‘Rise, Jock! gang out and meet the priest, I hear his bridle ring! My Baby now shall be my wife Before the laverocks sing.’-- XXXVIII ‘O brother, this is not the priest; I fear he’ll come owre late; For armèd men with shining brands Stand at the castle-yate.’-- XXXIX ‘Haste Donald, Duncan, Dugald, Hugh! Haste, take your sword and spier! We’ll gar these traytors rue the hour That e’er they ventured here.’ XL The Highland men drew their claymores, And gae a warlike shout, But Johny’s merry men kept the yate, Nae ane durst venture out. XLI The lovers rade the live-lang night, And safe gat on their way, And bonny Baby Livingston Has gotten Johny Hay. XLII ‘Awa’, Glenlyon! fy for shame! Gae hide ye in some den! You’ve latten your bride be stown frae you, For a’ your armed men.’ FOOTNOTES: [1273] row’d = wrapped. [1274] lax = relief. _148. The Gypsy Countess_ I There cam’ seven Egyptians on a day, And wow, but they sang bonny! And they sang sae sweet, and sae very complete, Down cam’ Earl Cassilis’ lady. II She cam’ tripping down the stair, And a’ her maids before her; As soon as they saw her weel-faur’d face They cast the glamourie owre her. III They gave to her the nutmeg, And they gave to her the ginger; But she gave to them a far better thing, The seven gold rings off her fingers. IV And when the Earl he did come home, Enquiring for his ladie, One of the servants made this reply, ‘She’s awa’ with the gypsie laddie.’ V ‘Come saddle for me the brown,’ he said, ‘For the black was ne’er so speedy, And I will travel night and day Till I find out my wanton ladie.’ VI ‘Will you come home, my dear?’ he said, ‘Oh will you come home, my honey? And by the point of my broad sword, A hand I’ll ne’er lay on you.’... VII ‘Yestreen I rade this water deep, And my own gude lord beside me; But this night I maun wet my little pretty feet With a wheen blackguards to wade me. VIII ‘Yestreen I lay on a good feather-bed, And my own wedded lord beyond me, And to-night I’ll lie in the ash-corner, With the gypsies all around me. IX ‘They took off my high-heeled shoes, That were made of Spanish leather, And I have put on coarse Lowland brogues, To trip it o’er the heather. X ‘The Earl of Cassilis is lying sick; Not one hair I’m sorry; I’d rather have a kiss from Johnny Faa’s lips Than all his gold and his money.’ _149. The Baron of Brackley_ I Inverey cam’ doun Deeside, whistlin’ and playin’; He was at brave Brackley’s yates ere it was dawin’[1275]. II