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The Trumpeter of Fyvie

From events that happened in the 17th century.
Andrew Lammie was trumpeter to Lord Fyvie.
Lord Fyvie's castle was near the mill of Tiftie.
Tune from Perthshire.

    At Fyvie's gates there grows a flower
    It grows both broad and bonny
    A daisy in the midst of it
    Its name is Andrew Lammie.

    O gin that flower were in my breast
    For the love I bear the laddie
    So blithe and merry I would be
    And kiss my Andrew Lammie.

    Love, I must go to Edinburgh
    Love, I must go and leave thee
    She sighed full sore and said no more
    But o gin I were with thee.

    I shall be true and trusty too
    As I am Tiftie's Annie
    That I'll kiss neither lad nor loon
    Till you return to Fyvie.

    I will buy you a wedding gown
    My love, I'll buy it bonny;
    But I'll be dead ere you come back
    My bonny Andrew Lammie.

    I will buy you brave bridal shoes
    My love, I'll buy them bonny;
    But my bridal bed ere then will be made
    In the green churchyard of Fyvie.

    Love dwines away, love pines away
    And love decays my body
    And love crept in at my bed-foot
    And took possession of me.

    Her father beat her cruelly
    So also did her mother
    Her sister sore did scoff at her
    But woe be to her brother.

    Her brother struck her wondrous sore
    Till his strokes they were not canny
    And he broke her back in yon hall-door
    For liking Andrew Lammie.

    O make my bed and lay me down
    And turn my face to Fyvie
    It's there I'll lie until I die
    For loving Andrew Lammie.

    Syne he's come back from Edinburgh
    To the bonny house of Fyvie
    And aye his face to the north-east
    To look for Tiftie's Annie.

    I have a love in Edinburgh
    So have I into Leith, man
    I have a love into Montrose
    So have I in Dalkeith, man.

    And east and west where'er I go
    My love she's always with me
    For east and west where'er I go
    My love she dwells in Fyvie.

    O Andrew's gone to the house-top
    Of the bonny house of Fyvie
    He's blown his horn both loud and shrill
    O'er the lowland leas of Fyvie.

    It's many a time I have walked all night
    And never yet was weary
    But now it's I must walk alone
    For I'll never see my deary.

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