Our version of this excellent story, and indeed all the other Scots sets of the ballad that we know of, is derived from Glasgerion, which Percy included in his 'Reliques' (1765). In The House of Fame, Chaucer has 'the gret Glascurion seated along with Orpheus, Orion, Chiron and other harpers many oon'. A more direct descent may be from the Welsh bard Glas Keraint, an eminent poet who was the son of Owain, Prince of Glamorgan.
lyrics
Glenkindie was a harper guid
He harpit tae the King.
Glenkindie was the best harper
That ever harped on a string.
He could harpit a fish oot o' saut water
Or water oot o' a stane;
He could harpit the milk fae a maiden's breist
Whe ne'er gied souk tae wean.
He's harpit in the King's castle,
He's harpit them a' asleep;
A' but the bonnie young countess
Wha love did wauken keep.
First he harpit a dowie air
And syne he harpit a gay;
And mony a sigh between the hands
I wat the lady gie.
When day is dawen and cocks are crawin'
And wappit their wings sae wide;
It's ye may come unto my bower
And lie doon by my side.
But mind that ye tell na Jock, your man,
Whatever that ye dee!
For if an ye tell Jock, your man,
He'll beguile baith you and me.
He's ta'en his harp intil his hand
He harpit and he sang;
And he is hame tae Jock, his man,
As fast as he can gang.
I think that I could tell ye, Jock,
Gin I a man had slain;
Ay, that ye micht, my maister dear,
Although ye had slain ten.
When day is dawen and cock hae crawin',
And wappit their wings sae wide,
I'm bidden to yon lady's bower
Tae lie doon by her side.
Then harken weel noo, Jock my man,
And tak' tent whit I say!
Gin ye dinna wauken me in time,
High hangit ye shall be.
Then gang tae your bed, my maister dear,
I fear ye've waked ower lang,
I'll wauken ye in as guid time
As any cock in the land.
Jock's ta'en his harp intil his hand
He harpit and he sang;
Until Glenkindie laid him doon
And fast asleep did gang.
Then he has gane tae the lady's bower
As fast as he could rin;
And when he ca' tae the bower door,
He tirled at the pin.
O, wha is this, the lady cried
That tirls at the pin?
Wha but Glenkindie, your ain true love?
O, rise and let me in.
She kent he was nae gently knicht
That she had letten in;
For neither when he came or went
Kissed he her cheek nor chin.
He neither kissed her when he cam'
Nor clappit her when he gaed;
And in and at her bower window
The moon shone like a gleid
O, ragged is your hose, Glenkindie,
Riven are uour sheen;
A' raivelled is your yellow hair
That I saw late yestreen.
The stockings they are Jock, my man's,
Cam' first intae my hand;
The sheen as well belong tae him,
At my bed-foot they stand;
And I raivelled a' my yellow hair
Wi' rinnin against the wind.
He's ta'en his harp intil his hand,
He harpit and he sang,
And he's awa' tae his maister dear,
As fast as he could gang.
C'wa, c'wa, my maister dear,
I fear ye sleep ower lang.
There's no' a cock in a' the land
But had wappit his wings and crawn.
Glenkindie's ta'en his harp in hand,
He harpit and he sang;
And when he cam' to the lady's bower
He chappit wi' his hand.
He chappit at the lady's bower
And tirled at the pin;
Rise up, rise up, my bonnie may,
O rise, and let me in!
O, wha is that at my bower door
That tirls at the pin?
Wha but Glenkindie, your ain true love?
O, rise and let me in.
O, hae ye left behind wi' me
Your harp or else your glove?
Or are ye come to me again
To ken mair o' my love?
Glenkindie swore a muckle oath
By airn, by oak, by thorn,
I was never in your chamber, lass,
Frae the day that I was born.
Then God forbit, the lady cried,
Sic shame should e'er betide,
That I should first be a wild loon's thing
And then a young knicht's bride.
Then she has ta'en her wee penknife
That hung doon by her gair,
My body's kent a man this nicht
But it shall ken nae mair.
Glenkindie's rode up yon high hill
As fast as he could gae,
C'wa, c'wa, noo, Jock, my man,
And I will pay your fee.
Then he has ta'en him, Jock his man,
And hangit him fu' high;
He's hangit him ower his ain yett
As high as high could be.
He's ta'en his harp intil his hand
Saw sweetly as it rang;
But wae and weary was to hear
Glenkindie's dowie sang.
His lady she was cauld and deid
And didna hear his mane;
And gin he harps till doomisday,
She'll never hear him again.
This site is maintained by the MacColl family, aiming to make Ewan's catalogue available to download.
Ewan MacColl is
known to most as a songwriter and singer, but he was also of significant influence in the worlds of theatre and radio broadcasting. His art reached huge numbers through the folk clubs, greater numbers through his recordings and untold millions through the radio....more
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