Word is to the kitchen gone, and word is to the hall,
and word is up to Madam the Queen, and that's the worst of all.
That Mary Hamilton's born a babe to the highest steward of all.
Arise, arise, Mary Hamilton, arise and tell to me
what thou hast done with thy wee babe I saw and heard weep by thee.
I put him in a tiny boat and cast him out to sea,
that he might sink or he might swim, but he'd never come back to me.
Arise, arise, Mary Hamilton, arise and come with me.
There is a wedding in Glasgow town, this night we'll go and see.
She put not on her robes of black nor her robes of brown,
but she put on her robes of white to ride into Glasgow town.
There she rode into Glasgow town, the city poor to see.
The bailiff's wife and the provost's wife cried out and alas for thee.
Ah, you need not weep for me, she cried, you need not weep for me,
for had I not slain my own wee babe, this death I would not live.
Ah, little did my mother think when first she cradled me,
the lands I was to travel in and the death I was to dee.
Last night I washed the queen's feet and put the gold in her hair,
and the only reward I find for this, the gallows to be my share.
Cast off, cast off my gown, she cried, but let my petticoat be,
and tie a napkin round my face, the gallows I would not see.
Then by and come the king himself, looked up with a pitiful eye,
come down, come down Mary Hamilton, tonight you dine with me.
Ah, hold your tongue, my sovereign liege, and let your folly be,
for if you'd a mind to save my life, you'd never have shamed me here.
Last night there were four Marys, tonight there'll be but three,
there was Mary Beaton and Mary Seton and Mary Carmichael and me.