(3)
But, Oh my maſter dear! he cry'd,
in Green-wood ye're your lane;
Gi’e d'er ſic thoughts, I wou'd ye red,
for fear ye ſhou'd be ta'en.
Haſte, haſte, I ſay, gae to the ha',
bid her come here wi' ſpeed;
If ye refuſe my high command,
I'll gar thy body bleed.
Gae bid her tak 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,
ſpoer nae bauld Baron's leave.
Yes, I will gae your black errand,
though it be to thy coſt;
Sin' ye by me will not 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 will ſee before 'tis night,
how ſma' ye ha'e' to vaunt.
Now, ſin' I maun your errand rin,
ſae fair againſt my will,
I's make a vow, and keep it true,
it ſhall be done for ill!
