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Than Lord Barnard and a’ his lands,
As they lie here and there.
And she has ta’en Gill Morice,
And kiss’d baith mouth and chin,
I ance was as fu’ of Gill Morice,
As hip is o’ the stane.
I got thee in my father's house
Wi’ muckle grief and shame,
And brought thee up in green wood,
Under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sat,
And soundly seen thee sleep,
But now I’ll go about thy grave,
The saut tears for to weep.
And first she kiss’d his bloody cheek,
And syne his bloody chin;
Better I lo’e my Gill Morice,
Than a’ my kith and kin.
Away, away ye ill woman,
An ill death may you die,
Gin I had kenn’d he’d been your son,
He’d ne’er been slain by me.
Upbraid me not, Lord Barnard,
Upbraid me not for shame,
Wi’ that same spear, Oh pierce my heart,
And put mc out of pain;
Since nothing but Gill Morice’ head
