He turned his face to the stock, And she hers to the stane; 230 And cauld and dreary was the luve That was thir twa between. Great was the mirth in the kitchen, Likewise intill the ha'; But in his bed lay Earl Richard, 235 Wiping the tears awa'. He wept till he fell fast asleep, Then slept till licht was come; Then he did hear the gentlemen That talked in the room: 240 Said,--"Saw ye ever a fitter match, Betwixt the ane and ither; The King o' Scotland's fair dochter, And the Queen of England's brither?" "And is she the King o' Scotland's fair dochter? 245 This day, oh, weel is me! For seven times has my steed been saddled, To come to court with thee; And with this witty lady fair, How happy must I be!" 250 75 et seq. This passage has something in common with _Child Waters_ and _Burd Ellen_. THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 151. "This Ballad is published, partly from one under this title, in Mrs. Brown's collection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity, _penes_ Edit. The stanzas appearing to possess most merit have been selected from each copy."--SCOTT. Annexed is another version from Motherwell's collection. A third, longer than either, is furnished by Buchan, _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 245, _The Scottish Squire_. "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, 5 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; 10 But sair I mourn for my true love, Wi' mony a bitter tear. "But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, Ye can baith speak and flee; Ye sall carry a letter to my love, 15 Bring an answer back to me." "But how sall I your true love find, Or how suld I her know? I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, An eye that ne'er her saw." 20 "O weel sall ye my true love ken, Sae sune as ye her see; For, of a' the flowers of fair England, The fairest flower is she. "The red, that's on my true love's cheek, 25 Is like blood-drops on the snaw; The white, that is on her breast bare, Like the down o' the white sea-maw "And even at my love's bouer-door There grows a flowering birk; 30 And ye maun sit and sing thereon As she gangs to the kirk.