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But, Oh my Maſter dear! he cry'd.
in green wood ye’re your lane,
Gi’ o er ſuch thoughts. I wou'd you red,
for fear you ſhou’d be ta’en.
Haſte, haſte, I fay gae to the-ha',
bid her-come here wi' ſpeed.
If ye refuſe my high command,
I'll gar your 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 fark,
her ain hand few’d the ſleeve,
And bid her come to Gill Morice,
ſpeer nae bauld Baron's leave.
Yes, I will gae your black errand,
though it be to my coaft,
Sin ye by me will nae be warn'd,
in it ye ſhall find froſt.
The Bacon he's a man of might,
he ne’er cou’d bide a taunt.
As ye will find before it’s night,
how ſma’ ye hae to vaunt.
Now, fin I maun your errand rin,
ſae fair againſt my will,
I' ſe mak a vow and keep it true,
