"And go to the back of Maitland town, Bring me my winding sheet; For it's at the back of Maitland town That you and I shall meet."
O the broom, the bonny, bonny broom, 85 The broom that makes full sore, A woman's mercy is very little, But a man's mercy is more.
From Hume's _Sir Hugh of Lincoln_, p. 35; obtained from recitation, in Ireland.
'Twas on a summer's morning, Some scholars were playing at ball; When out came the Jew's daughter And lean'd her back against the wall.
She said unto the fairest boy, 5 "Come here to me, Sir Hugh." "No! I will not," said he, "Without my playfellows too."
She took an apple out of her pocket, And trundled it along the plain; 10 And who was readiest to lift it, Was little Sir Hugh, again.
She took him by the milk-white han', An' led him through many a hall, Until they came to one stone chamber, 15 Where no man might hear his call.
She sat him in a goolden chair, And jagg'd him with a pin; And called for a goolden cup To houl' his heart's blood in. 20
She tuk him by the yellow hair, An' also by the feet; An' she threw him in the deep draw well, It was fifty fadom deep.
Day bein' over, the night came on, 25 And the scholars all went home; Then every mother had her son, But little Sir Hugh's had none.
She put her mantle about her head, Tuk a little rod in her han', 30 An' she says, "Sir Hugh, if I fin' you here, I will bate you for stayin' so long."
First she went to the Jew's door, But they were fast asleep; An' then she went to the deep draw-well, 35 That was fifty fadom deep.
She says, "Sir Hugh, if you be here, As I suppose you be, If ever the dead or quick arose, Arise and spake to me." 40
Yes, mother dear, I am here, I know I have staid very long; But a little penknife was stuck in my heart, Till the stream ran down full strong.
And mother dear, when you go home, 45 Tell my playfellows all, That I lost my life by leaving them When playing that game of ball.
And ere another day is gone, My winding-sheet prepare, 50 And bury me in the green churchyard Where the flowers are bloomin' fair.
Lay my Bible at my head, My testament at my feet; The earth and worms shall be my bed, 55 Till Christ and I shall meet.
From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 1.