The Weary Coble O' Cargill
The course o' true love ne'er runs smooth,
So say the sages o' langsyne,
My waefu' tale upbears the truth —
This weary, waefu' tale o' mine.
A youthfu' pair wha offer'd fair
O' nuptial joy to drink their fill,
But ither drink for them was brewed
Within the Coble o' Cargill.
The lad was Chanc'llor Drummond's page,
When gude Earl James was wi' the King,
And a' the keys o' bonnie Stobha',
I wat they at his belt did hing.
She was the belle o' Ballathie toun,
O' lovers she had wile and will;
But sad her fate — she waukit late,
And bor'd the Coble o' Cargill.
She bor'd the Coble in seven parts,
Na doot her heart was sick and sair,
When there she sealed the laddie's fate,
Wi' the curly locks and the yellow hair
His bed was made in Kercock ha',
O' gude clean sheets and o' the strae,
But he wadna' sleep a'e nicht therein,
For a' a mither's lips could say.
He would across the flooded Tay,
He widna bruik o' ony ill,
And wi' wary step he bent his gaet,
To the weary Coble o' Cargill.
Wi' youthfu' airm he grasped the oar,
I trow he grasp'd it wi' gude will,
But e'er he was mid waters through
The weary Coble began to fill.
He baled the boat wi' baith his hands,
Forsooth he bailed it heartily,
But the augur's skaith soon stopped his breath,
And gart the bonnie laddie dee.
" Oh, help, oh, help, I can get nane,
Nae help o' man can come to me,
For the rollin' flow o' the burden'd stream
Is hastenin' on my destiny.
" My bed was made in Kercock ha',
O' gude clean sheets and o' the hay,
But gentler hands ha'e smooth'd the sands,
And I maun sleep beneath the Tay.
" Gae hame and tell my parents baith
I blame mysel' for a' this ill;
When waukin' late I met my fate
By the weary Coble o' Cargill. "
Deceitfu' barge, thy helpless charge,
Is laid behind yon sacred fane,
Where vesper bell and native song
Shall ne'er be heard by him again.
And a' within the barony
Were present at his funeral,
And bore him from his master's ha'
To the lonely kirkyard o' Cargill.
Alas, for Jean! when a' was dune,
Her conscience work'd and wadna still,
Confessed the fate that drove her late
To bore the Coble o' Cargill.
" On Beltane e'en upon the Green
He danced wi' Bess o' Bishopha',
Her witchin' glance and winnin' een
I thocht had wiled his heart awa'.
" A fearfu' frame crept o'er me then,
And held o' me the mastery,
And my wither'd heart was blawn in flame
By that dread demon, jealousy.
" Our early vows made fause by him,
The very thocht my heart did kill,
And spell-bound, driven by that dream,
I bor'd the Coble o' Cargill.
" Oh, wha could guess 'twad come to this
When we were young and at the schule,
And pu'd the slaes on Ballathie Braes,
And broke the weirdly cake at Yule.
" There's ne'er a sark gae on my back,
Nor yet a kame gae in my hair,
Nor will there coal or candle licht
Shine in my bower for evermair.
" At kirk or fair I'se ne'er be seen,
Nor yet a blythe blink in my e'e,
Nae finger's end shall point to Jean
And say I gart my laddie dee.
" Yon ruin'd walls shall be my hame,
Where ghaists and howlets nightly cry;
And the sadd'nin' sound o' the rollin' stream
Shall nichtly sing my lullaby.
" This bracken bush shall be my bower,
Where aften by the moon I see
Yon spectre boat wi' my love afloat,
Wha wags his windin'-sheet at me. "
So say the sages o' langsyne,
My waefu' tale upbears the truth —
This weary, waefu' tale o' mine.
A youthfu' pair wha offer'd fair
O' nuptial joy to drink their fill,
But ither drink for them was brewed
Within the Coble o' Cargill.
The lad was Chanc'llor Drummond's page,
When gude Earl James was wi' the King,
And a' the keys o' bonnie Stobha',
I wat they at his belt did hing.
She was the belle o' Ballathie toun,
O' lovers she had wile and will;
But sad her fate — she waukit late,
And bor'd the Coble o' Cargill.
She bor'd the Coble in seven parts,
Na doot her heart was sick and sair,
When there she sealed the laddie's fate,
Wi' the curly locks and the yellow hair
His bed was made in Kercock ha',
O' gude clean sheets and o' the strae,
But he wadna' sleep a'e nicht therein,
For a' a mither's lips could say.
He would across the flooded Tay,
He widna bruik o' ony ill,
And wi' wary step he bent his gaet,
To the weary Coble o' Cargill.
Wi' youthfu' airm he grasped the oar,
I trow he grasp'd it wi' gude will,
But e'er he was mid waters through
The weary Coble began to fill.
He baled the boat wi' baith his hands,
Forsooth he bailed it heartily,
But the augur's skaith soon stopped his breath,
And gart the bonnie laddie dee.
" Oh, help, oh, help, I can get nane,
Nae help o' man can come to me,
For the rollin' flow o' the burden'd stream
Is hastenin' on my destiny.
" My bed was made in Kercock ha',
O' gude clean sheets and o' the hay,
But gentler hands ha'e smooth'd the sands,
And I maun sleep beneath the Tay.
" Gae hame and tell my parents baith
I blame mysel' for a' this ill;
When waukin' late I met my fate
By the weary Coble o' Cargill. "
Deceitfu' barge, thy helpless charge,
Is laid behind yon sacred fane,
Where vesper bell and native song
Shall ne'er be heard by him again.
And a' within the barony
Were present at his funeral,
And bore him from his master's ha'
To the lonely kirkyard o' Cargill.
Alas, for Jean! when a' was dune,
Her conscience work'd and wadna still,
Confessed the fate that drove her late
To bore the Coble o' Cargill.
" On Beltane e'en upon the Green
He danced wi' Bess o' Bishopha',
Her witchin' glance and winnin' een
I thocht had wiled his heart awa'.
" A fearfu' frame crept o'er me then,
And held o' me the mastery,
And my wither'd heart was blawn in flame
By that dread demon, jealousy.
" Our early vows made fause by him,
The very thocht my heart did kill,
And spell-bound, driven by that dream,
I bor'd the Coble o' Cargill.
" Oh, wha could guess 'twad come to this
When we were young and at the schule,
And pu'd the slaes on Ballathie Braes,
And broke the weirdly cake at Yule.
" There's ne'er a sark gae on my back,
Nor yet a kame gae in my hair,
Nor will there coal or candle licht
Shine in my bower for evermair.
" At kirk or fair I'se ne'er be seen,
Nor yet a blythe blink in my e'e,
Nae finger's end shall point to Jean
And say I gart my laddie dee.
" Yon ruin'd walls shall be my hame,
Where ghaists and howlets nightly cry;
And the sadd'nin' sound o' the rollin' stream
Shall nichtly sing my lullaby.
" This bracken bush shall be my bower,
Where aften by the moon I see
Yon spectre boat wi' my love afloat,
Wha wags his windin'-sheet at me. "
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