O have ye tint[#] at tournament Your sword, or yet your spear? Or mourn ye for the Southern lass, Whom ye may not win near?" [#] lost "I have not tint at tournament My sword, nor yet my spear; But sair[#] I mourn for my true love, Wi’ mony a bitter tear. [#] sore But weel’s me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, Ye can baith speak and flee; Ye sall carry a letter to my love, 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." "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. [#] soon. The red that’s on my true love’s cheek 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 bour-door There grows a flowering birk;[#] And ye maun sit and sing thereon As she gangs to the kirk. [#] birch. And four-and-twenty fair ladyes Will to the Mass repair; But weel may ye my ladye ken, The fairest ladye there." Lord William has written a love-letter, Put it under his pinion grey; An’ he is awa’ to Southern land As fast as wings can gae. And even at the ladye’s bour[#] There grew a flowering birk; And he sat down and sung thereon As she gaed to the kirk. [#] bower. And weel he kent that ladye fair Amang her maidens free, For the flower that springs in May morning Was not sae sweet as she. He lighted at the ladye’s yate[#] And sat him on a pin,[#] And sang fu’ sweet the notes o’ love, Till a’ was cosh[#] within. [#] gate. [#] pine. [#] quiet. And first he sang a low low note, And syne[#] he sang a clear; And aye the o’erword[#] o’ the sang Was—"Your love can no win here." [#] then. [#] refrain. "Feast on, feast on, my maidens a’, The wine flows you amang, While I gang to my shot-window And hear yon bonnie bird’s sang. Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, The sang ye sung yestreen, For weel I ken, by your sweet singing Ye are frae my true love sen."[#] [#] sent. O first he sang a merry song, And syne he sang a grave; And syne he picked his feathers grey, To her the letter gave. "Have there a letter from Lord William; He says he’s sent ye three; He canna wait your love langer, But for your sake he’ll die." "Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, And brew his bridal ale; And I shall meet him in Mary’s Kirk, Lang, lang ere it be stale." The lady’s gane to her chamber, And a moanfu’ woman was she; As gin[#] she had taken a sudden brash[#] And were about to die. [#] if [#] illness.