| Play/Download Music File John Renfro Davis |
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| This ballad appears in the Percy's Reliques, Vol III (dated 1765 but which were from a collection dating to the 1640s or 1650s). When it was published by Jamieson (1806) verses were added in which Burd Ellen dies just as Child Waters agrees to wed her. An additional ten verses were added by Kinloch in his Ancient Scottish Ballads (1827).
This ballad is Child Ballad #63. Child notes similarities with the ballads Leezie Lindsay (#226) and The Knight and the Shepherd's Daughter (#110). Variants of the ballad appear in Scandinavia. These words are version E of the ballad (Fair Margaret). This version is from the Harris manuscript from Perthshire circa 1790. The tune is based on the single line melody found in Child Vol. V. Alternate titles and variants include, Burd Ellen, Lady Margaret, Cruel William, Burd Alone, and Burd Helen. The ballad refers to the Erse language. The following is a partial post from the Harp Mailing List by Ed Margerum (18 August 1995): "Once Gaelic (pronounced Gallic by Gaelic speakers) covered most of Scotland, or as it was called in Gaelic, Alba. Today it is spoken by relatively few people in Scotland--perhaps one percent of the population. Gaelic is a close cousin of Irish and Manx and in ways is closer to Donegal Irish than Donegal Irish is to Kerry Irish. Older English writers sometimes referred to it as Erse, a term now considered derogatory. Erse is just a dialectical pronunciation of Irish." For a complete list of Child Ballads at this site see Francis J. Child Ballads. |
I beg you bide at hame, Margaret, An sew your silken seam; If ye waur in wide Hielands, Ye wald be owre far frae hame. I winna bide at hame, she said, Nor sew my silken seam; For if I waur in the wide Hielands, I wald no be owre far frae hame. My steed sall drink the blude-red wine, An you the water wan; I'll mak you sigh, an say alace, That ever I loed a man! Though your steed does drink the blude-red wine, And me the water wan, Yet will I sing, an merry be, That ever I loed a man. My hounds shall eat the bread o wheat, An you the bread o bran; I'll mak you sigh, and say, alace, That ever you loed Lord John! Though your hounds do eat the bread o wheat, And me the bread o bran, Yet will I sing, an merrie be, That ever I loed Lord John. He turned aboot his high horse head, And awa he was boun to ride; She kilted up her green clieden, An after him she gaed. When they cam to that water Whilk a' man ca the Clyde, He turned aboot his high horse head, Said, Ladie, will you ride? I learnt it in my mother's bour, I wish I had learnt it weel, That I could swim this wan water As weel as fish or eel. Whan at the middle o that water, She sat doon on a stone; He turned aboot his high horse head, Says, Ladie, will ye loup on? I learnt in my mother's bour, I wish I had learnt it better, That I could swim this wan water As weel as eel or otter. He has taen the narrow ford, And she had taen the wide; Lang, lang ere he was at the middle, She was sittin at the ither side. Wi sighen said that Fair Margaret, Alace, I'm far frae hame! 'Hoo mony miles is't to your castle? Noo Lord John, tell to me; Hoo mony miles is't to my castle? It's thirty miles and three: Wi sighen said that Fair Margaret, It'll never be gane by me! But up it spak the wily bird, As it sat on the tree, Rin on, rin on noo, Fair Margaret, It scarcely miles is three. Whan they cam to the wide Hielands, And lichted on the green, Every an spa Erse to anither, But Margaret she spa nane. Whan they waur at the table set, An birlin at best, Margaret set at a bye-table And fain she wald hain rest. Oh mither, mither, mak my bed, Wi clean blankets an sheets, An lay my futeboy at my feet, The sounder I may sleep. She has made Lord John his bed, Wi clean blankets and sheets, And laid his futeboy at his feet, But neer a wink culd he sleep. Win up, win up noo, Fair Margaret, An see that my steed has meat; See that his corn is in his travisse, Nor lying amang his feet. Slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly put she on, An slowly gaed she doon the stair, Aye makin a heavy moan. An asken, an asken, gude Lord John, I pray you grant it me; For the warst bed in a' your hoose, To your young son an me. Your asken is but sma, Margaret, Sune grantet it shall be; For the best bed in a' my hoose, Is owre little for thee. An asken, an asken, gude Lord John, I pray you grant it me; For the warst ale in a' your hoose, That ye wald gie to me. Your asken is but sma, Margaret, Sune grantet it sall be; For the best wine in a' my hoose Is owre little for thee. But cheer up your heart noo, Fair Margaret, For, be it as it may, Your kirken an your fair weddin Sall baith be on one day. |
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| From
The English and Scottish Popular Ballads See Bibliography for full information. |
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