“My tongue is mine ain,” True Thomas said,
“A gudely gift ye wad gie me!
I neither dought to buy nor sell,
At fair or tryst where I may be.
“I dought neither speak to prince or peer,
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye:”
“Now hold thy peace,” the lady said,
“For as I say, so must it be.”
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair of shoes of velvet green,
And till seven years were gane and past
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
Ballad: “Sir Hugh; Or The Jew’s Daughter”
Four-and-twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba,
And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,
And he playd o’er them a’.
He kickd the ba with his right foot
And catchd it wi his knee,
And throuch-and-thro the Jew’s window
He gard the bonny ba flee.
He’s doen him to the Jew’s castell
And walkd it round about;
And there he saw the Jew’s daughter,
At the window looking out.
“Throw down the ba, ye Jew’s daughter,
Throw down the ba to me!”
“Never a bit,” says the Jew’s daughter,
“Till up to me come ye.”
“How will I come up? How can I come up?
How can I come to thee?
For as ye did to my auld father,
The same ye’ll do to me.”
She’s gane till her father’s garden,
And pu’d an apple red and green;
‘Twas a’ to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,
And to entice him in.
She’s led him in through ae dark door,
And sae has she thro nine;
She’s laid him on a dressing-table,
And stickit him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin;
And syne came out the bonny heart’s blood;
There was nae mair within.
She’s rowd him in a cake o lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep;
She’s thrown him in Our Lady’s draw-well,
Was fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a’ the bairns came hame,
When every lady gat hame her son,
The Lady Maisry gat nane.
She’s taen her mantle her about,
Her coffer by the hand,
And she’s gane out to seek her son,
And wandered o’er the land.
She’s doen her to the Jew’s castell,
Where a’ were fast asleep:
“Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.”
“Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,
Prepare my winding-sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln
The morn I will you meet.”
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,
Make him a winding-sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln,
The dead corpse did her meet.
And a the bells o merry Lincoln
Without men’s hands were rung,
And a’ the books o merry Lincoln
Were read without man’s tongue,
And neer was such a burial
Sin Adam’s days begun.
Ballad: Son Davie! Son Davie!