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I
CLERK COLVEN, and his gay ladie, | |
| As they walk’d in yon garden green, | |
| The belt about her middle jimp | |
| It cost Clerk Colven crowns fifteen. | |
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II
‘O hearken weel now, my good lord, | 5 |
| O hearken weel to what I say; | |
| When ye gang to the wall o’ Stream | |
| O gang nae near the weel-faur’d may. | |
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III
‘O haud your tongue, my gay ladie, | |
| Now speak nae mair of that to me; | 10 |
| For I nae saw a fair woman | |
| [That I cou’d] like so well as thee.’ | |
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IV
He’s mounted on his berry-brown steed, | |
| And merry, merry rade he on, | |
| Till that he came to the wall o’ Stream, | 15 |
| And there he saw the mermaiden. | |
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V
‘Ye wash, ye wash, ye bonny may, | |
| And ay’s ye wash your sark o’ silk.’— | |
| ‘It’s a’ for ye, you gentle knight, | |
| My skin is whiter than the milk.’ | 20 |
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VI
He’s ta’en her by the milk-white hand, | |
| He’s ta’en her by the sleeve sae green, | |
| And he’s forgotten his gay ladie, | |
| And he’s awa’ wi’ the mermaiden. | |
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VII
—‘Ohone, alas!’ says Clerk Colven, | 25 |
| ‘And aye so sair as akes my head!’ | |
| And merrily leugh the mermaiden, | |
| ‘O ’twill win on till you be dead. | |
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VIII
‘But out ye tak’ your little pen-knife, | |
| And frae my sark ye shear a gare; | 30 |
| Row that about your lovely head, | |
| And the pain ye’ll never feel nae mair.’ | |
| |
IX
Out he has ta’en his little pen-knife, | |
| And frae her sark he’s shorn a gare; | |
| She’s ty’d it round his whey-white face, | 35 |
| But and ay his head it akèd mair. | |
| |
X
‘Ohone, alas! says Clerk Colven, | |
| O sairer, sairer akes my head!’— | |
| ‘And sairer, sairer ever will, | |
| And aye be war’ till ye be dead.’ | 40 |
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XI
Then out he drew his shining blade | |
| And thought wi’ it to be her deid, | |
| But she’s become a fish again, | |
| And merrily sprang into the fleed. | |
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XII
He’s mounted on his berry-brown steed, | 45 |
| And dowie, dowie rade he hame, | |
| And heavily, heavily lighted down | |
| When to his ladie’s bower he came. | |
| |
XIII
‘O mither, mither, mak’ my bed, | |
| And, gentle ladie, lay me down; | 50 |
| O brither, brither, unbend my bow, | |
| ’Twill never be bent by me again!’ | |
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XIV
His mither she has made his bed, | |
| His gentle ladie laid him down, | |
| His brither he has unbent his bow, | 55 |
| —’Twas never bent by him again. | |
| | | GLOSS: snae] snow. jimp] slim, slender. wall] well. weel-faur’d may] well-favoured maiden. leugh] laughed. win on] continue. gare] gore, strip. row] roll, wrap. war’] worse. deid] death. fleed] flood. dowie] dolefully. |
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