Francis James Child

“ And tak me up to yon kirk-style,
Whare the grass grows fair and green.’
He’s taken aff the green cleiding,
And rowed him saftly in;
He’s laid him down by yon kirk-style,
Whare the grass grows fair and green.
‘What will ye say to your father dear,
When ye gae hame at een?’
‘I’ll say ye’re lying at yon kirk-style,
Whare the grass grows fair and green.’
‘O no, O no, my brother dear,
O you must not say so;
But say that I’m gane to a foreign land,
Whare nae man does me know.’
When he sat in his father’s chair,
He grew baith pale and wan:
‘O what blude’s that upon your brow? ”

“ She speerd for her lord John:
‘It’s I left him into Kirkland fair,
And hame I fear he’ll never come.’
‘But whaten bluid’s that on your sword, Willie?
Sweet Willie, tell to me;’
‘O it is the bluid o my grey hounds,
They wadna rin for me.’
‘It’s nae the bluid o your hounds, Willie,
Their bluid was never so red;
But it is the bluid o my true-love,
That ye hae slain indeed.’
That fair may wept, that fair may mournd,
That fair may mournd and pin’d:
‘When every lady looks for her love,
I neer need look for mine.’
‘O whaten a death will ye die, Willie? ”

“ He woudna carry me.’
‘O that is nae your grey steed’s blude,
William, that I do see;
It is the blood o your brother John,
That looks sae red on thee.’
‘It’s nae the blood o my brother John,
Father, that ye do see;
It is the blude o my good grey hawk,
Because he woudna flee.’
‘O that is nae your grey hawk’s blood,
William, that I do see:’
‘Well, it’s the blude o my brother,
This country I maun flee.’
‘O when will ye come back again,
My dear son, tell to me?’
‘When sun and moon gae three times round,
And this will never be.’
‘Ohon, alas! ”