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Andrew Lang - The Laird Of Waristoun
Work rating: Low

Down by yon garden green,
Sae merrily as she gaes;
She has twa weel-made feet,
And she trips upon her taes.

She has twa weel-made feet;
Far better is her hand;
She`s as jimp in the middle
As ony willow wand.

"Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
It`s I will make you lady
Of a` the lands you see."

* * * * *

He spak a word in jest;
Her answer was na good;
He threw a plate at her face,
Made it a` gush out o` blood.

She wasna frae her chamber
A step but barely three,
When up and at her richt hand
There stood Man`s Enemy.

"Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
I`ll learn you a wile,
Avenged for to be."

The foul thief knotted the tether;
She lifted his head on hie;
The nourice drew the knot
That gar`d lord Waristoun die.

Then word is gane to Leith,
Also to Edinburgh town
That the lady had kill`d the laird,
The laird o` Waristoun.

* * * * *

Tak aff, tak aff my hood
But lat my petticoat be;
Pat my mantle o`er my head;
For the fire I downa see.

Now, a` ye gentle maids,
Tak warning now by me,
And never marry ane
But wha pleases your e`e.

"For he married me for love,
But I married him for fee;
And sae brak out the feud
That gar`d my dearie die."
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