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The Hunter

Popular with: Athral Isle, Tarsikka, Principalities, Oresund
Unpopular with: None
Less known by: Akathia, Gaunt
Archtypes, if any: Any, Warrior in particular
Variations, if any: NA

‘O WHERE ha you been, Lord Bonn, my son?
And where ha you been, my handsome young man?’
‘I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.’
‘An what met ye there, Lord Bonn, my son?
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?’
‘O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi huntin, an fain wad lie down.’
‘And what did she give you, Lord Bonn, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?’
‘Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.’
‘And wha gat your leavins, Lord Bonn, my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?’
‘My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.’
d what becam of them, Lord Bonn, my son?
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?’
‘They stretched their legs out an died; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.’
‘O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Bonn, my son!
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!’
‘O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.’
‘What d’ye leave to your mother, Lord Bonn, my son?
What d’ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?’
‘Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.’
‘What d’ye leave to your sister, Lord Bonn, my son?
What d’ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?’
‘My gold and my silver; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down.’
‘What d’ye leave to your brother, Lord Bonn, my son?
What d’ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?’
‘My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.’
‘What d’ye leave to your true-love, Lord Bonn, my son?
What d’ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?’
‘I leave her death and fire; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.’