"Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King! 45 And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee-- Gude four-and-twenty ganging mills, That gang throw a' the yeir to me. "These four-and-twenty mills complete Sall gang for thee throw all the yeir; 50 And as mekle of gude reid wheit, As all thair happers dow to bear." "Away, away, thou traytor strang! Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, 55 And now I'll not begin with thee." "Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King! And a great gift I'll gie to thee-- Bauld four-and-twenty sisters' sons, Sall for thee fecht, tho all sould flee!" 60 "Away, away, thou traytor strang! Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee." "Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King! 65 And a brave gift I'll gie to thee-- All betwene heir and Newcastle town Sall pay their yeirly rent to thee." "Away, away, thou traytor strang! Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! 70 I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee." "Ye lied, ye lied, now, King," he says, "Althocht a king and prince ye be! For I luid naithing in all my lyfe, 75 I dare well say it, but honesty-- "But a fat horse, and a fair woman, Twa bonny dogs to kill a deir; But Ingland suld haif found me meil and malt, Gif I had livd this hundred yeir! 80 "Scho suld haif found me meil and malt, And beif and mutton in all plentie; But neir a Scots wyfe could haif said, That eir I skaithd her a pure flie. "To seik het water beneth cauld yce, 85 Surely it is a great folie; I haif asked grace at a graceles face, But there is nane for my men and me! "But had I kend, or I came frae hame, How thou unkind wadst bene to me, 90 I wad haif kept the Border syde, In spyte of all thy force and thee. "Wist Englands King that I was tane, O gin a blyth man wald he be! For anes I slew his sisters son, 95 And on his breist-bane brak a tree." John wore a girdle about his midle, Imbroidred owre with burning gold, Bespangled wi' the same mettle Maist beautifull was to behold. 100 Ther hang nine targats at Johnys hat, And ilka an worth three hundred pound-- "What wants that knave that a King suld haif, But the sword of honour and the crown?