10 He gae her rings to her fingers, Sae did he ribbons to her hair; He gae her a broach to her briest-bane, For fear that they sud neer meet mair. 11 She put her hand in her pocket, An she took out a lang, lang wand; 'As lang's ony man this wand sall keep, There sall not a drap o his blude be drawn.' 12 Whan een was come, an een-bells rung, An a' man boun for bed, There beheld him Sir Colin, Fast to the Orlange hill he rade. 13 The wind blew trees oot at the rutes, Sae did it auld castles doon; 'T was eneuch to fricht ony Christian knicht, To be sae far frae ony toon. 14 He rade up, sae did he doon, He rade even through the loan, Till he spied a knicht, wi a ladie bricht, Wi a bent bow intil his han. 15 She cried afar, ere she cam naur, I warn ye, kind sir, I rede ye flee; That for the love you bear to me, I warn ye, kind sir, that ye flee. 16 They faucht up, sae did they doon, They faucht even through the loan, Till he cut aff the king's richt han, Was set aboot wi chains a' goud. 17 'Haud your hand now, Sir Colin, I wat you've dung my love richt sair; Noo for the love ye bear to me, See that ye ding my love nae mair.' 18 He wooed, he wooed that fair Janet, He wooed her and he brocht her hame; He wooed, he wooed that fair Janet, An ca'd her Dear-Coft till her name. KING MALCOLM AND SIR COLVIN Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, II, 6; Motherwell's MS., p. 581. 1 There ance livd a king in fair Scotland, King Malcolm called by name, Whom ancient history gives record For valour, worth, and fame. 2 And it fell ance upon a day, The king sat down to dine, And then he missd a favourite knight, Whose name was Sir Colvin. 3 But out it speaks another knight, Ane o Sir Colvin's kin: 'He's lyin in bed, right sick in love, All for your daughter Jean.' 4 'O wae's me,' said the royal king, 'I'm sorry for the same; She maun take bread and wine sae red, Give it to Sir Colvin.' 5 Then gently did she bear the bread, Her page did carry the wine, And set a table at his bed: 'Sir Colvin, rise and dine.' 6 'O well love I the wine, lady, Come frae your lovely hand, But better love I your fair body, Than all fair Scotland's strand.' 7 'O hold your tongue now, Sir Colvin, Let all your folly be; My love must be by honour won, Or nane shall enjoy me. 8 'But on the head o Elrick's hill, Near by yon sharp hawthorn, Where never a man with life eer came, Sin our sweet Christ was born; 9 'O ye'll gang there and walk a' night, And boldly blaw your horn; With honour that ye do return, Ye'll marry me the morn.'