"O still my bairn, nourice,
O still him wi' the bell!"
"He winna still, lady,
Till you come down yoursel."
O the firsten step she steppit,
She steppit on a stane;
But the neisten step she steppit,
She met him Lamkin.
"O mercy, mercy, Lamkin,
Hae mercy upon me!
Though you've ta'en my young son's life,
Ye may let mysel be."
"O sall I kill her, nourice,
Or sall I lat her be?"
"O kill her, kill her, Lamkin,
For she ne'er was good to me."
"O scour the bason, nourice,
And mak' it fair and clean,
For to keep this lady's heart's blood,
For she's come o' noble kin."
"There need nae bason, Lamkin,
Lat it run through the floor;
What better is the heart's blood
O' the rich than o' the poor?"
But ere three months were at an end,
Lord Wearie cam' again;
But dowie, dowie was his heart
When first he cam' hame.
"O wha's blood is this," he says,
"That lies in the chamer?"
"It is your lady's heart's blood;
'Tis as clear as the lamer."
"And wha's blood is this," he says,
"That lies in my ha'?"
"It is your young son's heart's blood;
'Tis the clearest ava."
O sweetly sang the black-bird
That sat upon the tree;
But sairer grat Lamkin,
When he was condemnd to die.