23 ‘I bad him loup, I bad him come, I bad him loup to me; I’d catch him in my arms two, A foot I should not flee. &c. 24 ‘He threw me the rings from his white fingers, Which were so long and small, To give to you, his lady fair, Where you sat in your hall.’ &c. 25 Sophia Hay, Sophia Hay, O bonny Sophia was her name, Her waiting maid put on her cloaths, But I wot she tore them off again. 26 And aft she cried, Ohon! alas! alas! A sair heart’s ill to win; I wan a sair heart when I married him, And the day it’s well returnd again. * * * * * B Kinloch MSS, V, 399, in the handwriting of John Hill Burton. * * * * * * 1 ‘Ye’ll stay this night wi me, Lord John, Ye’ll stay this night wi me, For there is appearence of good greement Betwixt Frendraught and thee.’ 2 ‘How can I bide, or how shall I bide, Or how can I bide wi thee, Sin my lady is in the lands of Air, And I long till I her see?’ 3 ‘Oh stay this night wi me, Lord John, Oh stay this night wi me, And bonny[’s] be the morning-gift That I will to you gie. 4 ‘I’ll gie you a Strathboggie lands, And the laigh lands o Strathray, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 ‘Ye’ll stay this night wi me, Lord John, Ye’ll stay this night wi me, And I’ll lay you in a bed of down, And Rothiemay you wi.’ 6 When mass was sung, and bells were rung, And a’ men bun to bed, Gude Lord John and Rothiemay In one chamber were laid. * * * * * * 7 Out hes he taen his little psalm-buik, And verses sang he three, And aye at every verse’s end, ‘God end our misery!’ 8 The doors were shut, the keys were thrown Into a vault of stone, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 He is dune him to the weir-window, The stauncheons were oer strong; There he saw him Lord George Gordon Come haisling to the town. 10 ‘What news, what news now, George Gordon? Whats news hae you to me? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 He’s dune him to the weir-window, The stauncheons were oer strang; And there he saw the Lady Frendraught, Was walking on the green. 12 ‘Open yer doors now, Lady Frendraught, Ye’ll open yer doors to me; And bonny’s be the mornin-gift That I shall to you gie. 13 ‘I’ll gie you a’ Straboggie lands, And the laigh lands o Strathbrae, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 ‘Now there’s the rings frae my fingers, And the broach frae my breast-bone; Ye’ll gae that to my gude ladye . . . . . . . * * * * * *