Edom o’ Gordon

It fell about the Martinmas,When the wind blew shrill and cauld,Said Edom o’ Gordon to his men,‘We maun draw to a hauld.

‘And what a hauld sall we draw to,My merry men and me?We will gae to the house o’ the Rodes,To see that fair ladye.’

The lady stood on her castle wa’,Beheld baith dale and down;There she was ’ware of a host of menCam’ riding towards the town.

‘O see ye not, my merry men a’,O see ye not what I see?Methinks I see a host of men;I marvel wha they be.’

She ween’d it had been her lovely lord,As he cam riding hame;It was the traitor, Edom o’ Gordon,Wha reck’d nae sin nor shame.

She had nae sooner buskit hersell,And putten on her gown,But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his menWere round about the town.

They had nae sooner supper set,Nae sooner said the grace,But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his menWere lighted about the place.

The lady ran up to her tower-head,Sae fast as she could hie,To see if by her fair speechesShe could wi’ him agree.

‘Come doun to me, ye lady gay,Come doun, come doun to me;This night sall ye lig within mine arms,To-morrow my bride sall be.’--

‘I winna come down, ye fals Gordon,I winna come down to thee;I winna forsake my ain dear lord,That is sae far frae me.’--

‘Gie owre your house, ye lady fair,Gie owre your house to me;Or I sall brenn yoursel’ therein,But and your babies three.’--

‘I winna gie owre, ye fals Gordon,To nae sic traitor as yee;And if ye brenn my ain dear babes,My lord sall make ye dree.

‘Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man,And charge ye weel my gun;For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,My babes, we been undone!’

She stood upon her castle wa’,And let twa bullets flee:She miss’d that bluidy butcher’s heart,And only razed his knee.

‘Set fire to the house!’ quo’ fals Gordon,All wud wi’ dule and ire:‘Fals lady, ye sall rue this deidAs ye brenn in the fire!’--

‘Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man!I paid ye weel your fee;Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane,Lets in the reek to me?

‘And e’en wae worth ye, Jock, my man!I paid ye weel your hire;Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane,To me lets in the fire?’--

‘Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye,Ye paid me weel my fee:But now I’m Edom o’ Gordon’s man,Maun either do or dee.’

O then bespake her little son,Sat on the nurse’s knee:Says, ‘Mither dear, gie owre this house,For the reek it smithers me.’--

‘I wad gie a’ my gowd, my bairn,Sae wad I a’ my fee,For ae blast o’ the western wind,To blaw the reek frae thee.’

O then bespake her dochter dear--She was baith jimp and sma’:‘O row me in a pair o’ sheets,And tow me owre the wa’!’

They row’d her in a pair o’ sheets,And tow’d her owre the wa’;But on the point o’ Gordon’s spearShe gat a deadly fa’.

O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,And cherry were her cheiks,And clear, clear was her yellow hair,Whereon the red blood dreips.

Then wi’ his spear he turn’d her owre;O gin her face was wane!He said, ‘Ye are the first that e’erI wish’d alive again.’

He turn’d her owre and owre again;O gin her skin was white!‘I might hae spared that bonnie faceTo hae been some man’s delight.

‘Busk and boun, my merry men a’,For ill dooms I do guess;I canna look in that bonnie faceAs it lies on the grass.’--

‘Wha looks to freits, my master dear,It’s freits will follow them;Let it ne’er be said that Edom o’ GordonWas daunted by a dame.’

But when the lady saw the fireCome flaming owre her head,She wept, and kiss’d her children twain,Says, ‘Bairns, we been but dead.’

The Gordon then his bugle blew,And said, ‘Awa’, awa’!This house o’ the Rodes is a’ in a flame;I hauld it time to ga’.’

And this way lookit her ain dear lord,As he cam owre the lea;He saw his castle a’ in a lowe,As far as he could see.

Then sair, O sair, his mind misgave,And all his heart was wae:‘Put on, put on, my wighty men,Sae fast as ye can gae.

‘Put on, put on, my wighty men,Sae fast as ye can drie!For he that’s hindmost o’ the thrangSall ne’er get good o’ me.’

Then some they rade, and some they ran,Out-owre the grass and bent;But ere the foremost could win up,Baith lady and babes were brent.

And after the Gordon he is gane,Sae fast as he might drie;And soon i’ the Gordon’s foul heart’s bludeHe’s wroken his dear ladye.