The Ballad of Thomas the Rhymer

True Thomas lay on Huntleigh bank,

And he beheld a lady gay,

A lady that was brisk and bold,

Come riding o’er the ferny bray.

Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,

Her mantel of the velvet fine,

At every lock of her horse’s mane

Hung fifty silver bells and nine.

True Thomas he took off his hat,

And he bowed down upon his knee:

‘All hail, O Mary, thou Queen of Heaven!

For your peer on earth I never did see.’

‘O no, O no, True Thomas,’ she says,

‘That name does not belong to me;

For I’m but the queen of fair Elfland,

And I’ve come here for to visit thee.

But you must go with me now, Thomas,

True Thomas, you must go with me,

For you must serve me seven years,

Through well or woe as may chance to be.’

She turned about her milk-white steed,

And took True Thomas up behind,

And aye whene’er her bridle rang,

The steed flew swifter than the wind.

For forty days and forty nights

They rode through red blood up to the knee,

And they saw neither sun nor moon,

But heard the roaring of the sea.

O they rode on, and further on,

Until they came to a garden green:

‘Light down, light down, you lady free,

Some of that fruit let me pull for thee.’

‘O no, O no, True Thomas,’ she says,

‘That fruit must not be touched by thee,

For all of the plagues that are in hell

Fall upon the fruit of this country.

‘But I have a loaf here in my lap,

Likewise a bottle of claret wine,

And when we’ve gone farther on,

We’ll rest a while, and you may dine.’

When he’d eaten and drunk his fill,

The lady said, ‘Lay down your head upon my knee,

Ere we go and climb yon hill,

I will show you marvels three.

O, don’t you see yon narrow road,

So thickly beset with thorns and briars?

That is the path of righteousness,

Though after it but few enquire.

O, don’t you see that broad, broad road,

That lies across yon lily leaven?

That is the path of wickedness,

Though some call it the road to heaven.

And don’t you see that bonny broad road,

Which winds about the ferny bray?

That is the road to fair Elfland,

Where you and I this night must gae.

‘But Thomas, you must hold your tongue,

Whatever you may hear or see,

For if you should chance to speak a word,

You’ll never get back to your own country.’

He’s gotten a coat of the even cloth,

And a pair of shoes of velvet green,

Aye, till seven years were past and gone,

True Thomas on earth was never seen.