8
Let that same hand now take her life,
That ne’er to thee did ill.
To me nae after days nor nights,
Will e’er be saft or kind;
I’ll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.
Enough of blood by me’s been spilt,
Seek not your death from me;
I rather it had been mysel',
Than either him or thee.
With wae so wae I hear your ’plaint,
Sair sair I rue the deed,
That e’er this cursed hand of mine
Did gar his body bleed.
Dry up your tears, my winsome dame,
Ye ne’er can heal the wound,
You see his head upon my spear,
His heart’s blood on the ground.
I curse the hand that did the deed,
The heart that thought the ill,
The feet that bore me with sic speed,
The comely youth to kill.
I’ll aye lament for Gill Morice,
As gin he were mine ain;
I’ll ne’er forget the dreary day
On which the youth was slain.
