Chylde Owlet

Lady Erskine sits in her bower

A sewing her silken seam

A bonnie sark for Chylde Owlet

As he gangs oot and in

His face was fair, lang was his hair

She's ca'd him to come nigh

Oh ye maun cuckold Lord Ronald

For a' his lands and kye

Oh lady, hold your tongue for shame

That such a thing e'er be done

How could I cuckold Lord Ronald

And me his sister's son

Then she's ta'en oot a wee penknife

That lay beside her bed

And pricked hersel below her breist

Which made her body bleed

Lord Ronald's come into her bower

Whaur she did mak' her mane

Oh, wha's is a' this blood, he says

That sparks on your hearth stane?

Young Chylde Owlet, your sister's son

Is new gane frae my bower

Gin I hadnae been a good woman

I'd hae been Chylde Owlet's whore

Then he has ta'en young Chylde Owlet

Cast him in prison strang

And a his men a council held

To work Chylde Owlet wrang

Some said Chylde Owlet should be hung

Some said that he should burn

Some said they would hae Chylde Owlet

Between wild horses torn

There are horses in my stable stand

Can rin richt speedily

It's ye maun tae my stable gang

And wile oot four far me

They've put a horse to ilka foot

and ain tae ilka hand

And sent them oot ower Elkin Moor

As fast as they could gang

There wasnae grass nor heather knowe

Nor broom nor bonnie whin

But drappit wi' Chylde Owlet's blood

And pieces o' his skin

There wasnae stane on Elkin Moor

Nor yet a piece o' rush

But drappit wi' Chylde Owlet's blood