The Mudcat Café TM
Thread #14056   Message #119198
Posted By: Lesley N.
30-Sep-99 - 12:21 AM
Thread Name: Tune Req: The Women Are Worse than the Men
Subject: Lyr Add: KELLYBURNBRAES (from 1877)
This isn't that particular version, but they might be interested in an 1877 version of KELLYBURNBRAES. The words are a bit different than the ones in the database so here they are:

Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
He met wi' the de'il, says 'How do ye fen?'
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

'I've got a bad wife, sir, that's a' my complaint,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
For, saving your presence, to her you're a saint.'
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

'It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have.'
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

'O welcome, most kindly,' the blythe earl said,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
'But if ye can match her ye're waur than ye're ca'd.'
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The de'il has got the auld wife on his back,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
And like a poor pedlar he's carried his pack.
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

He's carried her hame, where the pick o' his band
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand.
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The carlin gaed thro' them like any wud bear,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
Whae'er she got hands on cam' near her nae mair.
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The de'il he swore by the edge of his knife,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
He pitied the man that was tyed to a wife.
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Satan has travelled again wi' his pack,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
And to her auld husband he's carried her back.
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

'A de'il I hae been for the feck o' my life,
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,
But ne'er was in torments till I met wi' your wife.'
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.


A midi of it is at Kellyburnbraes (http://www.contemplator.com/child/kellybrn.html).