I winna forsake my ain dear lord,— "Gie owre your house, ye lady fair, "I winna gie owre, ye fause Gordon, And if ye burn my ain dear babes, "Now reach my pistoll, Glaud, my man, She stude upon her castle wa' And let twa bullets flee: She miss'd that bluidy butcher's heart, And only razed his knee. "Set fire to the house!" quo' fause Gordon, Wud' wi' dule and ire: "Fause ladye, ye sall rue that shot, As ye burn in the fire!" "Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, I paid ye weel your fee; my man! Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, Lets in the reek to me? "And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man! weel your hire; I paid ye Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, To me lets in the fire ?" "Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye, But now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man,- O then bespake her little son, Sat on the nurse's knee : Says, "Mither dear, gie owre this house, For the reek it smothers me." "I wad gie a' my gowd, my bairn, For ae blast o' the western wind, O then bespake her daughter dear,— They row'd her in a pair o' sheets, O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, Then wi' his spear he turn'd her owre; He said, "Ye are the first that e'er P He turn'd her owre and owre again; "I might hae spared that bonnie face “Busk and boun, my merry men a', I cannot look on that bonnie face "Wha looks to freits,1 my master dear, Its freits will follow them; Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon Was daunted by a dame." But when the ladye saw the fire She wept, and kiss'd her children twain, 66 The Gordon then his bugle blew, 66 And said, Awa', awa'! This House o' the Rodes is a' in a flame, I hauld it time to ga'." And this way lookit her ain dear lord, As he came owre the lea; He saw his castle a' in a lowe, Sae far as he could see. “Put on, put on, my wighty men, As fast as ye can dri’e ! 1 Freits, (frights ?), ill-omens, ill-luck. Then some they rade, and some they ran, But ere the foremost could win up, And after the Gordon he is gane, And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blude PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. I' N the merry month of May, In a morn, by break of day, Much ado there was, God wot; He said, he had loved her long; Love, which had been long deluded, NICHOLAS BRETON. "Ο LORD RANDAL. WHERE hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son ? O where hae ye been, my handsome young man ?" "I hae been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down." "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man ?" “I dined wi' my love; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down." "What gat ye to dinner, Lord Randal, my son ? What gat ye to dinner, my handsome young man?" I gat eels boil'd in broo'; mother, make my bed 66 soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down." "And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son? And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?" |