday,
The morn 's your wedding day;
And it is wi' Lord Lamington,
And ye daurna say him nay.

Then ben it cam' Lord Lamington,
Just stepping ben the floor:
Prepare, prepare, my own true love,
For your wedding prepare.

The day it is on Wednesday,
And the morn 's your wedding day;
And I'm the Lord Lamington,
And ye daurna say me nay.

Whatever she thocht, and she spak' nocht,
But a sorry min' had she;
She min't upon her Lochnavare
When they suner't on the lea.

What news, what news, my bonnie boy,
What news hae ye to me?
Pray, tell me, how is my own true love,
Sweet Katherine Jaffray?

Ye're bidden horse, and ride richt fast,
Gin ye set for the may;
Ye're bidden min' upon the nicht
Ye suner't on the lea.

They rendezvous'd on Calie's banks,
And ranked on Calie's braes;
Oh, stay ye here a little wee while
Till I to yon wedding-house gae.

I sall go to yon wedding-house,
And none shall go wi' me;
My love she goes another man's bride,
And they've played me foul, foul play.

But when ye hear my little horn blaw,
See that ye be ready a';
Or else your master will be slain,
And ye winna sain the day.

Then he has gone to yon wedding-house,
And there he lichtit doon;
And there, there was dinner makin',
Wi' mirth and great renown.

Oh, are ye come to fight? they said,
Or for guid companie?
Or are ye come to steal the bride
On this her wedding day?

I cam' na here to fight, he said,
But for guid companie,
To drink wi' him that is bridegroom,
And then bound on my way;
And one word o' your bride, my lord,
And then to bound my way.

The cups were filled o' guid red wine,
To be drunk between them twa;
And Lamington called on his bride,
But she answered nane ava.

But Lochnavare called on her neist,
And shortly did she draw;
But her maiden stood upon the floor,
And shortly said she na.

For it 's the maiden's only due,
And the cat in a' oor lan',
To fee the bride to the bridegroom
As soon's the sun goes down.

But one word o' your bride, maiden;
Oh, wad ye say me na?
Afore her wedding day could a-stan',
Wi' her I'd spoken twa.

Then he leant owre his saddle bow,
To kiss her cheek and chin;
And even-up by the gown breist
He horsed her him ahin'.

Then he set spurs to his horse sides,
And they rode up the street;
Ye wadna seen his yellow hair
For the dust o' his horse's feet.

Then he put his horn to his mouth
And blew baith loud and shrill;
And a hundred harnessed horse and men
Cam' Lochnavare until.

The blood ran down Duncalie's banks,
And owre Duncalie's brae;
And aye they bade the trumpet sound
The voice o' foul, foul play.

Turn back, turn back now, Lamington,
Of me there's no remeid;
It 's only the killing o' your men,
And shedding o' their bleed.

Your shoes are on my feet, she said,
And your gloves are on my han's;
And a' the love-tokens I got frae you
I'll sen' them back again.