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Little Sir Hugh Four and twenty bonny boys Were playing at the ba', And by it came him, sweet Sir Hugh, And he played o'er them a'. He kick'd the ba' with his right foot, And catch'd it wi' his knee, And throuch-and-thro the Jew's window He gard the bonny ba' flee. He's doen him to the Jew's castell, And walk'd it round about; And there he saw the Jew's daughter, At the window looking out. "Throw down the ba', ye Jew's daughter, Throw down the ba' to me!" "Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter, "Till up to me come ye"' "How will I come up? How can I come up? How can I come to thee? For as ye did to my auld father, The same ye'll do to me"' She's gane till her father's garden, And pu'd an apple red and green; 'Tw-as a' to wyle him, sweet Sir Hugh, And to entice him in. She's led him in through ae dark door, And sae has she thro' nine; She's laid him on a dressing-table, And stickit him like a swine. And first came out the thick, thick blood, And syne came out the thin; And syne came out the bonny heart's blood; There was nae mair within. She's row'd him in a cake o'lead, Bade him lie still and sleep; She's thrown him in Our Lady's draw-well Was fifty fathom deep. When the bells were rung, and mass was sung And a' the bairns came hame, When every lady gat hame her son, The Lady Maisry gat nane. She's ta'en her mantle her about, Her coffer by the hand, And she's gane out to seek her son, And wander'd o'er the land. She's doen her to the Jew's castell, Where a' were fast asleep: "Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh, I pray you to me speak." She's doen her to the Jew's garden, Thought he had been gathering fruit: "Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh, I pray you to me speak." She near'd Our Lady's deep draw-well, Was fifty fathom deep: "Whare'er ye be, my sweet Sir Hugh, I pray you to me speak." "Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, Prepare my winding sheet, And at the back o' merry Lincoln The morn I will you meet." Now Lady Maisry is gane hame, Made him a winding sheet, And at the back o'merry Lincoln The dead corpse did her meet." And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln - Without men's hands were rung; And a' the books o' merry Lincoln Were read without man's tongue; And ne'er was such a burial Sin Adam's days begun. gar: make doen him: betaken himself, wyle:deceive, syne:then Child #155 From Penguin Book of Folk Ballads, Friedman RG
Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!