# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 6/The fratricide

THE FRATRICIDE.
(FINNISH)
O where have ye been the morn sae late, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? O where have ye been the morn sae late? ⁠And I wot I hae but anither. By the water-gate, by the water-gate, ⁠O dear mither.
And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make? ⁠And I wot I hae but anither. I watered my steeds with water frae the lake, ⁠O dear mither.
Why is your coat sae fouled the day, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? Why is your coat sae fouled the day? ⁠And I wot I hae but anither. The steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay, ⁠O dear mither.
And where gat ye thae sleeves of red, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And where gat ye thae sleeves of red? ⁠And I wot I hae but anither. I have slain my ae brither by the weary water-head, ⁠O dear mither.
And where will ye gang to mak your mend, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And where will ye gang to mak your mend? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. The warldis way, to the warldis end, ⁠O dear mither.
And what will ye leave your father dear, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your father dear? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. The wood to fell and the logs to bear, For he'll never see my body mair, ⁠O dear mither.
And what will ye leave your mither dear, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your mither dear? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. The wool to card and the wool to wear, For ye'll never see my body mair, ⁠O dear mither.
And what will ye leave for your wife to take, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave for your wife to take? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. A goodly gown and a fair new make, For she'll do nae mair for my body's sake, ⁠O dear mither.
And what will ye leave your young son fair, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your young son fair? ⁠And I wot ye hae not anither. A twiggen school-rod for his body to bear, Though it garred him greet he'll get nae mair, ⁠O dear mither.
And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet? ⁠And I wot ye hae not anither. Wild mulberries for her mouth to eat, She'll get nae mair though it garred her greet, ⁠O dear mither.
And when will ye come back frae roamin', ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And when will ye come back frae roamin'? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. When the sunrise out of the north is comen, ⁠O dear mither.
When shall the sunrise on the north side be, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? When shall the sunrise on the north side be? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. When chuckie-stanes shall swim in the sea, ⁠O dear mither.
When shall stanes in the sea swim, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? When shall stanes in the sea swim? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. When birdies' feathers are as lead therein, ⁠O dear mither.
When shall feathers be as lead, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? When shall feathers be as lead? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. When God shall judge between the quick and dead, ⁠O dear mither.A. C. Swinburne