The Laird of Waristoun

Down by yon garden green
Sae merrily as she gaes;
She has twa weel-made feet
And she trips upon her taes.

She has twa weel-made feet
Far better is her hand;
She's as jimp in the middle
As ony willow-wand.

"Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
It's I will make you lady
Of a' the lands you see."

He spak a word in jest;
Her answer wasna good;
He threw a plate at her face,
Made it a' gush out wi' blood.

She wasna frae her chamber
A step but barely three,
When up and at her richt hand
There stood Man's Enemy.

"Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
I'll learn you a wile,
Avenged for to be".

The Foul Thief knotted the tether;
She lifted his head on hie;
The nourice drew the knot
That gar'd Lord Waristoun die.

Then word is gane to Leith,
Also to Edinburgh town,
That the lady had kill'd the laird,
The laird o' Waristoun.

"Take aff, take aff my hood,
But let my petticoat be;
Put my mantle o'er my head;
For the fire I downa see.

"Now, a' ye gentle maids,
Tak warning now by me,
And never marry ane,
But wha pleases your e'e.

For he married me for love,
But I married him for fee;
And sae brak out the feud
That gar'd my dearie die."

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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin