Kellyburn Braes lyrics

Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

He met wi' the de'il, says 'How do ye fen?'

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

'I've got a bad wife, sir, that's a' my complaint,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

For, saving your presence, to her you're a saint.'

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

'It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have.'

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

'Ο welcome, most kindly,' the blythe carl said,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

'But if ye can match her ye're waur than ye're ca'd.'

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

The de'il has got the auld wife on his back,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

And like a poor pedlar he's carried his pack.

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

Now he's ta'en her hame to his ain reeky den.

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

To its blackeft nook he has carried her ben.

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand,

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

The carlin gaed thro' them like any wud bear,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

Whae'er she got hands on cam' near her nae mair.

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

A reekit wee deevil looks over the wa'

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

'O help, maister, help, or she'll ruin us a'! '

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

Auld Sootie then swore by the edge of his knife,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

He pitied the man that was tyed to a wife.

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

'A de'il I hae been for the feck o' my life,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

But ne'er was in torments till I met wi' your wife.'

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

The de'il has travelled again wi' his pack,

Hey and the rue grows bonny with thyme

And to her auld husband he's carried her back.

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime

• Artist:Irish/Scottish/Celtic Folk