Ballads, English -- England -- Texts; Ballads, Scots -- Scotland -- Texts
"The baron he is a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt;
As ze will see, before it's nicht, 45
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." 50
And quhen he came to broken brigue,[L51]
He bent his bow and swam;
And quhen he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran.
And quhen he came to Barnard's ha', 55
Would neither chap nor ca';
Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
And lichtly lap the wa'.
He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
Though he stude at the gait; 60
Bot straiht 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 wod, 65
Before that it be late.
"Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel,
'Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
Ev'n by your sel alane. 70
"And there it is, a silken sarke,
Your ain hand sewd the sleive:
Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice;
Speir nae bauld barons leave."
The lady stamped wi' hir foot, 75
And winked wi' hir ee;
But a' that she could say or do,
Forbidden he wad nae bee.
"It's surely to my bow'r-woman;
It neir could be to me." 80
"I brocht it to Lord Barnard's lady;
I trow that ze be she."
Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
(The bairn upon hir knee):
"If it be cum frae Gill Morice, 85
It's deir welcum to mee."
"Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
Sae loud I heird ze lee;
I brocht it to Lord Barnard's lady;
I trow ze be nae shee." 90
Then up and spack the bauld baron,
An angry man was hee;
He's tain the table wi' his foot,
Sae has he wi' his knee,
Till siller cup and ezer[L95] dish 95
In flinders he gard flee.
"Gae bring a robe of zour cliding,
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
And speik wi' zour lemman." 100
"O bide at hame, now, Lord Barnard,
I warde ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,
That neir wate ze wi' nane."
Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, 105
He whistled and he sang:
"O what mean a' the folk coming?
My mother tarries lang."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account