English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Traditional Ballads
9. Love Gregor
“O
And wha will glove my hand?
And wha will lace my middle jimp,
Wi the new made London band?
Wi the new made silver kaim?
And wha will father my young son,
Till Love Gregor come hame?”
Your mother will glove your hand;
Your sister will lace your middle jimp
Wi the new made London band.
Wi the new made silver kaim;
And the king of heaven will father your bairn,
Till Love Gregor come haim.”
And I will sail the sea,
For I maun gang to Love Gregor,
Since he canno come hame to me.”
And sailld the sa’t sea fame;
She langd to see her ain true-love,
Since he could no come hame.
And bring me to the land,
For yonder I see my love’s castle,
Closs by the sa’t sea strand.”
And to the door she’s gone,
And lang she’s knocked and sair she ca’d,
But answer got she none.
“O open, and let me in;
For the win blaws thro my yellow hair,
And the rain draps oer my chin.”
You’r nae come here for good;
You’r but some witch, or wile warlock,
Or mer-maid of the flood.”
Nor mer-maid of the sea,
I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal;
O open the door to me.”
And I trust ye are not she—
Now tell me some of the love-tokens
That past between you and me.”
When we sat at the wine,
How we changed the rings frae our fingers?
And I can show thee thine.
But ay the best was mine;
For yours was o the good red goud,
But mine o the dimonds fine.
O open the door I pray,
For your young son that is in my arms
Will be dead ere it be day.”
For here ye shanno win in;
Gae drown ye in the raging sea,
Or hang on the gallows-pin.”
And the sun began to peep,
Then it raise him Love Gregor,
And sair, sair did he weep.
The thoughts o it gars me greet,
That Fair Annie of Rough Royal
Lay cauld dead at my feet.”
That ye make a’ this din,
She stood a’ last night at this door,
But I trow she wan no in.”
An ill dead may ye die!
That ye woudno open the door to her,
Nor yet woud waken me.”
As fast as he could fare;
He saw Fair Annie in her boat,
But the wind it tossed her sair.
O Annie, winna ye bide?”
But ay the mair that he cried Annie,
The braider grew the tide.
Dear Annie, speak to me!”
But ay the louder he cried Annie,
The louder roard the sea.
And dashd the boat on shore;
Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,
But her young son raise no more.
And made a heavy moan;
Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,
But his bonny young son was gone.
And gowden was her hair,
But clay cold were her rosy lips,
Nae spark of life was there.
And neist he’s kissed her chin;
And saftly pressed her rosey lips,
But there was nae breath within.
And an ill dead may she die!
For she turnd my true-love frae my door,
When she came sae far to me.”