‘O mither, mither, mak’ my bed, And, gentle ladie, lay me down; O brither, brither, unbend my bow, ’Twill never be bent by me again!’ XIV His mither she has made his bed, His gentle ladie laid him down, His brither he has unbent his bow, --’Twas never bent by him again. FOOTNOTES: [224] jimp = slim, slender. [225] wall = well. [226] weel-faur’d may = well-favoured maiden. [227] leugh = laughed. [228] win on = continue. [229] gare = gore, strip. [230] row = roll, wrap. [231] war’ = worse. [232] deid = death. [233] fleed = flood. [234] dowie = dolefully. _30. Young Hunting_ I ‘O lady, rock never your young son young One hour longer for me; For I have a sweetheart in Gareloch Wells I love thrice better than thee. II ‘The very sole o’ that lady’s foot, Than thy face is mair white.’-- ‘But nevertheless now, Young Hunting, Ye’ll bide in my bower this night?’ III She has birl’d[235] in him Young Hunting The good ale and the wine, Till he was as fou drunken As any wild-wood swine. IV [She has kiss’d him by] the candle-light And the charcoal burning red, And up she has ta’en Young Hunting, And she’s had him to her bed. V And she’s minded her on a little pen-knife That hang’d below her gare[236], And she has gi’en Young Hunting A deep wound and a sair. VI Then up and spake the popinjay That flew abune her head: ‘Lady, keep well your green cleiding[237] Frae good Young Hunting’s bleid!’-- VII ‘O better I’ll keep my green cleiding Frae good Young Hunting’s bleid Than thou canst keep thy clattering tongue That trattles in thy head.’ VIII ‘O lang, lang is the winter’s night, And slowly daws[238] the day! There lies a dead man in my bower, And I wish he were away.’ IX She has call’d upon her bower-maidens, She has call’d them ane by ane: ‘There lies a dead man in my bower, I wish that he were gane.’ X They have booted and spurr’d Young Hunting As he was wont to ride-- A hunting-horn about his neck, And a sharp sword by his side; And they’ve had him to the wan water, Where a’ men ca’s it Clyde. XI In the deepest pot of Clyde-water It’s there they flang him in, And put a turf on his breast-bane To hold Young Hunting down. XII Then up and spake the popinjay That sat upon the tree; ‘Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady, And pay your maids their fee.’-- XIII ‘Come down, come down, my pretty bird, That sits upon the tree; I have a cage o’ beaten gold, I’ll gie it unto thee.’-- XIV ‘How shall I come down, how can I come down, How shall I come down to thee? The things ye said to Young Hunting, The same ye’re saying to me.’ XV