Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/429



' water weets my toe,' she said, 'The water weets my knee; Hand up, Sir Knicht, my horse's head, If you a true luve be!'

'I luved ye weel, and luved ye lang, Yet grace I failed to win; Nae trust put I in ladye's troth Till water weets her chin!'

'Then water weets my waist, proud lord, The water weets my chin; My achin' head spins round about, The burn maks sik a din— Now, help thou me, thou fearsome Knicht, If grace ye hope to win!'

'I mercy hope to win, high dame, Yet hand I've nane to gie— The trinklin' o' a gallant's blude Sae sair hath blindit me!'