Luyện nghe bài hát Chylde Owlet

CHYLDE
Lady sits in her bower
A sewing her silken
A sark for Chylde Owlet
As he oot and in
His face was fair, was his hair
She's ca'd him to come
Oh ye maun cuckold Lord
For a' his and kye
Oh lady, hold tongue for shame
That such a e'er be done
How could I Lord Ronald
And me his son
Then she's oot a wee penknife
lay beside her bed
And pricked hersel below her
Which made her body
Lord Ronald's into her bower
she did mak' her mane
Oh, wha's is a' blood, he says
That sparks on your stane?
Young Owlet, your sister's son
Is new gane frae my
Gin I hadnae a good woman
I'd hae been Chylde Owlet's
he has ta'en young Chylde Owlet
Cast him in strang
And a his men a held
To work Chylde wrang
said Chylde Owlet should be hung
Some said that he burn
said they would hae Chylde Owlet
Between wild torn
There are in my stable stand
Can rin speedily
It's ye maun tae my stable
And wile oot far me
They've put a horse to ilka
and ain tae hand
And them oot ower Elkin Moor
As fast as could gang
There wasnae grass nor heather
Nor broom nor whin
But wi' Chylde Owlet's blood
And pieces o' his
There wasnae stane on Moor
Nor yet a o' rush
But drappit wi' Owlet's blood
And o' his flesh
#291
recorded by Peggy and Ewan MacColl on Blood & Roses
CHDOWLET
SF
===DOCUMENT