Classic Poem

O we were sisters seven, Maisry,
And five are dead wi' child;
There is nane but you and I, Maisry,
And we'll go maidens mild.

She hardly had the word spoken
And turn'd her round about,
When the bonny Earl of Livingston
Was calling Maisry out;

Upon a bonny milk-white steed
That drank out of the Tyne;
And a' was for her Ladie Maisry
To take her hyne and hyne.

Upon a bonny milk-white steed
That drank out o' the Tay;
And a' was for her Lady Maisry
To carry her away.

She had not been at Livingston
A twelve month and a day
Until she was as big wi' bairn
As any ladie coud gae.

She call'd upon her little foot-page,
Says, Ye maun run wi' speed
And bid my mother come to me,
For of her I'll soon have need.

See, there is the brootch frae my hause-bane,
It is of gowd sae ried;
Gin she winna come when I'm alive
Bid her come when I am dead.

But ere she wan to Livingston
As fast as she coud ride,
The gaggs they were in Maisry's mouth
And the sharp sheers in her side.

Her good lord wrang his milk-white hands
Till the gowd rings flaw in three:
Let ha's and bowers and a' gae waste,
My bonny love 's taen frae me!

O hold your tongue, Lord Livingston,
Let a' your mourning be;
For I bare the bird between my sides
Yet I maun thole her to die.

Then out it spake her sister dear
As she sat at her head:
That man is not in Christendoom
Shall gar me die sicken dead.

O hold your tongue, my ae daughter,
Let a' your folly be,
For ye shall be married ere this day week
Tho' the same death you should die.