William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
The Queens MarieAnonymous
M
Wi’ ribbons in her hair;
The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton,
Than ony that were there.
Wi’ ribbons on her breast;
The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton,
Than he listen’d to the priest.
Wi’ gloves upon her hands;
The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton,
Than the Queen and a’ her lands.
A month, but barely one,
Till she was beloved by a’ the King’s court,
And the King the only man.
A month, but barely three,
Till frae the King’s court Marie Hamilton,
Marie Hamilton durst na be.
To pu’ the Abbey tree,
To scale the babe frae Marie’s heart;
But the thing it wadna be.
And set it on the sea:
‘Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe,
Ye’s get nae mair o’ me.’
And word is to the ha’,
And word is to the noble room,
Amang the ladyes a’,
That Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed,
And the bonny babe’s mist and awa’.
And scarcely faen asleep,
When up and started our glide Queen,
Just at her bed-feet,
Saying, ‘Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe?
For I am sure I heard it greet.’
Think no sic thing to be!
’Twas but a stitch into my side,
And sair it troubles me.’
Get up, and follow me,
For I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding for to see.’
And slowly put she on;
And slowly rade she out the way,
Wi’ mony a weary groan.
Her merry maids all in green;
And every town that they cam to,
They took Marie for the Queen.
Ride hooly now wi’ me!
For never, I am sure, a wearier burd
Rade in your companie.’
When she rade on the brown,
That she was gaen to Edinburgh town,
And a’ to be put down.
Why look ye so on me?
O, I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding for to see!’
The corks frae her heels did flee;
And lang or e’er she cam down again,
She was condemned to die.
She laugh’d loud laughters three;
But when she cam to the gallows foot,
The tears blinded her e’e.
The night she’ll hae but three;
There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton,
And Marie Carmichael, and me.
And put gowd upon her hair;
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
The gallows to be my share.
And often made her bed:
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
The gallows tree to tread.
When ye sail ower the faem,
Let neither my father nor mother get wit,
But that I’m coming hame.
That sail upon the sea,
That neither my father nor mother get wit,
This dog’s death I’m to die.
And my bold brethren three,
O mickle wad be the gude red blude,
This day wad be spilt for me!
The day she cradled me,
The lands I was to travel in,
Or the death I was to die!’