“This is all my asking, father,
I pray ye grant it me!”
“Your asking is but small,” he said;
“Weel granted it shall be.
But why do ye talk o’ suchlike things?
For ye arena going to dee.”
The lady’s gane to her chamber,
And a moanfu’ woman was she,
As gin she had ta’en a sudden brash,
And were about to dee.
The lady’s gane to her chamber
As fast as she could fare;
And she has drunk a sleepy draught,
She mixed wi’ mickle care.
She’s fallen into a heavy trance,
And pale and cold was she;
She seemed to be as surely dead
As any corpse could be.
Out and spak’ an auld witch-wife,
At the fireside sat she:
“Gin she has killed herself for love,
I wot it weel may be:
“But drap the het lead on her cheek,
And drap it on her chin.
And drap it on her bosom white,
And she’ll maybe speak again.
’Tis much that a young lady will do
To her true love to win.”
They drapped the het lead on her cheek,
They drapped it on her chin,
They drapped it on her bosom white,
But she spake none again.
Her brothers they went to a room,
To make to her a bier;
The boards were a’ o’ cedar wood,
The edges o’ silver clear.
Her sisters they went to a room,
To make to her a sark;
The cloth was a’ o’ the satin fine,
And the stitching silken-wark.