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O they rode on, and on they rode,

And all by the light of the moon,
Until they came to his mother's ha' door,

And there they lighted down.
Get up, get up, lady mother, he says,

Get up, and let me in-
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,

O make it broad and deep!
And lay Lady Margaret close at my back,

And the sounder I will sleep.
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,

Lady Margaret in Marie's quire;
Out of the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose,

And out of the knight's, a brier.
And they two met, and they two plait,

And fain they would be near;
And all the world might ken right well,

They were two lovers dear.

But bye and rade the black Douglas,

And wow, but he was rough!
For he pull'd up the bonny brier,

And flang 't in St. Marie's loch.


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.
But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,

You can both speak and flee;
Ye shall carry a letter to my true love,

Bring an answer back to me.

But how shall I your true love find,

Or how should I her know;
I bear a tongue ne'er with her spake,

An eye that ne'er her saw?

* But.

O weel shall ye my true love ken,

So soon as ye her see;
For, of all the flowers of fair England,

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 ;
But well may ye my true love ken,

The fairest lady there.
Lord William has written a love letter,

Put it under his pinion gray;
And he's away to Southern land

As fast as wings can gae.
And even at that lady's bower

There grew a flowering birk ;
And he sat down and sang thereon,

As she gaed to the kirk.
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.

And first he sung a low, low note,

And syne he sang a clear ;
And aye the o'erword of the sang

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.-
Then gin I die in Southern land,

In Scotland bury me.

And the first Kirk that ye come to,

Ye's gar the Mass be sung;
And the next kirk that ye come to,

Ye's gar the bells be rung;

And when ye come to St. Mary's kirk,

Ye's tarry there till night.--
And so her father pledged his word,

And so his promise plight.
She's ta'en her to her bigly bower,

As fast as she could fare;
And she has drank a sleepy draught,

That she had mixed with care.

And pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek,

That was so bright of blee;
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,

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.

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