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Quhair sall I get a bonny boy,
That will win hoes and shoen;
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady cum?
And ze maun rin this errand, Willie,
And ze maun rin wi' speed;
Quhen ither boys gae on their foot,
On horseback ze sall ride.
Oh no! oh no! my master dear!
I daur nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld baron's,
For to triest furth his wife.
My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie, he sayd,
How can ze strive against the stream?
For I sall be obey'd.
But, O my master dear! he cry'd,
In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gie owre sic thochts, I wald ze rede,
For fear ze should be tain.
Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
Bid hir cum here wi' speid:
If ze refuse my high command,
I'll gar zour body bleid.
Gae bid hir tak this gay mantel,
It's a' gowd but the hem;
Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
And bring nane but her lain:
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Hir ain hand sew'd the slieve;
And bid hir come to Gil Morrice;
Spier nae bauld baron's leave.
Yes, I will gae zour black errand,
Tho' it be to zour cost ;
Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd,
In it ze sall find frost.
The baron he's a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt,
As ze will see, before it's night,
How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
And sen I maun zour errand rin,
Sae sair against my will,
I'se mak a vow, and keip it trow.
It sall be done for ill.
And when he cam to Broken Brigue,
He bent his bow and swam,
And when he cam to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran.
And when he cam to Barnard's ha'.
Would neither chap nor ca',
Bot set his bent bow to his briest,
And lightly lap the wa'.
He wadna tell the man his errand,
Tho' he stude at the gait,
Bot straight into the ha' he cam,
Quhair they were set at meit.
Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
My message winna waite;
Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wode.
Before that it be late.
Ze're bidden tack this gay mantel.
It's a' gowd bot the hem:
Zou maun gae to the gude grene wade,
Ev'n by zoursel alane.
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Zour ain hand sew'd the slieve;
Ze maun gae speik to Gil Morrice;
Spier nae bauld baron's leive.
The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
And winked wi' hir ee;
Bot a' that she could say or do,
Forbidden he wad nae be.
It's surely to my bow'r-woman;
It neir could be to me.
I brought it to Lord Barnard's lady;
I trow that ze be she.
Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
(The bairn upon her knee),
If it be cum from Gil Morrice,
It's dear welcum to me.
Ze lied, ze lied, ze filthy nurse,
Sae loud's I heire ze lee;
I brought it to Lord Barnard's lady;
I trow ze be nae she.
Then up and spack the bauld baron,
An angr y man was he;
He's tain the table wi' his loot,
Sae has he wi' his knee,
Till silver cup and ezar dish
In flinders he gard flee.
Gae bring a robe o' zour cliding,
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
And speik wi' zour lemman.
O bide at hame, now, Lord Barnard,
I ward ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,
That neir wyte ze wi' nane.
Gil Morrice sat in gude grene wode,
He whistled and he sang:
O what means a' the folk coming?
My mother tarries lang.
His hair was like the threds o' gowd,
Drawn from Minerva's loome;
His lips like roses drapplng dew,
His breath was a perfume.
His brow was like the mountain snaw.
Gilt by the morning beam:
His cheiks like living roses glow:
His een like azure stream.
The boy was clad in robes of grene,
Sweet as the infant spring:
And like the mavis on the bush,
He gart the vallies ring.
The baron cam to the grene wode,
Wi' muckle dule and care,
And there he first spied Gil Morrice,
Kaiming his zellow hair,
That sweetly waved round his face,
That face beyond compare:
He sang sae sweet, it might dispel
A' rage but fell despair.
Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gil Morrice,
My lady loed thee weel:
The fairest part of my body
Is blacker than thy heel.
Zet zier-the-less now, Gil Morrice,
For a* thy great bewty,
Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
That head sall gae wi' me.
Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
And slaited on the strae;
And thro' Gil Morrice' fair body
He's gard cauld iron gae.
And he has tain Gil Morrice' head,
And set it on a speir:
The meanest man in a' his train
Has gotten that head to bear.
And he has tain Gil Morrice up,
Laid him across his steid,
And brought him to his painted bow'r,
And laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castil wa',
Beheld baith dale and doun,
And there she saw Gil Morrice' head
Cum trailing to the toun.
Far better I loe that bluidy head,
Bot and that zellow hair,
Than Lord Barnard and a' his lands,
As they lig here and thair.
And she has tain her Gil Morrice,
And kiss'd baith mouth and chin:
I was ance as fow o' Gil Morrice
As the hip is o' the stane.
I got ze in my father's house,
Wi' mickle sin and shame;
I brocht ze up in gude grene wode,
Under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sat,
And fondly seen thee sleip;
But now I'll gae about thy grave,
The saut teirs for to weip.
And syne she kiss'd his bluidy cheik,
And syne his bluidy chin:
O better I loe my Gil Morrice
Than a' my kith and kin!
Away, away, ze ill woman,
And an ill deith may ze dee!
Gin I had kend he'd been zour son,
He'd neir been slain for me.
Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
Obraid me not for shame!
Wi' that same spier, O pierce my heart.
And put me out o' pain.
Since naething but Gil Morrice' head
Thy jealous rage could quell,
Let that saim hand now tack hir life.
That neir to thee did ill.
To me nae after days nor nichts
Will eir prove true or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs.
And greet till I am blind.
Enouch o' bluid by me's bin spilt,
Seek not zour death frae me;
I rather it had bin mysel,
Than eather him or thee.
Wi' waefou wae I hear zour plaint;
Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand o' mine
Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up zour tears, my winsom dame,
Ze neir can heal the wound;
Ze see his head upon the speir,
His heart's bluid on the ground.
I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill,
The feit that bore me wi' sic speid,
The comely zouth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gil Morrice,
As gin he were my ain;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day,
On which the zouth was slain.
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