( 8 )
Since nothing but Gill Morice head,
thy jealous rage could quell
Let that fame hand now take her life,
that ne’er to thee did ill
To me no after days nor nights,
will e’er be faſt or kind.
Hil fill the air with heavy ſighs,
and greet till I be blind.
Enough of blood by me’s been ſpilt,
ſeek not your death frae me,
I rather it had been my fell,
than either him or thee
With waefu’ wae I hear your ’plaint,
ſae fair I rue the deed
That e'er this curſed hand of mine,
did gar his body bleed.
Dry up your tears my winſome Dame,
you ne’er can heal the wound:
You fee his head upon my ſpeir,
his heart’s blood on the ground.
I curſe the hand that did the deed;
the heart that thought the ill;
The feet who bore me with ſuch ſpeed,
the comely youth to kill.
I’ll ay lament for Gill Morice,
as gin he were my ain;
I'll ne’er forget the dreary day,
on which the youth was ſtain.
Printed by J.and M. Robertfon, Saltmarket,1799
