CXII Sweet William’s Ghost
There came a ghost to Margaret’s door,
With many a grievous groan,
And aye he tirled at the pin,
But answer made she none.
‘Is that my father Philip,
Or is’t my brother John?
Or is’t my true love Willy,
From Scotland new come home?’
‘’Tis not thy father Philip,
Nor yet thy brother John;
But ’tis thy true love Willy,
From Scotland new come home.
‘O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret,
I pray thee speak to me:
Give me my faith and troth, Margaret,
As I gave it to thee.’
‘Thy faith and troth thou’lt never get,
Nor yet wilt thou me win,
Till that thou come within my bower
And kiss my cheek and chin.’
‘If I should come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man:
And should I kiss thy rosy lips
Thy days would not be lang.
‘O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret,
I pray thee speak to me:
Give me my faith and troth, Margaret,
As I gave it to thee.’
‘Thy faith and troth thou’lt never get,
Nor yet wilt thou me win,
Till you take me to yon kirk-yard,
And wed me with a ring.’
‘My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard
Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my spirit, Margaret,
That’s now speaking to thee.’
She stretched out her lily-white hand,
And for to do her best:
‘Have there your faith and troth, Willy,
God send your soul good rest.’
Now she has kilted her robes of green
A piece below her knee;
And all the live-long winter night
The dead corpse followed she.
‘Is there any room at your head, Willy,
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willy,
Wherein that I may creep?’
‘There’s no room at my head, Margaret,
There’s no room at my feet;
There’s no room at my side, Margaret,
My coffin’s made so meet.’
Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up then crew the grey;
‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Margaret,
That you were going away.’
Old Ballad