Title: Laird o' Linne
Author: www.traditionalmusic.co.uk
Keywords: Folk,music,songs,lyrics,bluegrass,old-time-music

Traditional & Folk Songs with lyrics & midi music www.traditionalmusic.co.uk 
Laird o' Linne 
Laird o' Linne 
O yonder he stands, and there he gangs, The weary heir o' Linne; Yonder he stands on the cauld causey, And nane bids him come in. 
But it fell ance upon a day, The sheets were laid in fauld; And poor Willie found he had nae friends, And it was wondrous cauld. 
"Oh, one sheave o' your bread, nourice, And one glass o' your wine; And I will pay you o'er again, When I am Laird o' Linne. 
"Oh, one sheave o' my bread, Willie, And one glass o' my wine; But the seas will be dry ere ye pay me again, For ye'll never be Laird o' Linne." 
But he mind't him up, and he mind't him down And he mind't him o'er again; And he mind't him on a little wee key, That his mother ga'e to him. 
He did him to the House o' Linne, He sought it up and down, And there he found a little wee door, And the key gaed slippin' in. 
And he got gowd, and he got gear, He got gowd stor'd within And he got gowd, and he got gear, Thrice worth the lands o' Linne. 
He did him to the tavern straight, Where nobles were drinking therein The greatest noble among them a' Was near to Willie o' kin. 
And some of them bade him fish to eat, 
And some of them bade him a fin; And some of them bade him nothing at a', For he'd never be father's son. 
But out it spake an aged knicht, And vow but he spake slie --"I'll sell you your father's land back again, All for the third pennie." 
"I take witness upon you here," he says, "I take witness upon thee, That you will sell me my father's land again, All for the third pennie." 
Then he took out a little wee coffer, And he set it on his knee; And he told the gowd doun on the table roun' Says, "Tak' up your third pennie." 
"Come ben, come ben, my good nourice, I'll pay you, when you come ben, For the seas are not dry, and I'll pay you back again For I'm again the Laird o' Linne." 
Poor Willie, that night at eight o'clock, Had his stockings abeen his sheen; But ere the morrow at twelve o'clock, He was convoy'd by lords sixteen. 
from Bronson, Singing Tradition of Child's Popular Ballads Child #267