Page:Old Scots song.pdf/8

 Since nothing but Gill Morice head,

thy jealous rage could quell

Let that fame hand now take her life,

that ne’er to thee did ill

To me no after days nor nights,

will e’er be fat or kind.

Hil fill the air with heavy ighs,

and greet till I be blind.

Enough of blood by me’s been pilt,

eek not your death frae me,

I rather it had been my fell,

than either him or thee

With waefu’ wae I hear your ’plaint,

ae fair I rue the deed

That e'er this cured hand of mine,

did gar his body bleed.

Dry up your tears my winome Dame,

you ne’er can heal the wound:

You fee his head upon my peir,

his heart’s blood on the ground.

I cure the hand that did the deed;

the heart that thought the ill;

The feet who bore me with uch peed,

the comely youth to kill.

I’ll ay lament for Gill Morice,

as gin he were my ain;

I'll ne’er forget the dreary day,

on which the youth was tain.

Printed by J.and M. Robertfon, Saltmarket,1799