One handfull yet is wanting, But one of all the tale; So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! Furl up thy velvet sail!" IV. He leapt into the water, "Go weep, go weep, proud maiden, The tale is full to-day. Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! Sail Westward ho, and away!” A. D. 1500. Он, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade, To bow my back in miry fallows, over plow and hoe and spade. Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord, Let them die o' rent wha like, mither, and I'll die by sword. Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben, Scrabbling over sheets o' parchment with a weery, weery pen, Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o' sky, Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die. Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown, Trailing strings o' footsore horses through the noisy dusty town; Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o'er his wares, Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares. Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian bands, Pining weery months in castles, looking over wasted lands, Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o' war There's blood on my hand enough, mither; it's ill to make it mair. If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha' been douce and still, And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill; Sat at hame wi' the woman I looed, and bairnies at my knee, But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve's no for me. For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well How you lay all night up among the deer on the open fell; And so it was that I got the heart to wander far and neer, Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonny dun deer. Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals; I do but hunt God's cattle, upon God's ain hills; For no man buys and sells the deer, and the fells are free To a knight that carries hawk and spurs, and a hind like me. So I'm aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer. Ranging far fra frowning faces, and the douce folk here; Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping madly down the screes, Speering out fra' craig and headland, drinking up the Simmer breeze. Oh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o' the brae, As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a' the day! Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky! That's a bonnier life than stumbling owr'e the muck to hog and kye. And when I'm taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o' my deer, Ye'll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws to dangle in the air; But ye'll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye'll steal me fra the tree, And bury me up on the brown, brown muirs, where I loved to be. aye Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away, |