PR Website - The Knight and the Shepherd’s Daughter

No: 110; variant: 110G

JOJANET has to the greenwood gane, Wi a' her maidens free, . . . . . . . . . .

'Some ca me Jack, some ca me John, Some ca me Jing-ga-lee, But when I am in the queen's court Earl Hitchcock they ca me.'
'Hitchcock, Hitchcock,' Jo Janet she said, An spelled it ower agane, 'Hitchcock it's a Latin word; Earl Richard is your name.'
But when he saw she was book-learned, Fast to his horse hied he; But she kilted up her gay claithing, An fast, fast followed she.
Aye he rade, an aye she ran, The live-lang simmer's day, Till they came to the wan water, An a' men call it Tay.
She has tane the narrow fuird, An he has tane the wide, An ere he was in the middle-water, Jo Janet was at the ither side.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . As swift as eel or otter.
An when she cam to the queen's court She tirled at the pin, An wha sae ready as the queen hersel To let Jo Janet in!
. . . . . . . . . . 'There is a knicht into your court This day has robbed me.'
'Has he robbed you o your gold, fair may, Or robbed you o your fee? Or robbed you o your maidenhead, The flower o your bodie?'
'He has nae robbed me o my gold,' she said, 'Nor o my weel won fee, But he has robbed me o my maidenhead, The flower o my bodie.'
'It's if he be a married knight, It's hanged he shall be; But if he be a single knight, It's married ye sall be.
'There's but three knichts into my court This day hae been frae me, An ane is Earl Richard, my brither, An I hope it is na he:' Then sichin said Jo Janet, The very same man is he.
The queen has called on her merry men By thirty and by three; He wont to be the foremost man, But hinmost in cam he.
'If this your tricks abroad, Richard, Is this your tricks abroad, Wheneer ye meet a bonny may To lay her on the road?'

But he took out a purse o gold, . . . . . Says, Tak you that, my bonny may, An seek nae mair o me.
'I winna hae your gold,' she said, 'I winna hae your fee; I'll hae the troth o your right hand The queen has promised me.'

As they rade bye yon bonny mill-town Sae fair's the nettles grew; Quoth she, If my auld mither were here, Sae finely's she wad you pu.
She wad you nip, she wad you clip, Sae finely's she wad you pu, An pit you on in a wee, wee pat, An sup till she were fu, Syne rowe her heid in her gown-tail, An sleep like ony soo.
He drew his hat down ower his broos, An a doon look gae he, But she threw her locks out ower her cocks, An nae ways dung was she.
'It's if ye be a beggar's brat, As I dout na but ye be, It's where gat ye the gay claithing That hings down to your knee?'
'My mither was nurse to Earl Marshall's dother, An a fine lady is she, An aye when she gets new claithing She casts the auld to me:' An sichin said Earl Richard, My ain true-love is she!
But if you be a beggar's brat, As I doutna but ye be, Where got ye the Latin words Ye said in greenwood to me?
'My mither was a bad woman, She served sic men as thee, An a' the gear at ever she got She waired it a' on me, An learned me weel the Latin tongue, To beguile sic sparks as thee.'
'Awa, awa, ye ill woman, An ill death mat ye dee! . . . . . . . .
When they were a' at supper set, An siller spoons gaen roun, It's, 'Haud awa yer siller spoons, Haud them far awa frae me, An bring to me a guid ramshorn, The thing I'm best used wi.'
An when they were at supper set, An the ale-caup gaen about, She took it in her arms twa, An sae clean's she lickit it oot.
He drew his hat doun ower his broos, An a doun look gae he, But she threw her locks out ower her cocks, An nae ways dung was she.
When mass was sung, and bells were rung, An a' men boun to bed, Earl Richard an Jo Janet In ae bed they were laid.
He turned his face unto the stock, An sair, sair did he weep; She turned her face unto the wa, An sound she fell asleep.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Billie Blin stood up at their bed-feet.
Said, Saw ye ever a fitter match Atween the tane and the tither, The Earl Marshall['s] ae dother An the Queen o Scotland's brither?
'Wae be to you for an ill woman, An ill death mat ye dee! For mony's the mare and mare's foal I've bursten seekin thee.'
. . . a cup o wine, Quoth, Here's to thee and me! If ye mak me lady o ae puir pleugh, I'll mak ye lord o three.