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The Twa Sisters

No: 10; variant: 10[V]

  1. There dwelt twa sisters in a bower, Benorie, O Benorie The youngest o them was the fairest flower. In the merry milldams o Benorie
  2. There cam a wooer them to woo, . . . . . . . . . .
  3. He’s gien the eldest o them a broach and a real, Because that she loved her sister weel. At etc.’p
  4. He’s gien the eldest a gay penknife, He loved the youngest as dear as his life. At etc.
  5. ‘O sister, O sister, will ye go oer yon glen, And see my father’s ships coming in?’ At etc.
  6. ‘O sister dear, I darena gang, Because I’m feard ye throw me in.’ The etc.
  7. ‘O set your foot on yon sea stane, And was yeer hands in the sea foam.’ At etc.
  8. She set her foot on yon sea stane, To wash her hands in the sea foam. At etc.
  9. . . . . . But the eldest has thrown the youngest in. The etc.
  10. ‘O sister, O sister, lend me your hand, And ye’se get William and a’ his land.’ At etc.
  11. The miller’s daughter cam out clad in red, Seeking water to bake her bread. At etc.
  12. ‘O father, O father, gae fish yeer mill-dam, There’s either a lady or a milk-[white] swan.’ In etc.
  13. The miller cam out wi his lang cleek, And he cleekit the lady out by the feet. From the bonny milldam, etc.
  14. Ye wadna kend her pretty feet, The American leather was sae neat. In etc.
  15. Ye wadna kend her pretty legs, The silken stockings were so neat tied. In etc.
  16. Ye wadna kend her pretty waist, The silken stays were sae neatly laced. In etc.
  17. Ye wadna kend her pretty face, It was sae prettily preend oer wi lace. In etc.
  18. Ye wadna kend her yellow hair, It was sae besmeared wi dust and glar. In etc.
  19. By cam her father’s fiddler fine, And that lady’s spirit spake to him. From etc.
  20. She bad him take three taits o her hair, And make them three strings to his fiddle sae rare. At etc.
  21. ‘Take two of my fingers, sae lang and sae white, And make them pins to your fiddle sae neat.’ At etc.
  22. The ae first spring that the fiddle played Was, Cursed be Sir John, my ain true-love. At etc.
  23. The next spring that the fiddle playd Was, Burn burd Hellen, she threw me in. The etc.