O ben then came the auld French lord, Saying, ‘Bride, will ye dance wi’ me?’-- ‘Awa’, awa’, ye auld French lord! Your face I downa see.’ XXIV O ben then came Sweet Willie, He came with ane advance: ‘O I’ll go tak’ the bride’s maidens, And we’ll go tak’ a dance.’-- XXV ‘I’ve seen ither days wi’ you, Willie, And so has mony mae[361], Ye would hae danced wi’ me mysel’, Let a’ my maidens gae.’ XXVI O ben now came Sweet Willie, Saying, ‘Bride, will ye dance wi’ me?’-- ‘Ay, by my sooth, and that I will Gin my back should break in three.’ XXVII She hadna danced her o’er the floor, She hadna turn’d but thrice, When she fell doun at Willie’s feet, And up did never rise. XXVIII Willie’s ta’en the key of his coffer And gi’en it to his man: ‘Gae hame, and tell my mother dear My horse he has me slain; And bid her be kind to my young son, For father he has nane.’ FOOTNOTES: [359] jo = sweetheart. [360] busk = array. [361] mae = more. _53. Old Robin of Portingale_ I God! let never soe old a man Marry soe young a wife As did old Robin of Portingale! He may rue all the days of his life. II For the Mayor’s daughter of Lin, God wot, He chose her to his wife, And thought to have lived in quietnesse With her all the dayes of his life. III They had not in their wed-bed laid, Scarcely were both on sleepe, But up she rose, and forth she goes To Sir Gyles, and fast can weepe. IV Saies, ‘Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles? Or be you not within? [Or hear you not your true love That tirleth at the pin?’]-- V ‘But I am waking, sweete,’ he said, ‘Lady, what is your will?’-- I have unbethought[362] me of a wile How my wed lord we shall spill. VI ‘Four and twenty knights,’ she sayes, ‘That dwells about this towne, E’en four and twenty of my next cozens Will help to ding[363] him downe.’ VII With that beheard his little foot-page, Was watering his master’s steed; Soe [sore a hearing it was to him] His very heart did bleed. VIII He mournèd, sikt[364], and wept full sore; I swear by the Holy Rood The teares he for his master wept Were blent water and bloude. IX With that beheard his dear mastèr As he in his garden sate; Sayes, ‘Ever alack, my little page, What causes thee to weepe? X ‘Hath any one done to thee wronge, Any of thy fellowes here? Or is any of thy good friends dead, What makes thee shed such teares? XI ‘Or if it be my head-cookes-man Griev’d againe[365] he shall be, Nor noe man within my house Shall doe wrong unto thee.’-- XII