6.1

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 mazer 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 lemmán.

O bide at hame, now lord Barnárd,
I warde ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,
That neir wate ze wi' nane.

Gill Morice sate in gude grene wode,
He whistled and he sang :

O what mean a' the folk comíng,
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.

His brow was like the mountain ṣnae
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 inavis on the bush,
He gart the vallies ring.]

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.]

Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,

My lady loed thee weel,

The fairest part of my bodie

Is blacker than thy heel.

Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice,
For a' thy great beautie,
Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
That head sall wi' me.
gae

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 castle 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 lands,
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 Moríce
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 now I gae about thy grave,
The saut tears for to weip.

And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
And syne his bluidy chin:

O better I loe my Gill Morice
Than a' my kith and kin!
Away, away, ze ill womán,

And an il deith mait ze dee:

Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,

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 Gil Morice head
Thy jelous rage could quell,
Let that saim hand now tak hir life,
That neir to thee did ill.

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.
Enouch 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.

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' silk speid,
The comely zouth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gil Morice,
As gin he were mine ain;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day

On which the zouth was slain.

King Malcolm and Sir Colbin.

[From Buchan's Ancient Ballads and Songs, &c.']

THERE ance liv'd a king in fair Scotland,
King Malcolm called by name;
Whom ancient history gives record,
For valour, worth, and fame.

And it fell ance upon a day,

The king sat down to dine;

And then he miss'd a favourite knight,
Whose name was Sir Colvin.

But out it speaks another knight,
Ane o' Sir Colvin's kin;
'He's lyin' in bed right sick in love,
All for your daughter Jean.'

'O waes me,' said the royal king,
'I'm sorry for the same;

She maun take bread and wine sae red,
Give it to Sir Colvin.'

Then gently did she bear the bread,

Her page did carry the wine;

And set a table at his bed,

'Sir Colvin, rise and dine."

'O well love I the wine, lady,

Come frae your lovely hand;
But better I love your fair body,

Than all fair Scotland's strand.'

"O hold your tongue now, Sir Colvin,
Let all your folly be;

My love must be by honour won,
Or nane shall enjoy me.

But on the head o' Elrick's hill,

Near by yon sharp hawthorn,

Where never a man with life e'er came

Sin' our sweet Christ was born;

O ye'll gang there and walk a' night,
And boldly blaw your horn;
With honour that ye do return,
Ye'll marry me the morn.'

Then up it raise him, Sir Colvin,
And dress'd in armour keen;
And he is on to Elrick s hill,
Without light o' the meen.

At midnight mark the meen upstarts,
The knight walk'd up and down;
While loudest cracks o' thunder roar'd,
Out ower the bent sae brown.

Then by the twinkling of an e'e,
He spied an armed knight;
A fair lady bearing his brand,
Wi' torches burning bright.

Then he cried high as he came nigh,
'Coward, thief, I bid you flee!
There is not ane comes to this hill,
But must engage wi' me.

Ye'll best take road before I come,
And best take foot and flee;

Here is a sword baith sharp and broad,

Will quarter you in three.'

Sir Colvin said, 'I'm not afraid
Of any here I see;

You ha'e not ta'en your God before,
Less dread ha'e I o' thee.'

Sir Colvin then he drew his sword,
His foe he drew his brand;

And they fought there on Elrick's hill
Till they were bluidy men.

The first an' stroke the knight he strake, Ga'e Colvin a slight wound;

The next an' stroke Lord Colvin strake, Brought's foe unto the ground.

'I yield, I yield,' the knight he said, I fairly yield to thee;

Nae ane came e'er to Elrick-hill

E'er gain'd such victorie.