21
'O that is nae your grey steed's blude,
William, that I do see;
It is the blood o your brother John,
That looks sae red on thee.'
22
'It's nae the blood o my brother John,
Father, that ye do see;
It is the blude o my good grey hawk,
Because he woudna flee.'
23
'O that is nae your grey hawk's blood,
William, that I do see:'
'Well, it's the blude o my brother,
This country I maun flee.'
24
'O when will ye come back again,
My dear son, tell to me?'
'When sun and moon gae three times round,
And this will never be.'
25
'Ohon, alas! now William, my son,
This is bad news to me;
Your brother's death I'll aye bewail,
And the absence o thee.'
G.
a. Taken down lately from the singing of little girls in South Boston. b. Two stanzas, from a child in New York, 1880. Communicated by Mr W. W. Newell.
1
As John and William were coming home one day,
One Saturday afternoon,
Says John to William, Come and try a fight,
Or will you throw a stone?
Or will you come down to yonder, yonder town
Where the maids are all playing ball, ball, ball,
Where the maids are all playing ball?
2
Says William to John, I will not try a fight,
Nor will I throw a stone,
Nor will I come down to yonder town,
Where the maids are all playing ball.
3
So John took out of his pocket
A knife both long and sharp,
And stuck it through his brother's heart,
And the blood came pouring down.