(Mackay.)

“What bluid’s that on thy coat lap? 
Son Davie!  Son Davie! 
What bluid’s that on thy coat lap? 
And the truth come tell to me, O.”

“It is the bluid of my great hawk,
Mother lady, Mother lady! 
It is the bluid of my great hawk,
And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.”

“Hawk’s bluid was ne’er sae red,
Son Davie!  Son Davie! 
Hawk’s bluid was ne’er sae red,
And the truth come tell to me, O.”

“It is the bluid of my grey hound,
Mother lady!  Mother lady! 
It is the bluid of my grey hound,
And it wudna rin for me, O.”

“Hound’s bluid was ne’er sae red,
Son Davie!  Son Davie! 
Hound’s bluid was ne’er sae red,
And the truth come tell to me, O.”

“It is the bluid o’ my brother John,
Mother lady!  Mother lady! 
It is the bluid o’ my brother John,
And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.”

“What about did the plea begin? 
Son Davie!  Son Davie!”
“It began about the cutting o’ a willow wand,
That would never hae been a tree, O.”

“What death dost thou desire to die? 
Son Davie!  Son Davie! 
What death dost thou desire to die? 
And the truth come tell to me, O.”

“I’ll set my foot in a bottomless ship,
Mother lady! mother lady! 
I’ll set my foot in a bottomless ship,
And ye’ll never see mair o’ me, O.”

“What wilt thou leave to thy poor wife? 
Son Davie!  Son Davie!”
“Grief and sorrow all her life,
And she’ll never get mair frae me, O.”

“What wilt thou leave to thy young son? 
Son Davie! son Davie!”
“The weary warld to wander up and down,
And he’ll never get mair o’ me, O.”

“What wilt thou leave to thy mother dear? 
Son Davie!  Son Davie!”
“A fire o’ coals to burn her wi’ hearty cheer,
And she’ll never get mair o’ me, O.”

Ballad:  The Wife Of Usher’s Well

(Child, vol. iii.)

There lived a wife at Usher’s Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them oer the sea,

They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife
That her three sons were gane.

They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
Whan word came to the carlin wife
That her sons she’d never see.

“I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood!”

It fell about the Martinmass,
Whan nights are lang and mirk,
The carline wife’s three sons came hame,
And their hats were o the birk.

It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh;
But at the gates o Paradise
That birk grew fair eneugh.