The Trumpeter of Fyvie

Child  #233 (Andrew Lammie)  5:44   V, OM & NS.

A dark domestic tragedy based, allegedly, on true events occurring in 17th century Scotland. Andrew Lammie is Lord Fyvie’ s trumpeter, not of sufficiently high social standing to wed his daughter. The couple fall in love, with tragic consequences when Andrew is forced to leave her alone to the tender mercies of her family.

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 ye

“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’ll 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’ll buy you brave bridal shoes
My love, I’ll buy them bonny.”
“But my bridal bed ere then’ll 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

For her brother struck her wondrous sore
Till his strokes they were not canny
And he’s 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.”

Now he’s come back from Edinburgh
To the bonny house of Fyvie
And aye he’s turned his face 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 high house-top
Of the bonny house of  Fyvie
And he’s blown his horn both loud and shrill
O’er the lowland leas of  Fyvie

“It’s many a time I’ve walked all night
And never yet felt weary
But now I must walk all alone
For I’ll never more see my deary.”