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Andrew Lang - Rob Roy
Work rating: Low

Rob Roy from the Highlands cam,
Unto the Lawlan` border,
To steal awa a gay ladie
To haud his house in order.
He cam oure the lock o` Lynn,
Twenty men his arms did carry;
Himsel gaed in, an` fand her out,
Protesting he would many.

"O will ye gae wi` me," he says,
"Or will ye be my honey?
Or will ye be my wedded wife?
For I love you best of any."
"I winna gae wi` you," she says,
"Nor will I be your honey,
Nor will I be your wedded wife;
You love me for my money."

* * * * *

But he set her on a coal-black steed,
Himsel lap on behind her,
An` he`s awa to the Highland hills,
Whare her frien`s they canna find her.

* * * * *

"Rob Roy was my father ca`d,
Macgregor was his name, ladie;
He led a band o` heroes bauld,
An` I am here the same, ladie.
Be content, be content,
Be content to stay, ladie,
For thou art my wedded wife
Until thy dying day, ladie.

"He was a hedge unto his frien`s,
A heckle to his foes, ladie,
Every one that durst him wrang,
He took him by the nose, ladie.
I`m as bold, I`m as bold,
I`m as bold, an more, ladie;
He that daurs dispute my word,
Shall feel my guid claymore, ladie."
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