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THE
MURDERED
MINSTREL.
How sweetly shone the morning sun,
Upon the bonny ha’ house o’ Dun;
Siccan a bien and lovely abode,
Might wyle the pilgrim aff his road;
But the owner’s heart was hard as stane,
And his Lady’s was harder still I ween.
They never gave alms to the poor.
And they turned the wretched frae their door,
While the stranger as he passed their gate,
Was by the warder and tykes beset.
Oh there lived there ane bonny May,
Mild and sweet as the morning ray,
Or the gloamin' o' a summer’s day;
Her hair was fair, her een were blue,
And the dimples o’ love played round her sweet mou,
Her waist was sae jimp and her ankle sae sma,
Her bossom as white as the new driven sna
Sprent o'er the twin mountains o’ sweet Caterthun,
Beaming mild in the rays of a wintery sun.
Where the print of a foot has never been
And not a cloud in the lift is seen;
When the wind is slumbering in its cave,
And the bark is sleeping on the wave,
Upon the bonny ha’ house o’ Dun;
Siccan a bien and lovely abode,
Might wyle the pilgrim aff his road;
But the owner’s heart was hard as stane,
And his Lady’s was harder still I ween.
They never gave alms to the poor.
And they turned the wretched frae their door,
While the stranger as he passed their gate,
Was by the warder and tykes beset.
Oh there lived there ane bonny May,
Mild and sweet as the morning ray,
Or the gloamin' o' a summer’s day;
Her hair was fair, her een were blue,
And the dimples o’ love played round her sweet mou,
Her waist was sae jimp and her ankle sae sma,
Her bossom as white as the new driven sna
Sprent o'er the twin mountains o’ sweet Caterthun,
Beaming mild in the rays of a wintery sun.
Where the print of a foot has never been
And not a cloud in the lift is seen;
When the wind is slumbering in its cave,
And the bark is sleeping on the wave,
