Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (1863–1944). The Oxford Book of Ballads. 1910.
5858. Prince Robert
P
He has wadded her with a ring;
Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye,
But he daur na bring her hame.
‘Your blessing, your blessing, my mother dear,
Your blessing now grant to me!’—
‘Instead of a blessing ye sall have my curse,
And you’ll get nae blessing frae me.’
She has call’d upon her waiting-maid,
To fill her a glass of wine;
She has called upon her fause steward,
To put rank poison in.
She has put it to her roudès lip,
And to her roudès chin;
She has put it to her fause, fause mouth,
But the never a drop gaed in.
He has put it to his bonny mouth,
And to his bonny chin,
He’s put it to his cherry lip,
And sae fast the rank poison ran in.
‘O ye hae poison’d your ae son, mother,
Your ae son and your heir;
O ye hae poisoned your ae son, mother,
And sons you’ll never hae mair.
‘O where will I get a little boy,
That will win hose and shoon,
To rin sae fast to Darlinton,
And bid Fair Eleanor come?’
Then up and spake a little boy,
That wad win hose and shoon,
‘O I’ll away to Darlinton,
And bid Fair Eleanor come.’
O he has run to Darlinton,
And tirlèd at the pin;
And wha was sae ready as Eleanor’s sel’
To let the bonny boy in?
‘Your gude-mother’s made ye a rare dinour,
She’s made it baith gude and fine;
Your gude-mother’s made ye a gay dinour,
And ye maun come till her and dine.’
It’s twenty lang miles to Sillertoun town,
The langest that ever were gane;
But the steed it was wight, and the ladye was light,
And she cam’ linkin’ in.
But when she came to Sillertoun town,
And into Sillertoun ha’,
The torches were burning, the ladies were mourning,
And they were weeping a’.
‘O where is now my wedded lord,
And where now can he be?
O where is now my wedded lord?
For him I canna see.’—
‘Your wedded lord is dead,’ she says,
‘And just gane to be laid in the clay;
Your wedded lord is dead,’ she says,
‘And just gane to be buried the day.
‘Ye’se get nane o’ his gowd, ye’se get nane o’ his gear,
Ye’se get nae thing frae me;
Ye’se na get an inch o’ his gude broad land,
Tho’ your heart suld burst in three.’
‘I want nane o’ his gowd, I want nane o’ his gear,
I want nae land frae thee;
But I’ll hae the rings that’s on his finger,
For them he did promise to me.’
‘Ye’se na get the rings that’s on his finger,
Ye’se na get them frae me;
Ye’se na get the rings that’s on his finger,
An’ your heart suld burst in three.’
She’s turn’d her back unto the wa’,
And her face unto a rock,
And there, before the mother’s face,
Her very heart it broke.
roudès] hag-like.