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O they rode on, and on they rode,
And all by the light of the moon,
And there they lighted down.
Get up, and let me in-
For this night my fair Lady I have won.
O make it broad and deep!
And the sounder I will sleep.
Lady Margaret, long ere day :
May they have more luck than they !
Lady Margaret in Marie's quire;
And out of the knight's, a brier.
And fain they would be near;
They were two lovers dear.
But bye and rade the black Douglas,
And wow, but he was rough!
And flang 't in St. Marie's loch.
THE GAY GOSS-HAWK.
O WALY, waly, my gay goss-hawk,
Gin* your feathering be sheen ! And waly, waly, my master dear,
Gin ye look pale and lean ! O have ye tint at tournament
Your sword, or yet your spear ; Or mourn ye for the southern lass,
Whom ye may not win near ? 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.
You can both speak and flee;
Bring an answer back to me.
But how shall I your true love find,
Or how should I her know;
An eye that ne'er her saw?
O weel shall ye my true love ken,
So soon as ye her see;
The fairest flower is she.
The red that's on my true love's cheek
Is like blood drops on the snaw; The white that is on her breast so fair,
Like the down of the white sea-maw.
And even at my love's bower door
There grows a flowering birk; And ye may sit and sing thereon,
As she gangs to the Kirk.
And four-and-twenty fair ladies
Will to the Mass repair ;
The fairest lady there.
Put it under his pinion gray;
As fast as wings can gae.
There grew a flowering birk ;
As she gaed to the kirk.
Among her maidens free;-
Was never so fair as she;-
And sat him on a pin ;
Till all was still within.
And first he sung a low, low note,
And syne he sang a clear ;
Was-“Your love canna win here."
Feast on, feast on, my maidens all,
The wine flows you among; While I gan to my shot window,
And hear yon bonny bird's song. Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,
The song ye sung yest'reen; For well I ken, by your sweet singing,
Ye've with my true love been.
O, first he sang a merry song,
And syne he sang a grave; And syne he picked his feathers gray,
To her the letter gave. Hae there a letter from Lord William ;
He says he's sent you three: He cannot wait your love longer,
And for your sake he'll die.
Go bid him bake his bridal bread,
And brew his bridal ale; And I shall meet him at Mary's kirk,
Long, long ere it be stale.
The lady is gone to her chamber,
And a mournful woman was she ; As gin she had ta’en a sudden brash,
And were about to die.
A boon! a boon! my father dear,
A boon I beg of thee! -Ask not that paughty Scottish lord,
For him you ne'er shall see:
But for your honest asking else,
Well granted it shall be.-
In Scotland bury me.
And the first Kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the Mass be sung;
Ye's gar the bells be rung;
And when ye come to St. Mary's kirk,
Ye's tarry there till night.--
And so his promise plight.
As fast as she could fare;
That she had mixed with care.
And pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek,
That was so bright of blee;
As any one could be.
Take ye the burning lead,
To try if she be dead.
They took a drop of boiling lead,
They dropped it on her breast : Alas! alas ! her father cried,
She's dead without the Priest.
She neither chattered with her teeth,
Nor shivered with her chin : Alas! alas! her father cried,
There is no breath within.