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Sheath and Knife

'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
'Will you to 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 ly.
'When ye see me lying still, Throw awa your bow and come running me till.'
When he heard her gie a cry, He shot his bow and he let her lye.
When he saw she was lying still, He threw awa 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 howkit a grave lang, large and wide, He buried his auld son down by her side.
It was nae wonder his heart was sair, When he shooled the mools on 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 sheathe 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 ere sailed the sea Neer'll bring such a sheathe and knife to me.
'A' the smiths that lives on land Will neer bring such a sheath and knife to my hand.'