Says, "I wish you well, my lady fair, It's time for us to sit to dine; Come, serve me with the good white bread, And likewise with the claret wine. "That Scots chieftain, our mortal fae, 85 Sae aft frae the field has made us flee, Ten thousand zechins this day I'll give That I his face could only see." "Of that same gift wuld ye give me, If I wuld bring him unto thee? 90 I fairly hold you at your word;-- Come ben, John Thomson, to my lord." Then from the vault John Thomson came, Wringing his hands most piteouslie: "What would ye do," the Turk he cried, 95 "If ye had me as I hae thee?" "If I had you as ye have me, I'll tell ye what I'd do to thee; I'd hang you up in good greenwood, And cause your ain hand wale the tree. 100 "I meant to stick you with my knife For kissing my beloved ladie:" "But that same weed ye've shaped for me, It quickly shall be sewed for thee." Then to the wood they baith are gane; 105 John Thomson clamb frae tree to tree; And aye he sighed and said, "Och hone! Here comes the day that I must die." He tied a ribbon on every branch, Put up a flag his men might see; 110 But little did his false faes ken He meant them any injurie. He set his horn unto his mouth, And he has blawn baith loud and schill: And then three thousand armed men 115 Cam tripping all out ower the hill. "Deliver us our chief," they all did cry; "It's by our hand that ye must die;" "Here is your chief," the Turk replied, With that fell on his bended knee. 120 "O mercy, mercy, good fellows all, Mercy I pray you'll grant to me;" "Such mercy as ye meant to give, Such mercy we shall give to thee." This Turk they in his castel burnt, 125 That stood upon yon hill so hie; John Thomson's gay ladie they took And hanged her on yon greenwood tree. LORD THOMAS STUART. From Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 1. Thomas Stuart was a lord, A lord of mickle land; He used to wear a coat of gold, But now his grave is green. Now he has wooed the young countess, 5 The Countess of Balquhin, An' given her for a morning gift, Strathboggie and Aboyne. But women's wit is aye willful, Alas! that ever it was sae; 10 She longed to see the morning gift That her gude lord to her gae. When steeds were saddled an' weel bridled, An' ready for to ride, There came a pain on that gude lord, 15 His back, likewise his side.