Oh, who will shoe my bonny feet
And who will glove my hand
And who will kiss my rosy cheeks
While you're in a far off land?
Your father will shoe your bonny feet
Your mother will glove your hand.
And I will kiss you rosy cheeks
When I come home again.
Oh who will build a bonny ship
And set her on the sea
For I will go and seek my love
My own love Gregory.
Oh up and spoke her father dear
And a wealthy man was he
And he has built a bonny ship
And set her on the sea.
Oh he has built a bonny ship
To sail upon the sea
The mast was of the beaten gold
As fine as it could be.
She had not sailed by twenty leagues,
But twenty leagues and three
When she met with a rank robber
And all of his company.
Are you the Queen of Heaven, he cried,
Come to pardon all our sins
Or are you the Merry Magdelene
That was born at Bethlehem?
I'm not the Queen of Heaven, said she
Come to pardon all your sins
Nor am I the Merry Magdelene
That was born in Bethlehem
But I am the lass of Lochroyal
That's sailing on the sea
To see if I can find my love
My own love Gregory.
Oh, I see now yon bonny bower
All covered o'er with thyme
And when you sailed around and about
Lord Gregory is within.
Now row the boat my mariners
And bring me to the land
For I do see my true love's castle
Close by the salt sea strand
She sailed around and sailed around
And loud and long she cried, she
Now break, now break your fairy charm
And set my true love free.
She has taken her young son in her arms
And to the door she's gone
And long she's knocked and loud she's called
But answer she's got none.
Open the door Lord Gregory
Open and let me in
The wind blows cold, blows cold, my love
The rain drops from my chin.
The shoe is frozen to my feet
The glove unto my hand
The wet drops from my frozen hair
And I can scarce-lie stand.
Up then and spoke his ill mother
As cruel as she could be
You're not the lass of Lochroyal
She is far out o'er the sea.
Away, away, you wile woman,
Some ill death may ye die,
You're but some witch or wild warlock
Or a mermaid from the sea.
Now open the doors love Gregory
Open the doors I pray
For thy young son is in my arms
And will be dead ere it is day.
Ye lie, ye lie, ye wile woman,
So loud I hear ye lie
For Annie of the Lochroyal
Is far out o'er the sea
Fair Annie turned her round and about
Well since this all is so
May never a woman that's bourne a son
Have a heard so full of woe.
When the cock had crow'n and the day had dawned
And the sun began to peep
Up then and rose Lord Gregory
And sore, sore did he weep.
Oh I have dream't a dream mother
The thought it grieves me great
That Fair Annie of the Lochroyal
Lay dead at my bed feet.
If it be for Annie of Lochroyal
You make all of this moan
She stood last night at your bower door
But I have sent her home.
Oh he's gone down unto the shore
To see what he could see
And there he saw fair Annie's barque
Come a-roarin' o'er the sea.
Oh, Annie, oh Annie, loudly he cried
Oh Annie, oh Annie, my dear
But all the loud that he did cry
Fair Annie she could not hear.
The wind blew loud, the waves rose high
And dashed the boat on shore
Fair Annie's corpse was in the foam
The babe rose never more.
Then first he kissed her pale, pale cheeks
And then he kissed her chin
And then he kissed her cold, cold lips
There was no breath within.
Oh woe betide my ill mother
An ill death may she die.
She has not been the death of one
But she has been the death of three.
Then he took out a little dart
That hung down by his side
And thrust it through and through his heart
And then fell down and he died.
When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in
his stride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often
turn aside,
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant
tooth and nail,
For the female of the species is more deadly
than the male.
When Nag, the basking cobra, hears the careless
foot of man
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid
it if he can,
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps
beside the trail,
For the female of the species is more deadly
than the male.
When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons
and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance
of the squaws,
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those
stark enthusiasts pale,
For the female of the species is more deadly
than the male.
Man's timid heart is bursting with the things
he must not say,
For the woman that God gave him isn't his to
give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms
the other's tale,
For the female of the species is more deadly
than the male.
She who faces death by torture for each life within
her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity, must not swerve
for fact or jest.
These are purely male diversions; not in these
her honor dwells.
She, the Other Law we live by, is that Law and
nothing else.
Unprovoked and awful charges -- even so the she-bear
fights.
Speech that drips, corrodes and poisons -- even
so the cobra bites.
Scientific vivisection of one nerve until it's
raw
And the victim writhes in anguish -- like the
Jesuit with the squaw.
So it comes that man, the coward, when he gathers
to confer
With his fellow braves in council, dare not leave
a place for her
Where, at war with life and conscience, he uplifts
his erring hands
To some god of abstract justice -- which no woman
understands.
And man knows it, knows moreover that the woman
that God gave him
Must command but may not govern, shall enthrall
but not enslave him
And she knows, because she warns him, and her
instincts never fail,
That the female of the species is more deadly
than the male.
The dying rays of a blood-red sun shone bright
on a scene from hell:
The broken harness and scattered dead of a battle
grim and fell.
In a forest glade two figures stood, their countenances
proud.
One was a sorceress of ill will; the other a
man of God.
The man of God cried to his foe, "Surrender while
you may!
You shall not flee, for by my faith, my sword
will bar your way."
Said the sorceress in a voice of ice, "You bleed
from a dozen wounds,
And it takes no skill of mine to see you'll be
a dead man soon."
She raised her hands in a burst of fire.
The lightnings crashed and groaned.
The priest stood still and from him flared a
magic of his own.
The two stood locked in a war of will, of sorcery
and power,
Till the man of God felt his blood run cold --
he would not live the hour.
The sorceress' laugh rang loud and shrill.
"Now, priest, prepare to die!"
But a grim smile played on his ashen lips, for
he'd one spell left to try.
His father's sword he lifted high. He prayed
and made his cast,
Then bowed his head to the bloody field and breathed
his earthly last.
The sorceress stood in the darkened glade and
never spoke a word,
And the searchers found her clay-cold corpse
transfixed by the dead man's sword!
I am a forester of this land
As you may plainly see,
It's the mantle of your maidenhead
That I would have from thee.
He's taken her by the milk-white hand,
And by the leylan sleeve,
He's lain her down upon her back
And asked no man's leave.
Now since you've lain me down young man
You must take me up again,
And since you've had your will of me,
Come tell to me your name.
Some call me Jim, some call me John,
Begad it's all the same,
But when I'm in the king's high court
Erwilian is my name.
She being a good scholar
She's spelt it o'er again
Erwilian, that's a Latin word,
But Willy is your name.
Now when he heard his name pronounced
He mounted his high horse,
She's belted up her petticoat
And followed with all her force.
He rode and she ran
A long summer day,
Until they came by the river
That's commonly called the Tay.
The water it's too deep my love,
I'm afraid you cannot wade,
But afore he'd ridden his horse well in,
She was on the other side.
She went up to the king's high door,
She knocked and she went in,
Said one of you chancellor's robbed me,
And he's robbed me right and clean.
Has he robbed you of your mantle,
Has he robbed you of your ring?
No he's robbed me of my maidenhead
And another I cannot find.
If he be a married man
Then hanged he shall be,
And if he be a single man
He shall marry thee.
This couple they got married,
They live in Huntley town,
She's the Earl of Airlie's daughter
And he's the blacksmith's son.
I prithee, an thou hast enjoyed rest and merriment whilst pausing at
the Gallery, scribe thy thoughts to the good gentle below.
songsmith@oocities.com
Scribed this 28th day of October, 1998
Except for where otherwise noted, all works and
character concepts are Copyrighted 1997
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|