13 'Hast thou na mind, Love Gregory, As we sat at the wine, We changed the rings aff ither's hands, And ay the best was mine? 14 'For mine was o the gude red gould, But thine was o the tin; And mine was true and trusty baith, But thine was fa'se within. 15 'If thou be the lass of Lochroyan, As I know na thou be, Tell me some mair o the true tokens Past between me and thee.' 16 'And has na thou na mind, Love Gregory, As we sat on yon hill, Thou twin'd me of my [maidenhead,] Right sair against my will? 17 'Now open, open, Love Gregory, Open, and let me in! For the rain rains on my gude cleading, And the dew stands on my chin.' 18 Then she has turnd her round about: 'Well, since that it be sae, Let never woman that has born a son Hae a heart sae full of wae. 19 'Take down, take down that mast o gould, Set up a mast of tree; For it dinna become a forsaken lady To sail so royallie.' 20 'I dreamt a dream this night, mother, I wish it may prove true, That the bonny lass of Lochroyan Was at the gate just now.' 21 'Lie still, lie still, my only son, And sound sleep mayst thou get, For it's but an hour or little mair Since she was at the gate.' 22 Awa, awa, ye wicket woman, And an ill dead may ye die! Ye might have ither letten her in, Or else have wakened me. 23 'Gar saddle to me the black,' he said, 'Gar saddle to me the brown; Gar saddle to me the swiftest steed That is in a' the town.' 24 Now the first town that he cam to, The bells were ringing there; And the neist toun that he cam to, Her corps was coming there. 25 'Set down, set down that comely corp, Set down, and let me see Gin that be the lass of Lochroyan, That died for love o me.' 26 And he took out the little penknife That hang down by his gare, And he's rippd up her winding-sheet, A lang claith-yard and mair. 27 And first he kist her cherry cheek, And syne he kist her chin, And neist he kist her rosy lips; There was nae breath within. 28 And he has taen his little penknife, With a heart that was fou sair, He has given himself a deadly wound, And word spake never mair. C Pitcairn's MSS, III, 1, from the singing of Widow Stevenson. * * * * * * * 1 She sailed west, she sailed east, She sailed mony a mile, Until she cam to Lord Gregor's yett, And she tirled at the pin. 2 'It's open, open, Lord Gregory, Open, and let me in; For the rain drops on my gouden hair, And drops upon your son.'