Our set of this ballad is from Newfoundland. It is a simplification of a story found throughout northern Europe. The Scots and Scandinavian versions and analogues are more complex than ours, involving the girl's death (she often embraces the corpse and enters the grave with him), the cock crowing, long interrogations as to the nature of heaven and hell. The surviving motifs central to all these ballads is very clear: that love is strong enough to pull the dead back from the grave and that the dead may not sleep peacefully until a wrong done to the living has been righted.
lyrics
Lady Margaret sitting in her own lone home
Alone, O all alone,
When she thought she heard a dismal cry,
She heard a deadly moan.
Is it my father Thomas, she said,
Or is it my brother John?
Or is it my love, my own dear Willie
Come home to me again?
I am not your father Thomas, he said,
Nor am I your brother John;
But I am your love, your own dear Willie
Come home to you again.
Then where are the red and rosy cheeks
That even in winter bloom?
And where are the long and yellow hair
Of the love I lost too soon?
The ground have rotten them off, my dear,
For the worms are quick and free;
And when you're so long lying in your grave
The same will happen thee.
He took her by her lily-white hand
And begged her company;
He took her by her apron band
Says, Follow, follow me.
She took her underskirts one by one
And wrapped them above her knee,
And she's over the hills on a winters night
In a dead man's company.
They walked, they walked to the old churchyard
Where the grass grow grassy green;
Here's the home where I live now
The bed I do lie in.
Is there any room at your head, my love,
Is there any room at your feet?
Is there any room about you at all
For me to lie down and sleep?
My father is at my head, dear girl,
My mother is at my feet.
Upon my heart are three hell-hounds
Bound my soul to keep.
One is for my drunkenness
And another is for my pride,
And one is for promising a pretty fair girl
That she should be my bride.
She took the cross from all on her bosom
And smoted him on the breast,
Here's your token I kept so long
God send you a happy rest.
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight, my love,
Farewell, dear girl, said he;
If ever the dead may pray for the living
My love, I'll pray for thee.
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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