Eighteen Lang Years- McLeod (Dumfries) 1906
[This is a rare traditional version of The Whummil Bore collected in the month of December, 1906, from Mrs. McLeod of Dumfries, Scotland, when she was on a visit to her relatives at Lake Mills, Wisconsin. Even though it was collected in the US Mrs. McLeod was a resident of Scotalnd and learned it there.]
From: Some New Ballad Variants
by Arthur Beatty
The Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 20, No. 77 (Apr. - Jun., 1907), pp. 154-156
THE four ballad variants here printed for the first time were collected in the month of December, 1906, from Mrs. McLeod of Dumfries, Scotland, when she was on a visit to her relatives at Lake Mills, Wisconsin. The versions are undoubtedly traditional, as the reciter could not read or write, nor could her parents before her. She said that she had learned the ballads from her parents, but that she was not always sure of the words in particular cases.
All four are readily classified as variants of ballads already printed in F. J. Child's " English and Scottish Popular Ballads." I is a new version of Child, No. 26 ("The Three Ravens," and "The Twa Corbies"); II is Child, No. 27 (" The Whummil Bore"); III is the first intelligible version known to me of Child, No. 40 ("The Queen of Elfan's Nourice"); and IV is a variant of Child, No. i8i ("The Bonny Earl of Murray").
The collector of these variants, Mr. Claude H. Eldred, an undergraduate of the University of Wisconsin, deserves great praise for the pains and tact necessary for the accomplishment of his task in so thorough a manner.
WHUMMIL BORE- CHILD, NO. 27.
Eighteen lang years hae I sarved the king,
Fa la limpy fa, dilly down day,
And my ee on his daughter but once did I fling,
Wi' leedle do, willy am, tally down day.
I saw her that once through the needle's sma ee,
An' glad that I am that she dinna see me.
Her maids were a-wrapping her up in a plaid:
I canna tell why, but she looked verra sad.
A little brown tike was a-biting her shoon,
But the maids they will drive him away from her soon.
With a comb she was combing her bright golden hair,
Her comb it was silver, her hands they were fair.
The rings on her hands, they were bright in the sun,
An' I would be happy if I had but one.
Her bosom was white as a moor under snow,
But more of this lady I never can know.