XXXI And now Yonge Andrew he is dead, But he never was buryèd under molde; And there as the wolfe devourèd him There lyès all this great Earle’s gold. FOOTNOTES: [411] draught = picture. [412] may = maid. [413] fett = fetch. [414] breaden = braided. [415] billaments = habiliments. _60. The Gay Goshawk_ I ‘O well’s me o’ my gay goss-hawk, That he can speak and flee! He’ll carry a letter to my love, Bring back another to me.’-- II ‘O how can I your true-love ken, Or how can I her know? Whan frae her mouth I never heard couth[416], Nor wi’ my eyes her saw.’-- III ‘O well sall ye my true-love ken, As soon as you her see; For, of a’ the flow’rs in fair England, The fairest flow’r is she. IV ‘At even at my love’s bower-door There grows a bowing birk, An’ sit ye down and sing thereon, As she gangs to the kirk. V ‘An’ four-and-twenty ladies fair Will wash and go to kirk, But well sall ye my true-love ken, For she wears gowd on her skirt. VI ‘An’ four-and-twenty gay ladies Will to the mass repair, But well sall ye my true-love ken, For she wears gowd on her hair.’ VII O even at that lady’s bower door There grows a bowing birk, An’ he set down and sang thereon, As she gaed to the kirk. VIII ‘O eet and drink, my marys[417] a’, The wine flows you among, Till I gang to my shot-window[418], An’ hear yon bonny bird’s song. IX ‘Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, The song ye sang the streen[419], For I ken by your sweet singin’ You’re frae my true-love sen.’ X O first he sang a merry song, An’ then he sang a grave, An’ then he peck’d his feathers gray, To her the letter gave. XI ‘Ha, there’s a letter frae your love, He says he sent you three; He canna wait your luve langer, But for your sake he’ll dee. XII ‘He bids you write a letter to him; He says he’s sent you five; He canna wait your luve langer, Tho’ you’re the fairest alive.’-- XIII ‘Ye bid him bake his bridal-bread, And brew his bridal-ale, An’ I’ll meet him in fair Scotland Lang, lang or it be stale.’ XIV She’s doen her to her father dear Fa’n low down on her knee: ‘A boon, a boon, my father dear I pray you, grant it me!’-- XV ‘Ask on, ask on, my daughter, An’ granted it sall be; Except ae squire in fair Scotland, An’ him you sall never see.’-- XVI ‘The only boon, my father dear, That I do crave of thee, Is, gin I die in southin lands, In Scotland to bury me. XVII ‘An’ the firstin kirk that ye come till, Ye gar the bells be rung, An’ the nextin kirk that ye come till, Ye gar the mass be sung. XVIII