# The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 3/Chapter 70

A
WILLIE was a widow's son, And he wore a milk-white weed, O And weel could Willie read and write, Far better ride on steed. O Lady Margerie was the first lady That drank to him the wine, And aye as the healths gade round and round, 'Laddy, your love is mine.' Lady Margerie was the first ladye That drank to him the beer, And aye as the healths gade round and round, 'Laddy, you're welcome here.' 'You must come into my bower When the evening bells do ring, And you must come into my bower When the evening mass doth sing.' He's taen four and twenty braid arrows, And laced them in a whang, And he's awa to Lady Margerie's bower, As fast as he can gang. He set ae foot on the wall, And the other on a stane, And he's killed a' the king's life-guards, And he's killed them every man. 'Oh open, open, Lady Margerie, Open and let me in; The weet weets a' my yellow hair, And the dew draps on my chin.' With her feet as white as sleet She strode her bower within, And with her fingers long and small She's looten Sweet Willie in. She's louten down unto her foot To loose Sweet Willie's shoon; The buckles were sa stiff they wudna lowse, The blood had frozen in. 'O Willie, Willie, I fear that thou Has bred me dule and sorrow; The deed that thou has dune this nicht Will kythe upon the morrow.' In then came her father dear, And a broad sword by his gare, And he's gien Willie, the widow's son, A deep wound and a sair. 'Lye yont, lye yont, Willie,' she says, 'Your sweat weets a' my side; Lye yont, lie yont, Willie,' she says, 'For your sweat I downa bide.' She turned her back unto the wa, Her face unto the room, And there she saw her auld father, Walking up and down. 'Woe be to you, father,' she said, 'And an ill deed may you die! For ye've killd Willie, the widow's son And he would have married me.' She turned her back unto the room, Her face unto the wa, And with a deep and heavy sich Her heart it brak in twa.
B
SWEET WILLIE was a widow's son, And milk-white was his weed; It sets him weel to bridle a horse, And better to saddle a steed, my dear, And better to saddle a steed. But he is on to Maisry's bower-door, And tirled at the pin: 'Ye sleep ye, wake ye, Lady Maisry, Ye'll open, let me come in.' 'O who is this at my bower-door, Sae well that knows my name?' 'It is your ain true-love, Willie, If ye love me, lat me in.' Then huly, huly raise she up, For fear o making din, Then in her arms lang and bent, She caught sweet Willie in. She leand her low down to her toe, To loose her true-love's sheen, But cauld, cauld were the draps o bleed Fell fae his trusty brand. 'What frightfu sight is that, my love? A frightfu sight to see! What bluid is this on your sharp brand? O may ye not tell me?' 'As I came thro the woods this night, The wolf maist worried me; O shoud I slain the wolf, Maisry? Or shoud the wolf slain me?' They hadna kissd, nor love clapped, As lovers when they meet, Till up it starts her auld father, Out o his drowsy sleep. 'O what's become o my house-cock, Sae crouse at ane did craw? I wonder as much at my bold watch, That's nae shooting ower the wa. 'My gude house-cock, my only son, Heir ower my land sae free, If ony ruffian hae him slain, High hanged shall he be.' Then he's on to Maisry's bower-door, And tirled at the pin: 'Ye sleep ye, wake ye, daughter Maisry, Ye'll open, lat me come in.' Between the curtains and the wa She rowd her true-love then, And huly went she to the door, And let her father in. 'What's become o your maries, Maisry, Your bower it looks sae teem? What's become o your green claithing, Your beds they are sae thin?' 'Gude forgie you, father,' she said, 'I wish ye be't for sin; Sae aft as ye hae dreaded me, But never found me wrang.' He turnd him right and round about, As he'd been gaun awa; But sae nimbly as he slippet in Behind a screen sae sma. Maisry, thinking a' dangers past, She to her love did say, 'Come, love, and take your silent rest; My auld father's away.' Then baith lockd in each other's arms, They fell full fast asleep, When up it starts her auld father, And stood at their bed-feet. 'I think I hae the villain now That my dear son did slay; But I shall be revengd on him Before I see the day.' Then he's drawn out a trusty brand, And stroakd it oer a stray, And thro and thro Sweet Willie's middle He's gart cauld iron gae. Then up it wakend Lady Maisry, Out o her drowsy sleep, And when she saw her true-love slain, She straight began to weep. 'O gude forgie you now, father,' she said, 'I wish ye be't for sin; For I never lovd a love but ane, In my arms ye've him slain.' 'This night he's slain my gude bold watch, Thirty stout men and twa; Likewise he's slain your ae brother, To me was worth them a'. 'If he has slain my ae brither, Himsell had a' the blame, For mony a day he plots contriv'd, To hae Sweet Willie slain. 'And tho he's slain your gude bold watch, He might hae been forgien; They came on him in armour bright, When he was but alane.' Nae meen was made for this young knight, In bower where he lay slain, But a' was for sweet Maisry bright, In fields where she ran brain.