O they rode on, and on they rode, And all by the light of the moon, Get up, get up, lady mother, he says, Get up, get up, lady mother, he says, For this night my fair Lady I have won. O make my bed, lady mother, he says, And lay Lady Margaret close at my back, Lord William was dead lang ere midnight Lady Margaret, long ere day: And all true lovers that go together, May they have more luck than they! Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk, Out of the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And they two met, and they two plait, And all the world might ken right well, But bye and rade the black Douglas, JAMIESON. THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. O WALY, waly, my gay goss-hawk, O have ye tint at tournament I have not tint at tournament My sword, nor yet my spear; But sore I mourn for my true love, With many a bitter tear. But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, Ye shall carry a letter to my true love, But how shall I your true love find, I bear a tongue ne'er with her spake, * But. O weel shall ye my true love ken, For, of all the flowers of fair England, The red that's on my true love's cheek And even at my love's bower door And four-and-twenty fair ladies. But well may ye my true love ken, The fairest lady there. Lord William has written a love letter, And even at that lady's bower There grew a flowering birk; And when he kent that lady fair Among her maidens free ; For the flower that springs in May morning Was never so fair as she; He lighted at that lady's gate, And sat him on a pin; And sang full sweet the notes of love, Till all was still within. K And first he sung a low, low note, Feast on, feast on, my maidens all, Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, O, first he sang a merry song, Hae there a letter from Lord William ; Go bid him bake his bridal bread, And I shall meet him at Mary's kirk, The lady is gone to her chamber, And a mournful woman was she ; As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash, A boon! a boon! my father dear, But for your honest asking else, And the first Kirk that ye come to, And when ye come to St. Mary's kirk, She's ta'en her to her bigly bower, And pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek, And she seemed to be as surely dead As any one could be. Then spake her cruel step-mother, Take ye the burning lead, And drop a drop on her bosom, They took a drop of boiling lead, Alas! alas! her father cried, She's dead without the Priest. She neither chattered with her teeth, There is no breath within. |