Tragical history of Gill Morice (4)

THE

TRAGICAL HISTORY

OF

GILL MORICE,

AN

ANCIENT BALLAD.

GLASGOW:

PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.

Gill Morice.

Gill Morice was an Earl’s son,
⁠his name it waxed wide;
It was nae for his great riches,
⁠nor yet his meikle pride.
His face was fair lang was his hair,
⁠in the wild woods he staid.
But his fame was by a fair lady,
⁠that liv’d on Carron side—

Where will I get a bonny boy
⁠that will win hose and shoon
That will gae to Lord Barnard’s ha’,
⁠and bid his lady come
Ye maun rin this errand, Willie,
⁠and maun rin wi’ pride,
When other boys gae on their feet,
⁠on horseback ye shall ride

O no o no my master dear
⁠I dare not for my life,
I’ll no gae to the bauld Baron’s
⁠for to trvst forth his wife
My bird Willie, my boy willie,
⁠my dear willie he said,
How can you strive against the stream,
⁠for I shall be obey’d.

But oh my master dear he cried
⁠in green wood ye’re your lane
Gi’e o er sic thoughts I would ye red.
⁠for fear ye should be taken
Haste haste I say gae to the ha’;
⁠and bid her come here wi speed;
If ye refuse my high command
⁠I’ll gar thy body bleed.

Gae bid her take 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 aio hand sew d the sleeve
And bid her come to Gill Morice,
⁠speir nae bauld Baron’s leave.

Yes, I will gae your black errand,
⁠though it be to my cost;
Sin ye by me wid nae 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 shall see before its night
⁠how sma’ ye ha’e to vaun,

Now sin I maun your errand rin,
⁠sair sair against my will
Ise make a vow and keep it true,
⁠it shall be done for ill
And when he came to broken brig
⁠he bent his bow and swarm
And when he came to grass growing,
⁠set down his feet and ran

And when he came to Barnard’s ha‘
⁠wou d neither chap nor ca‘
But set his bent how to his breas‘
⁠and lightly lap the wa‘
He would tel nae man his errand,
⁠though twa stood at the gate,
But straight into the ha‘ he came,
⁠whar grit folks sat at meat

Hail hail my gentle sire and dame,
⁠my message winna wait
Dame ye maun to the green wood gang
⁠before that it be late
Ye’re bidden take this gay mantle
⁠it’s a‘ gowd but the hem
Ye maun go to the good green wood,
⁠e‘en by yourself alane.

There it is a silken sark
⁠your ain hand sew‘d the sleeve,
Ye maun come speak to Gill Morice
⁠spier nae bauld Barons leave
The lady stamped wi her foot,
⁠and winked wi her ee,
But all that she could do or say,
⁠forbidden he wouldna be.

Its surely to my bower woman,
⁠It ne’er could be to me,
Then up and spake the wyly nurse,
⁠(the bairn upon her knee,)
If it be come from Gill Morice,
⁠’tis dear welcome to me.
Ye lied, ye lied ye filthy nurse
⁠sae loud s I hear you lie;

I brought it to Lord Barnard’s Lady,
⁠I trow ye be not she.
Then up and spake the bauld Baron,
⁠an angry man was he;
He’s ta’en the table wi’ his foot,
⁠in flinders gart a’ flee
Gae bring a robe of yon cleiding,
⁠that hangs upon the pin.

And I’ll gae to the good green wood wood
⁠and speak with your leman.
O bide at hame now Lord Barnard
⁠I warn ye, bide at hame.
ne’er wyte a man for violence,
⁠that ne’er wyte ye wi’ nane.
Gill Morice sits in good green wood.
⁠he whistled and he sang;

O what mean a’ these folk coming?
⁠my mother tarries land.
And when he came to good green wood,
⁠wi’ meikle dull and care,
It’s there he saw brave Gill Morice,
⁠kaming his yellow hair.
Nae wonder, nae wonder Gill Morice,
⁠my lady lo’ed you weel,

The fairest part of my body
⁠is blacker than thy heel;
Yet ne ertheless, now Gill Morice
⁠for a’ thy great beauty,
Ye’s rue the day that ye was born,
⁠that head shall gae with me
Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
⁠and slait it on the straw,

And through Gill Morice’s fair body
⁠he’s gard can d iron gae
And he has ta en Gill Morice’s head,
⁠and set it on a spear;
The meanest man in a’ his train,
⁠has got the head to bear,
And he has ta en Gill Morice up,
⁠laid him across his steed

And brought him to his painted bower,
⁠and laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castle wa’,
⁠beheld baith dale and down,
And there she saw Gill Morice head
⁠come trailing to the town
Far mair I lo’e that bloody bead,
⁠but and that bloody hair,

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 once 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 sa t 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 me out of pain;
Since naething but Gill Morice’s head
⁠thy jealous rage could quell
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 safe 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 wi sie 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.

FINIS