“Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out of my sight soon may’st thou be! I granted never a traitor’s life, And now I’ll not begin with thee.” “Grant me my life, my liege, my king! And a bonnie gift I’ll gi’e to thee: Gude four-and-twenty ganging {88d} mills, That gang thro’ all the year to me. “These four-and-twenty mills complete, Shall gang for thee thro’ all the year; And as meikle of gude red wheat, As all their happers dow to bear.” “Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out of my sight soon may’st thou be! I granted never a traitor’s life, And now I’ll not begin with thee.” “Grant me my life, my liege, my king! And a great gift I’ll gi’e to thee: Bauld four-and-twenty sisters’ sons Shall for thee fecht, tho’ all shou’d flee.” “Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out of my sight soon may’st thou be! I granted never a traitor’s life, And now I’ll not begin with thee.” “Grant me my life, my liege, my king! And a brave gift I’ll gi’e to thee: All between here and Newcastle town Shall pay their yearly rent to thee.” “Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out of my sight soon may’st thou be! I granted never a traitor’s life, And now I’ll not begin with thee.” “Ye lied, ye lied, now, king,” he says, “Altho’ a king and prince ye be! For I’ve loved naething in my life, I weel dare say it, but honestie. “Save a fat horse, and a fair woman, Twa bonnie dogs to kill a deer; But England shou’d have found me meal and mault, Gif I had lived this hundred year. “She shou’d have found me meal and mault, And beef and mutton in all plentie; But never a Scots wife cou’d have said, That e’er I skaith’d her a puir flee. “To seek het water beneath cauld ice, Surely it is a great follie: I have ask’d grace at a graceless face, But there is nane for my men and me. “But had I kenn’d, ere I came frae hame, How unkind thou wou’dst been to me, I wou’d ha’e keepit the Border side, In spite of all thy force and thee. “Wist England’s king that I was ta’en, Oh, gin a blythe man he wou’d be! For ance I slew his sister’s son, And on his breast-bane brak a tree.” John wore a girdle about his middle, Embroider’d o’er with burning gold, Bespangled with the same metal, Maist beautiful was to behold. There hang nine targats {90a} at Johnnie’s hat, An ilk ane worth three hundred pound: “What wants that knave that a king shou’d have, But the sword of honour and the crown? “Oh, where got thee these targats, Johnnie. That blink sae brawly {90b} aboon thy brie?” “I gat them in the field fechting, {90c} Where, cruel king, thou durst not be.