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Sir Cawline

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Sir Cawline

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Sir Cawline

The king luikit owre his castle wa,
To his nobles ane an a';
Says, Whare it is him Sir Colin,
I dinna see him amang you a'?

Up it spak an eldern knicht,
Aye an even up spak he:
"Sir Colin's sick for your dochter Janet,
He's very sick, an like to dee."

"Win up, win up, my dochter Janet,
I wat ye are a match most fine;
Tak the baken bread an wine sae ried,
An to Sir Colin ye maun gieng."

Up she rase, that fair Janet,
An I wat weel she was na sweer,
An up they rase, her merrie maries,
An they said a'  they wad gae wi her.

"No, no," said fair Janet,
"No, no such thing can be;
For a thrang to gae to a sick man's bour,
I think it wald be great folie.

"How is my knicht, all last nicht?"
"Very sick an like to dee;
 But if I had a kiss o your sweet lips,
I wald lie nae langer here."

She leant her doon on his bed-side,
I wat she gae him kisses three;
But wi sighen said that fair Janet,
"As for your bride, I daurna be.

"Unless you watch the Orlange hill,
An at that hill there grows a thorn;
There neer cam a liven man frae it,
Sin the first nicht that I was born."

"Oh I will watch the Orlange hill,
Though I waur thinkin to be slain;
But I will gie you some love tokens,
In case we never meet again."

He gae her rings to her fingers,
Sae did he ribbons to her hair;
He gae her a broach to her briest-bane,
For fear that they sud neer meet mair.

She put her hand in her pocket,
An she took out a lang, lang wand;
"As lang's ony man this wand sall keep,
There sail not a drap o his blude be drawn."

Whan een was come, an een-bells rung,
An a' man boun for bed,
There beheld him Sir Colin,
Fast to the Orlange hill he rade.

The wind blew trees oot at the rutes,
Sae did it auld castles doon;
'Twas eneuch to fricht ony Christian knicht,
To be sae far frae ony toon.

He rade up, sae did he doon,
He rade even through the loan,
Till he spied a knicht, wi a ladie bricht,
Wi a bent bow intil his han.

She cried afar, ere she cam naur,
I warn ye, kind sir, I rede ye flee;
That for the love you bear to me,
I warn ye, kind sir, that ye flee.

They faucht up, sae did they doon,
They faucht even through the loan,
Till he cut aff the king's richt han,
Was set aboot wi chains a' goud.

"Haud your hand now, Sir Colin,
I wat you've dung my love richt sair;
Noo for the love ye bear to me,
See that ye ding my love nae mair."

He wooed, he wooed that fair Janet,
He wooed her and he brocht her hame;
He wooed, he wooed that fair ranet,
An ca'd her Dear-Coft till her name.

Child #61
From Bronson, Singing Tradition of Child's Popular Ballads
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