Page:Tragical history of Gill Morice (5).pdf/3

3 But O! my master dear, he cried, In green wood ye’re your lane, Gi’e o’er sie thoughts, I would ye redd, For fear ye should be ta’en. Haste, haste I say, gae to the ha', And bid her come here wi’ speed; If ye refuse my high command, I’ll gar thy body bleed.

Gae bid her take 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, Speir nae bauld Baron’s leave.

Yes, I will gae your black errand, Though it be to my cost; Sin’ ye by me will nae 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 shall see before it’s night. How sma’ ye ha’e to vaunt.

Now, sin’ I maun your errand rin, Sair, sair against my will, I’se make a vow, and keep it true, It shall be doncdone [sic] for ill.