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 womàn, And an il deith mait ze dee: Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son, He'd neir bin slain for mee. 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 Gill 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 been spilt, Seek not zour death frae mee; 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' sik speid, The comely zouth to kill. I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, As gin he were mine ain; I'll neir forget the dreiry day On which the zouth was slain. [Illustration] [Illustration] The CHILD of ELLE On yondre hill a castle standes With walles and towres bedight, And yonder lives the Child of Elle, A younge and comely knighte. The Child of Elle to his garden went, And stood at his garden pale, Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page Come trippinge downe the dale. The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, Y-wis he stoode not stille, And soone he mette faire Emmelines page Come climbinge up the hille. Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, Now Christe thee save and see! Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, And what may thy tydinges bee? My ladye shee is all woe-begone, And the teares they falle from her eyne; And aye she laments the deadlye feude Betweene her house and thine. And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe Bedewde with many a teare, And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, Who loved thee so deare. And here shee sends thee a ring of golde The last boone thou mayst have, And biddes thee weare it for her sake, Whan she is layde in grave. For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, And in grave soone must shee bee, Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, And forbidde her to think of thee.