Anonymous: Child Waters

The DayPoems Poetry Collection
Timothy Bovee, editor
www.daypoems.net

Click on the bonsai for the next poem.

DayPoems Forum

Click to submit poems to DayPoems, comment on DayPoems or a poem within, comment on other poetry sites, update links, or simply get in touch. DayPoems Forum.

DayPoems Front

Poetry Whirl
Latest Poetry News

Indexes
Poems
Poets
Editor's poems
Poetry Places

Poetry Places
Passionate Performance MP3 Poetry
Benzetti - Benzpage
Crow Poetry
Welcome to the Darker Half
Martin, Shane - The Poet's Place
Meynardie, Cameron - Eternity

Nodes powered by

Open Directory Project at dmoz.org

DayPoems Favorites

PORT: An Online Visual Arts Journal
A Poet on a Magical Journey Home
Chronicles of a Sea Woman
Parallels Studio
Bipolar Poetry
Mantra.X
Poetry, Film and Books
Poetry Archive

Project Gutenberg, a huge collection of books as text, produced as a volunteer enterprise starting in 1990. This is the source of the first poetry placed on DayPoems.
Tina Blue's Beginner's Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading.
popomo.net, miniature, minimalist-inspired sculptures created from industrial cereamics, an art project at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon.
pink.popomo.net, More projects from Portland
oarena.net, Furby, Eliza, Mr_Friss and Miss_Friss.
Save Point 0.8.1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug. 13-Sept. 5, 2004, at Disjecta.

D
a
y
P
o
e
m
s
*
D
a
y
P
o
e
m
s
*
D
a
y
P
o
e
m
s
*
D
a
y
P
o
e
m
s
*
D
a
y
P
o
e
m
s
*
D
a
y
P
o
e
m
s
*
D
a
y
P
o
e
m
s

Won't you help support DayPoems?

Child Waters

By Anonymous

17th Century

I beg you bide at hame, Margaret,
An sew your silken seam;
If ye waur in wide Hielands,
Ye wald be owre far frae hame.
I winna bide at hame, she said,
Nor sew my silken seam;
For if I waur in the wide Hielands,
I wald no be owre far frae hame.
My steed sall drink the blude-red wine,
An you the water wan;
I'll mak you sigh, an say alace,
That ever I loed a man!
Though your steed does drink the blude-red wine,
And me the water wan,
Yet will I sing, an merry be,
That ever I loed a man.
My hounds shall eat the bread o wheat,
An you the bread o bran;
I'll mak you sigh, and say, alace,
That ever you loed Lord John!
Though your hounds do eat the bread o wheat,
And me the bread o bran,
Yet will I sing, an merrie be,
That ever I loed Lord John.
He turned aboot his high horse head,
And awa he was boun to ride;
She kilted up her green clieden,
An after him she gaed.
When they cam to that water
Whilk a' man ca the Clyde,
He turned aboot his high horse head,
Said, Ladie, will you ride?
I learnt it in my mother's bour,
I wish I had learnt it weel,
That I could swim this wan water
As weel as fish or eel.
Whan at the middle o that water,
She sat doon on a stone;
He turned aboot his high horse head,
Says, Ladie, will ye loup on?
I learnt in my mother's bour,
I wish I had learnt it better,
That I could swim this wan water
As weel as eel or otter.
He has taen the narrow ford,
And she had taen the wide;
Lang, lang ere he was at the middle,
She was sittin at the ither side.
Wi sighen said that Fair Margaret,
Alace, I'm far frae hame!
'Hoo mony miles is't to your castle?
Noo Lord John, tell to me;
Hoo mony miles is't to my castle?
It's thirty miles and three:
Wi sighen said that Fair Margaret,
It'll never be gane by me!
But up it spak the wily bird,
As it sat on the tree,
Rin on, rin on noo, Fair Margaret,
It scarcely miles is three.
Whan they cam to the wide Hielands,
And lichted on the green,
Every an spa Erse to anither,
But Margaret she spa nane.
Whan they waur at the table set,
An birlin at best,
Margaret set at a bye-table
And fain she wald hain rest.
Oh mither, mither, mak my bed,
Wi clean blankets an sheets,
An lay my futeboy at my feet,
The sounder I may sleep.
She has made Lord John his bed,
Wi clean blankets and sheets,
And laid his futeboy at his feet,
But neer a wink culd he sleep.
Win up, win up noo, Fair Margaret,
An see that my steed has meat;
See that his corn is in his travisse,
Nor lying amang his feet.
Slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly put she on,
An slowly gaed she doon the stair,
Aye makin a heavy moan.
An asken, an asken, gude Lord John,
I pray you grant it me;
For the warst bed in a' your hoose,
To your young son an me.
Your asken is but sma, Margaret,
Sune grantet it shall be;
For the best bed in a' my hoose,
Is owre little for thee.
An asken, an asken, gude Lord John,
I pray you grant it me;
For the warst ale in a' your hoose,
That ye wald gie to me.
Your asken is but sma, Margaret,
Sune grantet it sall be;
For the best wine in a' my hoose
Is owre little for thee.
But cheer up your heart noo, Fair Margaret,
For, be it as it may,
Your kirken an your fair weddin
Sall baith be on one day.

Back to top

DayPoems Poem No. 2507

Comment on DayPoems?

If you are like us, you have strong feelings about poetry, and about each poem you read. Let it all out! Comment on this poem, any poem, DayPoems, other poetry places or the art of poetry at DayPoems Feedback.

Won't you help support DayPoems?

Click here to learn more about how you can keep DayPoems on the Web . . .

Copyright

The authors of poetry and other material appearing on DayPoems retain full rights to their work. Any requests for publication in other venues must be negotiated separately with the authors. The editor of DayPoems will gladly attempt to assist in putting interested parties in contact with the authors.

Support DayPoems.

Buy your books here

Latest Chapbooks from Powells!!!

Bonsai courtesy of
The Online Bonsai Icon Collection
http://www.hav.com/tobic.html