"O well is me, my gay goss-hawk,
That ye can speak and flee;
For ye shall carry a love-letter
To my true-love frae me.
"O how shall I your true-love find,
Or how should I her knaw?
I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,
An eye that ne'er her saw."
"O well shall you my true-love ken,
Sae soon as her ye see,
For of a' the flowers o' fair England,
The fairest flower is she.
"And when ye come to her castle,
Light on the bush of ash,
And sit ye there, and sing our loves,
As she comes frae the mass.
"And when she goes into the house,
Light ye upon the whin;
And sit ye there, and sing our loves,
As she gaes out and in."
Lord William has written a love-letter,
Put in under the wing sae grey;
And the bird is awa' to southern land,
As fast as he could gae.
And when he flew to that castle,
He lighted on the ash,
And there he sat, and sang their loves,
As she came frae the mass.
And when she went into the house,
He flew unto the whin;
And there he sat, and sang their loves,
As she gaed out and in.
"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',
The wine flows you amang,
Till I gae to the west-window,
And hear a birdie's sang."
She's gane into the west-window,
And fainly aye it drew,
And soon into her white silk lap
The bird the letter threw.
"Ye're bidden send your love a send,
For he has sent you three;
And tell him where he can see you,
Or for your love he'll die."
"I send him the rings from my white fingers,
The garlands aff my hair,
I send him the heart that's in my breast,
What would my love hae mair?
And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland,
Ye'll bid him meet me there."
She's gane until her father dear,
As fast as she could hie,
"An asking, an asking, my father dear,
An asking grant ye me!
That if I die in merry England,
In Scotland you'll bury me.
"At the first kirk o' fair Scotland,
Ye'll cause the bells be rung;
At the neist kirk o' fair Scotland
Ye'll cause the mass be sung.
"At the third kirk o' fair Scotland,
Ye'll deal the gowd for me;
At the fourth kirk o' fair Scotland,
It's there you'll bury me."
She has ta'en her to her bigly bower,
As fast as she could hie;
And she has drapped down like deid,
Beside her mother's knee;
Then out and spak' an auld witch-wife,
By the fire-side sate she.
Says,--"Drap the het lead on her cheek,
And drap it on her chin,
And drap it on her rose-red lips,
And she will speak again;
O meikle will a maiden do,
To her true love to win!"
They drapt the het lead on her cheek,
They drapt it on her chin,
They drapt it on her rose-red lips,
But breath was nane within.
Then up arose her seven brothers,
And made for her a bier;
The boards were of the cedar wood,
The plates o' silver clear.
And up arose her seven sisters,
And made for her a sark;
The claith of it was satin fine,
The steeking silken wark.
The first Scots kirk that they cam' to,
They gar'd the bells be rung;
The neist Scots kirk that they cam' to,
They gar'd the mass be sung.
The third Scots kirk that they cam' to,
They dealt the gowd for her;
The fourth Scots kirk that they cam' to,
Her true-love met them there.
"Set down, set down the bier," he quoth,
Till I look on the dead;
The last time that I saw her face,
Her cheeks were rosy red."
He rent the sheet upon her face,
A little abune the chin;
And fast he saw her colour come,
And sweet she smiled on him.
"O give me a chive of your bread, my love,
And ae drap o' your wine;
For I have fasted for your sake,
These weary lang days nine!
"Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers;
Gae hame an' blaw your horn!
I trow ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,
But I've gi'ed you the scorn.
"I cam' not here to fair Scotland,
To lie amang the dead;
But I cam' here to fair Scotland,
Wi' my ain true-love to wed."
* * * * *