Classic Poem

O listen, gude peopell, to my tale,
Listen to what I tel to thee;
The king has taiken a poor prisoner,
The wanton laird of Ochiltrie.

When news came to our guidly queen,
Sche sicht, and said right mournfullie,
‘O what will cum of Lady Margret!
Wha beirs sick luve to Ochiltrie.’

Lady Margret tore hir yellow hair
When as the queen tald hir the saim:
‘I wis that I had neir bin born,
Nor neir had knawn Ochiltrie's naim!’

‘Fie, na!’ quoth the queen, ‘that maunna be;
Fie, na! that maunna be;
I 'll fynd ye out a better way
To saif the lyfe of Ochiltrie.’

The queen sche trippit up the stair,
And lowlie knielt upon hir knie:
‘The first boon which I cum to craive
Is the life of gentel Ochiltrie.’

‘O iff you had askd me castels or towirs,
I wad hae gin thaim, twa or thrie;
Bot a' the monie in fair Scotland
Winna buy the lyfe of Ochiltrie.’

The queen sche trippit down the stair,
And down she gade richt mournfullie:
‘It 's a' the monie in fair Scotland
Winna buy the lyfe of Ochiltrie!’

Lady Margaret tore her yellow hair
When as the queen tald hir the saim:
‘I 'll tak a knife and end my lyfe,
And be in the grave as soon as him!’

‘Ah, na! Fie, na!’ quoth the queen,
‘Fie, na! Fie, na! this maunna be;
I 'll set ye on a better way
To loose and set Ochiltrie frie.’

The queen sche slippit up the stair,
And sche gaid up richt privatlie,
And sche has stoun the prison-keys,
And gane and set Ochiltrie frie.

And sche 's gien him a purse of gowd,
And another of whyt monie;
Sche 's gien him twa pistoles by 's syde,
Saying to him, Shute, when ye win frie.

And when he cam to the queen's window,
Whaten a joyfou shute gae he!
‘Peace be to our royal queen,
And peace be in hir companie!’

‘O whaten a voyce is that?’ quoth the king,
‘Whaten a voyce is that?’ quoth he;
‘Whaten a voyce is that?’ quoth the king;
‘I think it 's the voyce of Ochiltrie.

‘Call to me a' my gaolours,
Call thaim by thirtie and by thrie;
Whairfoir the morn, at twelve a clock,
It 's haugit schall they ilk ane be.’

‘O didna ye send your keyis to us?
Ye sent thaim be thirtie and be thrie,
And wi thaim sent a strait command
To set at lairge young Ochiltrie.’

‘Ah, na! Fie, na!’ quoth the queen,
‘Fie, my dear luve, this maunna be!
And iff ye 're gawn to hang thaim a',
Indeed ye maun begin wi me.’

The tane was schippit at the pier of Leith,
The ither at the Queen's Ferrie,
And now the lady has gotten hir luve,
The winsom laird of Ochiltrie.

O listen, gude peopell, to my tale,
Listen to what I tel to thee;
The king has taiken a poor prisoner,
The wanton laird of Ochiltrie.

When news came to our guidly queen,
Sche sicht, and said right mournfullie,
‘O what will cum of Lady Margret!
Wha beirs sick luve to Ochiltrie.’

Lady Margret tore hir yellow hair
When as the queen tald hir the saim:
‘I wis that I had neir bin born,
Nor neir had knawn Ochiltrie's naim!’

‘Fie, na!’ quoth the queen, ‘that maunna be;
Fie, na! that maunna be;
I 'll fynd ye out a better way
To saif the lyfe of Ochiltrie.’

The queen sche trippit up the stair,
And lowlie knielt upon hir knie:
‘The first boon which I cum to craive
Is the life of gentel Ochiltrie.’

‘O iff you had askd me castels or towirs,
I wad hae gin thaim, twa or thrie;
Bot a' the monie in fair Scotland
Winna buy the lyfe of Ochiltrie.’

The queen sche trippit down the stair,
And down she gade richt mournfullie:
‘It 's a' the monie in fair Scotland
Winna buy the lyfe of Ochiltrie!’

Lady Margaret tore her yellow hair
When as the queen tald hir the saim:
‘I 'll tak a knife and end my lyfe,
And be in the grave as soon as him!’

‘Ah, na! Fie, na!’ quoth the queen,
‘Fie, na! Fie, na! this maunna be;
I 'll set ye on a better way
To loose and set Ochiltrie frie.’

The queen sche slippit up the stair,
And sche gaid up richt privatlie,
And sche has stoun the prison-keys,
And gane and set Ochiltrie frie.

And sche 's gien him a purse of gowd,
And another of whyt monie;
Sche 's gien him twa pistoles by 's syde,
Saying to him, Shute, when ye win frie.

And when he cam to the queen's window,
Whaten a joyfou shute gae he!
‘Peace be to our royal queen,
And peace be in hir companie!’

‘O whaten a voyce is that?’ quoth the king,
‘Whaten a voyce is that?’ quoth he;
‘Whaten a voyce is that?’ quoth the king;
‘I think it 's the voyce of Ochiltrie.

‘Call to me a' my gaolours,
Call thaim by thirtie and by thrie;
Whairfoir the morn, at twelve a clock,
It 's hangit schall they ilk ane be.’

‘O didna ye send your keyis to us?
Ye sent thaim be thirtie and be thrie,
And wi thaim sent a strait command
To set at lairge young Ochiltrie.’

‘Ah, na! Fie, na!’ quoth the queen,
‘Fie, my dear luve, this maunna be!
And iff ye 're gawn to hang thaim a',
Indeed ye maun begin wi me.’

The tane was schippit at the pier of Leith,
The ither at the Queen's Ferrie,
And now the lady has gotten hir luve,
The winsom laird of Ochiltrie.