Classic Poem

The king but an' his nobles a'
Sat birling at the wine;
The king but an' his nobles a'
Sat birling at the wine;
He would ha' nane but his ae daughter
To wait on them at dine.

She 's serv'd them butt, she 's serv'd them ben,
Intill a gown of green;
But her e'e was ay on Brown Robin
That stood low under the rain.

She 's doen her to her bigly bow'r
As fast as she cou'd gang,
An' there she 's drawn her shot window
An' she 's harped an' she sang:

There sits a bird i' my father's garden,
An' O but she sings sweet;
I hope to live an' see the day
Whan wi' my love I'll meet.

O gin that ye like me as well
As your tongue tells to me,
What hour o' the night, my lady bright,
At your bow'r sal I be?

Whan my father an' gay Gilbert
Are baith set at the wine
O ready, ready I will be
To lat my true love in.

O she has birl'd her father's porter
Wi' strong beer an' wi' wine,
Untill he was as beastly drunk
As ony wild wood swine;
She 's stown the keys o' her father's yates
An' latten her true love in.

Whan night was gane an' day was come
An' the sun shone on their feet,
Then out it spake him Brown Robin:
I'll be discovered yet.

Then out it spake that gay lady:
My love, ye need na doubt;
For wi' ae wile I've got you in,
Wi' anither I'll bring you out.

She 's ta'en her to her father's cellar
As fast as she can fare,
She 's drawn a cup o' the gude red wine,
Hung 't low down by her gare;
An' she met wi' her father dear
Just coming down the stair.

I would na gi' that cup, daughter,
That ye hold i' your han',
For a' the wines in my cellar,
An' gantrees whare the[y] stan'.

O wae be to your wine, father,
That ever 't came o'er the sea;
'T 'is pitten my head in sick a steer
I' my bow'r I canna be.

Gang out, gang out, my daughter dear,
Gang out an' tack the air;
Gang out an' walk i' the good green wood,
An' a' your Marys fair.

Then out it spake the proud porter
(Our lady wish'd him shame):
We'll send the Marys to the wood
But we'll keep our lady at hame.

There 's thirty Marys i' my bow'r,
There 's thirty o' them an' three;
But there 's nae ane amo' them a'
Kens what flow'r gains for me.

She 's doen her to her bigly bow'r
As fast as she could gang,
An' she has drest him Brown Robin
Like ony bow'r woman.

The gown she pat upon her love
Was o' the dainty green,
His hose was o' the saft, saft silk,
His shoon o' the cordwain fine.

She 's pitten his bow in her bosom,
His arrow in her sleeve,
His sturdy bran' her body next
Because he was her love.

Then she is unto her bow'r door
As fast as she cou'd gang,
But out it spake the proud porter
(Our lady wished him shame):
We'll count our Marys to the wood
An' we'll count them back again.

The firsten Mary she sent out
Was Brown Robin by name;
Then out it spake the king himsel:
This is a sturdy dame.

O she went out in a May morning,
In a May morning so gay,
But she came never back again
Her auld father to see.