Poetry Friday: MRI edition (Lord Randall)

I have discovered yet another very good reason to memorize poetry: it helps you stay still during an MRI. I had the procedure done on Wednesday night and don't know what the results are, but I do know that trying to remember all the ballad lyrics I could muster helped to keep me from going nuts while I couldn't move and had weird laser-gun noises and vibrations focused on my head. (Those of you who've had MRIs before, was it just me, or did you have some portion of your body start to move involuntarily and have to concentrate very hard to keep it from jumping around? My feet and legs really did not want to stay still about halfway through.)

Here's one of the ballads I was thinking about:

Lord Randall

Oh, where have you been,
Lord Randall, my son?
Oh, where have you been,
my handsome young man?

I have been to the wildwood.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm weary with hunting,
and I fain would lie down.

Where'd you get your dinner,
Lord Randall, my son?
Where'd you get your dinner,
my handsome young man?

Oh, I dined with my true love.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm weary with hunting,
and I fain would lie down.

And what did she give you,
Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you,
my handsome young man?

I had eels boiled in broth.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm weary with hunting,
and I fain would lie down.

What became of your bloodhounds,
Lord Randall, my son?
What became of your bloodhounds,
my handsome young man?

Well, they swelled and they died.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm weary with hunting
and I fain would lie down.

Oh, I fear you are poisoned,
Lord Randall, my son,
Oh, I fear you are poisoned,
my handsome young man.

Oh, yes I am poisoned.
Mother make my bed soon,
for I'm sick at my heart,
and I fain would lie down.

What'll you leave your old father,
Lord Randall, my son?
What'll you leave your old father,
my handsome young man?

My castles and lands.
Mother, make my bed soon,
for I'm sick at my heart,
and I fain would lie down.

What'll you leave your old mother,
Lord Randall, my son?
What'll you leave your old mother,
my handsome young man?

My silver and gold.
Mother make my bed soon,
for I'm sick at my heart,
and I fain would lie down.

What'll you leave your own true love,
Lord Randall, my son?
What'll you leave your own true love,
my handsome young man?

Oh, I leave her hellfire!
Mother, make my bed soon,
for it's now I'm a-dyin',
and I got to lie down.

If this gruesome little ditty (oh, how I love those murder ballads!) reminds you of something, that may be because Bob Dylan's "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall" is a kind of satirical homage to it.