12 Now a’ ye that in England are, Or are in England born, Come nere to Scotland to court a lass, Or else ye’l get the scorn. 13 They haik ye up and settle ye by, Till on your wedding day, And gie ye frogs instead o fish, And play ye foul, foul play. * * * * * B Herd’s MSS, I, 164, II, 58. 1 The gallant laird of Lamington Cam frae the North Countree To court a gallant gay lady, And wi presents entered he. 2 He neither stood for gould nor gear— For she was a well-fared may— And whan he got her friends’ consent He set the wedding-day. 3 She’s sent unto her first fere love, Gin he would come to see, And he has sent word back again Weel ans_were_d should she be. 4 He has sent a mess_en_g_e_r Right quietly throe the land, Wi mony armed men, To be at his command. 5 The bridegroom looked out at a high window, Beheld baith dool and doon, And there he spied her first fere love, Come riding to the toun. 6 She scoffed and she scorned him, Upo the wedding-day, And said it had been the Fairy Court That he had seen in array. 7 But as he sat at yon table-head, Amo yon gentlemen, And he began to speak some words That na ane there could ken. 8 ‘There is a lass into this town— She is a weel-far’d may— She is another man’s bride today, But she’ll play him foul play.’ 9 Up did start the bonny bridegroom, His hat into his hand, . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 ‘O cam you here, young man, to fight? Or came you here to flee? Or cam you here to drink good wine, And be good company?’ 11 They filled a cup o good red wine, Drunk out between them twa: ‘For one dance wi your bonny bride, I shall gae hame my wa.’ 12 He’s taen her by the milk-white hand, And by the grass-green sleeve, He’s mounted her high behind himself, At her kin’s speired nae leave. 13 Now . . . . . . And swords flew in the skies, And droop and drowsie was the blood Ran our yon lilly braes. 14 The blood ran our the lilly bank, And our the lilly brae, And sighing said the bonny bride, ‘A, wae’s me for foul play!’ 15 ‘My blessing on your heart, sweet thing, Wae to your wilfu will! So many a gallant gentleman’s blood This day as ye’ve garred spill. 16 ‘But a’ you that is norland men, If you be norland born, Come never south to wed a bryde, For they’ll play you the scorn. 17 ‘They will play you the scorn Upo your wedding-day, And gie you frogs instead o fish, And do you foul, foul play.’ * * * * * C