Page:Mournful tragedy of Gill Morice.pdf/3

(3) But, Oh my maſter dear! he cry'd,

in Green-wood ye're your lane;

Gi’e d'er ſic thoughts, I wou'd ye red,

for fear ye ſhou'd be ta'en.

Haſte, haſte, I ſay, gae to the ha',

bid her come here wi' ſpeed;

If ye refuſe my high command,

I'll gar thy body bleed.

Gae bid her tak this gay mantle,

'tis a' gowd but the hem;

Bid her come to the good Green-wood,

and bring nane but her lane:

And there it is, a ſilken ſark,

her ain hand ſew'd the ſleeve,

And bid her come to Gill Morice,

ſpoer nae bauld Baron's leave.

Yes, I will gae your black errand,

though it be to thy coſt;

Sin' ye by me will not be warn'd,

in it ye ſhall find froſt:

The Baron he's a man of might,

he ne'er could 'bide a taunt,

As ye will ſee before 'tis night,

how ſma' ye ha'e' to vaunt.

Now, ſin' I maun your errand rin,

ſae fair againſt my will,

I's make a vow, and keep it true,

it ſhall be done for ill!