No: 15; variant: 15B
- ‘THERE is a feast in your father’s house,
The broom blooms bonnie and so is it fair
It becomes you and me to be very douce.
And we’ll never gang up to the broom nae mair
- ‘You will go to yon hill so hie;
Take your bow and your arrow wi thee.’
- He’s tane his lady on his back,
And his auld son in his coat lap.
- ‘When ye hear me give a cry,
Ye’ll shoot your bow and let me lye.
- ‘When ye see my lying still,
Throw away your bow and come running me till.’
- When he heard her gie the cry,
He shot his bow and he let her lye.
- When he saw she was lying still,
He threw away his bow and came running her till.
- It was nae wonder his heart was sad
When he shot his auld son at her head.
- He houkit a grave, long, large and wide,
He buried his auld son doun by her side.
- It was nae wonder his heart was sair
When he shooled the mools in her yellow hair.
- ‘Oh,’ said his father, ‘Son, but thou’rt sad!
At our braw meeting you micht be glad.’
- ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘Father, I’ve lost my knife
I loved as dear almost as my own life.
- ‘But I have lost a far better thing,
I lost the sheath that the knife was in.’
- ‘Hold thy tongue, and mak nae din;
I’ll buy thee a sheath and a knife therein.’
- ‘A’ the ships eer sailed the sea
Neer’ll bring such a sheath and a knife to me.
- ‘A’ the smiths that lives on land
Will neer bring such a sheath and knife to my hand.’