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'But how sall I your true-love find, | Or how suld I her know?

I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,
An eye that ne'er her saw.'

'O weel sall ye my true-love ken, Sae sune as ye her see,

For of a' the flowers of fair England,

The fairest flower is she.

'The red that's on my true-love's cheek

Is like blood-drops on the snaw; The white that is on her breast bare

Like the down o'the white sea-maw.

'And even at my love's bower-door

There grows a flowering birk, And ye maun sit and sing thereon, As she gangs to the kirk.

'And four-and-twenty fair ladies
Will to the mass repair,
But weel may ye my lady ken,

The fairest lady there.'

Lord William has written a love-letter,

Put it under his pinion gray, And he is awa to southern land, As fast as wings can gae.

And even at that lady's bower

There grew a flowering birk, And he sat down and sang thereon, 44 As she gaed to the kirk.

And weel he kent that lady fair

Amang her maidens free, For the flower that springs in May morning

48 Was not sae sweet as she.

'Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,

The sang ye sung yestreen; For weel I ken by your sweet singing Ye are frae my true-love sen'.'

O first he sang a merry sang,
And syne he sang a grave,
And syne he peck'd his feathers gray,
To her the letter gave.

'Have there a letter from Lord William;
He says he's sent ye three;
He canna wait your love langer,
But for your sake he'll die.'

'Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,
And brew his bridal ale,
And I sall meet him at Mary's kirk,
Lang, lang ere it be stale.'

The lady's gane to her chamber, And a moanfu' woman was she, As gin she had taen a sudden brash, And were about to die.

'A boon, a boon, my father dear,

A boon I beg of thee!' 'Ask not that paughty Scottish lord,

For him you ne'er shall see.

'But, for your honest asking else, Weel granted it shall be:' Then, gin I die in southern land, In Scotland gar bury me. 'And the first kirk that ye come to, Ye's gar the mass be sung, And the next kirk that ye come to,

Ye's gar the bells be rung.

'And when ye come to St. Mary's kirk,
Ye's tarry there till night:'
And so her father pledged his word,
And so his promise plight.

She has taen her to her bigly bower,
As fast as she could fare,
And she has drank a sleepy draught,
That she had mixed wi' care.

Adaplen, pale grew her rosy cheek, |

That was sae bright of blee, And she seemed to be as surely dead 100 As any one could be.

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But when they came to St. Mary's kirk, There stood spearmen all on raw, And up and started Lord William, The chieftain amang them a'.

'Let me look her upon:'

But as soon as Lord William touched her hand,

Her colour began to come.

She brightened like the lily-flower, Till her pale colour was gone; With rosy cheek, and ruby lip, She smiled her love upon.

'A morsel of your bread, my lord,

And one glass of your wine, For I hae fasted these three lang days, All for your sake and mine.

'Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers,

Gae hame and blow your horn; I trow you wad hae gien me the skaith, But I've gien you the scorn.'

'Ah woe to you, you light woman,

An ill death may you die! For we left father and mother at hame Breaking their hearts for thee.'

There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them o'er the sea.

The hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife
That her three sons were gane.

I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood.'

It fell about the Martinmas,

When nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o'the birk.

Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gates of Paradise,

That birk grew fair enough.

Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,

Her mantle of the velvet fine, At ilka tett of her horse's mane Hung fifty silver bells and nine.

True Thomas he took off his hat, And bowed him low down till his knee:

'All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven! For your peer on earth I never did see.'

'O no, O no, True Thomas,' she says, "That name does not belong to me; I am but the queen of fair Elfland,

And I'm come here for to visit thee.

'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she says,

'Harp and carp along wi' me, And if ye dare to kiss my lips,

Sure of your body I will be.'

'Betide me weal, betide me woe,

That weird shall never daunton me.' Syne he has kissed her rosy lips,

All underneath the Eildon Tree.

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'But ye maun go wi' me now, Thomas, True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me, For ye maun serve me seven years, Thro' weel or wae as may chance 28 to be.'