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45

As ze will see before its nicht,

How sma' ze hae to vaunt.

50

And sen I maun zour errand rin

Sae sair against my will,
I'se make a vow and keip it trow,

It sall be done for ill.
And quhen he came to broken brigue,

He bent his bow and swam:
And quhen he came to grass growing,

Set down his feet and ran.

55

And quhen he came to Barnards ha',

Would neither chap nor ca':
Bot set his bent bow to his breist,

And lichtly lap the wa'.
He wauld nae tell the man bis errand,

Though he stude at the gait;
Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,

Quhair they were set at meit.

60

65

Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!

My message winna waite;
Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod

Before that it be late.
Ze're bidden tak this gay mantèl,

Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,

Ev'n by your sel alane.
And there it is, a silken sarke,

Your ain hand sewd the sleive;
Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice:

Speir nae bauld barons leave. The lady stamped wi' bir foot,

And winked wi' her ee;

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75

V. 58. Could this be the wall of the castle?

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95

Then up and spack the bauld baròn,

An angry man was hee;
He's tain the table wi' his foot,

Sae has he wi' his knee;
Till siller cup and mazeri' dish

In flinders he gard flee.
Gae bring a robe of zour cliding,

That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,

And speik wi' zour lemmàn.
O bide at hame, now lord Barnard,

I warde ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,

That neir wate ze wi' nane.

100

Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,

He whistled and he sang:

105

V. 88, perhaps, loud say I heire.

1 i. e. a drinking cup of maple; other edit. read egar.

O what mean a' the folk coming,

My mother tarries lang.
His hair was like the threeds of gold,

Drawne frae Minerva's loome:
His lipps like roses drapping dew,

His breath was a' perfume.

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115

His browe was like the mountain snae

Gilt by the morning beam:
His cheeks like living roses glow:

His een like azure stream.
The boy was clad in robes of grene,

Sweete as the infant spring:
And like the mavis on the bush,

He gart the vallies ring.

120

The baron came to the grene wode,

Wi' mickle dule and care,
And there he first spied Gill Morice,

Kameing his zellow hair,
That sweetly wavd around his face,

That face beyond compare:
He sang sae sweet it might dispel

A'rage but fell despair.

125

130

of my

Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,

My lady loed thee weel,
The fairest part

bodie
Is blacker than thy heel.
Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice,

For a' thy great beautiè,
Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;

That head sall gae wi' me.

135

V. 128.

So Milton,

Vernal delight and joy: able to drive
All sadness but despair.

B. iv. v. 155.

140

145

150

Now he has drawn his trusty brand,

And slaited on the strae;
And thro' Gill Morice' fair body

He's gar cauld iron gae.
And he has tain Gill Morice' head

And set it on a speir;
The meanest man in a' his train

Has gotten that head to bear.
And he has tain Gill Morice up,

Laid him across his steid,
And brocht him to his painted bowr,

And laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castil wa',

Beheld baith dale and doun;
And there she saw Gill Morice' head

Cum trailing to the toun.
Far better I loe that bluidy head,

Both and that zellow hair,
Than lord Barnard, and a' his lads,

As they lig here and thair.
And she has tain her Gill Morice,

And kissd baith mouth and chin:
I was once as fow of Gill Morrice,

As the hip is o' the stean.
I got ze in my father's house,

Wi' mickle sin and shame;
I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,

Under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,

And fondly seen thee sleip;
But

I
gae

about thy grave,
The saut tears for to weip.
And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,

And syne his bluidy chin:

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155

160

165

now

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175

O better I loe my Gill Morice

Than a' my kith and kin! Away, away, ze ill womàn,

And an il deith mait ze dee: Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,

He'd neir bin slain for mee.
Obraid me not, my lord Barnard !

Obraid me not for shame!
Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart!

And put me out o' pain.
Since nothing bot Gill Morice head

Thy jelous rage could quell,
Let that saim hand now tak hir life,

That neir to thee did ill.

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To me nae after days nor nichts

Will eir be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,

And greet till I am blind.
Enough of blood by me's bin spilt,

Seek not zour death frae me;
I rather lourd it had been my sel

Than eather him or thee.

190

195

With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;

Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand of mine

Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,

Ze neir can heal the wound;
Ze see his head upon the speir,

His heart's blude on the ground. I curse the hand that did the deid,

The heart that thocht the ill; The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,

The comely zouth to kill

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