‘O pardon me, my brother dear, An’ the truth I’ll tell to thee; My bairn it is to Lord William, An’ he is betroth’d to me.’-- XIV ‘O cou’d na ye gotten dukes, or lords, Intill your ain country, That ye draw up wi’ an English dog, To bring this shame on me? XV ‘But ye maun gi’ up the English lord, Whan your young babe is born; For, gin you keep by him an hour langer, Your life sall be forlorn[456].’-- XVI ‘I will gi’ up this English blood, Till my young babe be born; But the never a day nor hour langer, Tho’ my life should be forlorn.’-- XVII ‘O whare is a’ my merry young men, Whom I gi’ meat and fee, To pu’ the thistle and the thorn, To burn this woman wi’?’-- XVIII She turn’d her head on her left shoulder, Saw her girdle hang on a tree; ‘O God bless them wha gave me that, They’ll never give more to me. XIX ‘O whare will I get a bonny boy, To help me in my need, To rin wi’ haste to Lord William, And bid him come wi’ speed?’-- XX O out it spake a bonny boy, Stood by her brother’s side: ‘O I would run your errand, lady, O’er a’ the world sae wide. XXI ‘Aft have I run your errands, lady, Whan blawn baith win’ and weet; But now I’ll rin your errand, lady, Wi’ saut tears on my cheek.’ XXII O whan he came to broken briggs, He bent his bow and swam, An’ whan he came to the green grass growin’ He slack’d his shoone and ran. XXIII O whan he came to Lord William’s gates, He baed[457] na to chap[458] or ca’, But set his bent bow till his breast, An’ lightly lap’ the wa’; An’, or the porter was at the gate, The boy was i’ the ha’. XXIV ‘O is my biggins[459] broken, boy? Or is my towers won? Or is my lady lighter yet, Of a dear daughter or son?’-- XXV ‘Your biggin is na broken, sir, Nor is your towers won; But the fairest lady in a’ the land For you this day maun burn.’-- XXVI ‘O saddle me the black, the black, Or saddle me the brown; O saddle me the swiftest steed That ever rade frae a town!’ XXVII Or he was near a mile awa’, She heard his wild horse sneeze: ‘Mend up the fire, my false brother, It’s na come to my knees.’ XXVIII O whan he lighted at the gate, She heard his bridle ring; ‘Mend up the fire, my false brother, It’s far yet frae my chin. XXIX ‘Mend up the fire to me, brother, Mend up the fire to me; For I see him comin’ hard an’ fast, Will soon mend it up to thee. XXX ‘O gin my hands had been loose, Willy, Sae hard as they are boun’, I would have turn’d me frae the gleed[460], And casten out your young son.’-- XXXI