Luyện nghe bài hát Chylde Owlet

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