SIR H ALEWYN sang sae sweet and braw,
That nane that heard cud bide awa.
The King's young dochter heard him sing;
Her father lo'ed her abune a' thing.
She gaed to her father: Father o' mine,
Hae I leave to gae efter Sir Halewyn?
Na, lassie, na, — her father spak, —
There 's mony that gae, but few come back.
She gaed to her mither: Mither o' mine,
Hae I leave to gae efter Sir Halewyn?
Na, lassie, na, — her mither spak —
There 's mony that gae, but few come back.
She gaed to her sister: Sister o' mine,
Hae I leave to gae efter Sir Halewyn?
Na, sister, na, — her sister spak —
There 's mony that gae, but few come back.
She gaed to her brither: Brither o' mine,
Hae I leave to gae efter Sir Halewyn?
It's ane to me: gang whaur you wud;
But see and no tine your maidenhude;
And wear your croon as a King's lass should.
She has risen and gane to her bed-chawmer,
And put on her brawest cleithin there.
What has she put on her fair bodie?
A sark, was finer than silk cud be.
What has she put on her best bodice?
A' stiff wi' gowden bands it is.
What has she put on her scarlet goon?
Tassels o' gowd a' hingin doon.
What has she put on her cloak sae feat?
A glistenin pearl at ilka pleat.
What has she set on her yallow hair?
A croon o' gowd that was heavy to wear.
She has gane into her father's sta',
And lowsed the fleetest horse o' them a'.
She has bestridden the horse sae guid,
And aye she sang as she rade through the wood.
Half through the forest she has gane,
And has met Sir Halewyn ridin alane.
To a tree nearby his horse he tied;
The lassie, trummlin, grew flichtered and fleyed.
Greetin! quo' he, fairest o' fair!
Greetin! quo' he, broon een sae rare!
Come, sit you doon, unbind your hair.
Sae mony hairs as she unbound,
Sae mony tears fell to the ground.
And syne they rose and gaed awa,
Wi' mony a word atween thae twa.
Sae to a gallows-field they pass,
Whaur hung sae mony a bonnie lass.
He, turnin to his fere, quo' he:
Since a bonnier lass there canna be,
I'll let you wale the death you dee.
Gin I may choose hoo I shall dee,
I pray you, draw your swoord on me.
But first, your mantle lay aside;
A maiden's bluid may spatter wide.
'Twere shame your claes should a' be dyed.
But ere he cud his cloak undae,
His sindered heid before her lay;
His tongue begoud thae words to say:
Gae to yon field o' bere;
Blaw on my horn sae clear,
That a' my friends may hear.
I winna gang among the bere,
Nor blaw upon your horn sae clear,
Nor heed the word o' a murderer.
Gae under the gallows-tree;
A pot o' salve you'll see:
Bring 't for my neck that's sae bluidie.
I winna gang to the gallows-tree,
Nor heal the neck, sae ill to see,
O' him wha wad hae slauchtered me.
By the hair she has grippit his bluidie heid,
And washed it clean that was sae reid.
She has bestridden her horse sae guid,
And aye she sang as she rade through the wood.
She has ridden half through the wood, and syne
She met the mither o' Halewyn:
Did my son come this wey, fair queyn?
Your son, Sir Halewyn, is a huntin gane!
In your life you'll never see him again.
Your son, Sir Halewyn, he is DEID !
Here in my lap I carry his heid;
Wi' his bluid is a' my bodice reid.
When her father's yett was near at han',
She blew her horn wi' the strength o' a man.
Her father heard the trumpet plain,
And was blithe that his lass was hame again.
In the muckle ha' they birled the wine,
And glowered on the heid o' Sir Halewyn.
That nane that heard cud bide awa.
The King's young dochter heard him sing;
Her father lo'ed her abune a' thing.
She gaed to her father: Father o' mine,
Hae I leave to gae efter Sir Halewyn?
Na, lassie, na, — her father spak, —
There 's mony that gae, but few come back.
She gaed to her mither: Mither o' mine,
Hae I leave to gae efter Sir Halewyn?
Na, lassie, na, — her mither spak —
There 's mony that gae, but few come back.
She gaed to her sister: Sister o' mine,
Hae I leave to gae efter Sir Halewyn?
Na, sister, na, — her sister spak —
There 's mony that gae, but few come back.
She gaed to her brither: Brither o' mine,
Hae I leave to gae efter Sir Halewyn?
It's ane to me: gang whaur you wud;
But see and no tine your maidenhude;
And wear your croon as a King's lass should.
She has risen and gane to her bed-chawmer,
And put on her brawest cleithin there.
What has she put on her fair bodie?
A sark, was finer than silk cud be.
What has she put on her best bodice?
A' stiff wi' gowden bands it is.
What has she put on her scarlet goon?
Tassels o' gowd a' hingin doon.
What has she put on her cloak sae feat?
A glistenin pearl at ilka pleat.
What has she set on her yallow hair?
A croon o' gowd that was heavy to wear.
She has gane into her father's sta',
And lowsed the fleetest horse o' them a'.
She has bestridden the horse sae guid,
And aye she sang as she rade through the wood.
Half through the forest she has gane,
And has met Sir Halewyn ridin alane.
To a tree nearby his horse he tied;
The lassie, trummlin, grew flichtered and fleyed.
Greetin! quo' he, fairest o' fair!
Greetin! quo' he, broon een sae rare!
Come, sit you doon, unbind your hair.
Sae mony hairs as she unbound,
Sae mony tears fell to the ground.
And syne they rose and gaed awa,
Wi' mony a word atween thae twa.
Sae to a gallows-field they pass,
Whaur hung sae mony a bonnie lass.
He, turnin to his fere, quo' he:
Since a bonnier lass there canna be,
I'll let you wale the death you dee.
Gin I may choose hoo I shall dee,
I pray you, draw your swoord on me.
But first, your mantle lay aside;
A maiden's bluid may spatter wide.
'Twere shame your claes should a' be dyed.
But ere he cud his cloak undae,
His sindered heid before her lay;
His tongue begoud thae words to say:
Gae to yon field o' bere;
Blaw on my horn sae clear,
That a' my friends may hear.
I winna gang among the bere,
Nor blaw upon your horn sae clear,
Nor heed the word o' a murderer.
Gae under the gallows-tree;
A pot o' salve you'll see:
Bring 't for my neck that's sae bluidie.
I winna gang to the gallows-tree,
Nor heal the neck, sae ill to see,
O' him wha wad hae slauchtered me.
By the hair she has grippit his bluidie heid,
And washed it clean that was sae reid.
She has bestridden her horse sae guid,
And aye she sang as she rade through the wood.
She has ridden half through the wood, and syne
She met the mither o' Halewyn:
Did my son come this wey, fair queyn?
Your son, Sir Halewyn, is a huntin gane!
In your life you'll never see him again.
Your son, Sir Halewyn, he is DEID !
Here in my lap I carry his heid;
Wi' his bluid is a' my bodice reid.
When her father's yett was near at han',
She blew her horn wi' the strength o' a man.
Her father heard the trumpet plain,
And was blithe that his lass was hame again.
In the muckle ha' they birled the wine,
And glowered on the heid o' Sir Halewyn.