‘Gif my gude lord war here this night,
   As he is with King Charlie,
Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish lord,
   Durst avow to the plundering of Airlie.

‘Gif my gude lord war now at hame,
   As he is with his king,
There durst nae a Campbell in a’ Argyll
   Set fit on Airlie green.

‘Ten bonnie sons I have borne unto him,
   The eleventh ne’er saw his daddy;
But though I had an hunder mair,
   I’d gie them a’ to King Charlie!’

388   The Wife of Usher’s Well

THERE lived a wife at Usher’s well,
   And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
   And sent them o’er the sea.

They hadna been a week from her,
   A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline¹ wife
   That her three sons were gane.

They hadna been a week from her,
   A week but barely three,
When word came to the carline wife
   That her sons she’d never see.

‘I wish the wind may never cease,
   Nor fashes² in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
   In earthly flesh and blood!’

It fell about the Martinmas,
   When nights are lang and mirk,
The carline wife’s three sons came hame,
   And their hats were o’ the birk.

It neither grew in syke³ nor ditch,
   Nor yet in ony sheugh;⁴
But at the gates o’ Paradise
   That birk grew fair eneugh.

‘Blow up the fire, my maidens!
   Bring water from the well!
For a’ my house shall feast this night,
   Since my three sons are well.’

And she has made to them a bed,
   She’s made it large and wide;
And she’s ta’en her mantle her about,
   Sat down at the bedside.

Up then crew the red, red cock,
   And up and crew the gray;
The eldest to the youngest said.
   ‘’Tis time we were away.’

The cock he hadna craw’d but once,
   And clapp’d his wings at a’,
When the youngest to the eldest said,
   ‘Brother, we must awa’.

‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
   The channerin’⁵ worm doth chide;
Gin we be miss’d out o’ our place,
   A sair pain we maun bide.’

‘Lie still, lie still but a little wee while,
   Lie still but if we may;
Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes,
   She’ll go mad ere it be day.’

‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
   Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
   That kindles my mother’s fire!’

389   The Three Ravens

THERE were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be.

The one of them said to his make,¹
‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’

‘Down in yonder greene field
There lies a knight slain under his shield;