Then out and cam the thick, thick blude,
Then out and cam the thin;
Then out and cam the bonny heart's blude,
Where a' the life lay in.
She row'd him in a cake of lead,
Bad him lie still and sleep;
She cast him into the Jew's draw-well,
Was fifty fadom deep.
She's tane her mantle about her head,
Her pike-staff in her hand;
And prayed Heaven to be her guide
Unto some uncouth land.
His mither she cam to the Jew's castle,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'
She cam into the Jew's garden,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'
She cam unto the Jew's draw-well,
And there ran thryse about:
'O sweet Sir Hugh, gif ye be here,
I pray ye to me speak.'
'How can I speak, how dare I speak,
How can I speak to thee?
The Jew's penknife sticks in my heart,
I canna speak to thee.
'Gang hame, gang hame, O mither dear,
And shape my winding-sheet,
And at the birks of Mirryland town
There you and I shall meet.'
When bells war rung and Mass was sung,
And a' men bound for bed,
Every mither had her son,
But sweet Sir Hugh was dead.