PR Website

Sir Hugh, or the Jew’s Daughter

No: 155; variant: 155C

  1. FOUR and twenty bonny boys War playing at the ba; Then up and started sweet Sir Hew, The flower amang them a’.
  2. He hit the ba a kick wi’s fit, And kept it wi his knee, That up into the Jew’s window He gart the bonny ba flee.
  3. ‘Cast doun the ba to me, fair maid, Cast doun the ba to me;’ ‘O neer a bit o the ba ye get Till ye cum up to me.
  4. ‘Cum up, sweet Hew, cum up, dear Hew, Cum up and get the ba;’ ‘I canna cum, I darna cum, Without my play-feres twa.’
  5. ‘Cum up, sweet Hew, cum up, dear Hew, Cum up and play wi me;’ ‘I canna cum, I darna cum, Without my play-feres three.’
  6. She’s gane into the Jew’s garden, Where the grass grew lang and green; She powd an apple red and white, To wyle the young thing in.
  7. She wyl’d him into ae chamber, She wyl’d him into twa, She wyl’d him to her ain chamber, The fairest o them a’.
  8. She laid him on a dressing-board, Where she did sometimes dine; She put a penknife in his heart, And dressed him like a swine.
  9. 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.
  10. She rowd him in a cake of lead, Bad him lie still and sleep; She cast him in the Jew’s draw-well, Was fifty fadom deep.
  11. 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.
  12. His mither she cam to the Jew’s castle, And there ran thryse about: ‘O sweet Sir Hew, gif ye be here, I pray ye to me speak.’
  13. She cam into the Jew’s garden, And there ran thryse about; ‘o sweet Sir Hew, gif ye be here, I pray ye to me speak.’
  14. She cam unto the Jew’s draw-well, And there ran thryse about: ‘O sweet Sir Hew, gif ye be here, I pray ye to me speak.’
  15. ‘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.
  16. ‘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.’
  17. Whan bells war rung, and mass was sung, And a’ men bound for bed, Every mither had her son, But sweet Sir Hew was dead.