Lord William has written a love letter,
Put it under his pinion gray;
And he is awa' to Southern land
As fast as wings can gae.

And even at that lady's bower
There grew a flowering birk;
And he sat down and sung thereon
As she gaed to the kirk.

And weel he kent that ladye fair,

Amang her maidens free,

For the flower that springs in May morning
Was not sae sweet as she.

He lighted at the ladye's yate,
And sat him on a pin,*

And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,
Till a' was cosh† within.

And first he sang a low, low note,
And syne he sang a clear;
And aye the o'erword o' the sang

Was-"Your love can no win here."

"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',
The wine flows you amang,
While I gang to my shot-window,
And hear yon bonnie bird's sang.

"Sing on, sing on, my bonnie bird,
The sang ye sung yestreen;
For weel I ken by your sweet singing
Ye are frae my true love sen."

* "Pin:" Mr Motherwell's version reads "whin," or whin-bush, which seems a more appropriate resting-place for a bird than a pin; i. e., a door-pin.

+"Cosh:" quiet,

Oh, first he sang a merry sang,
And syne he sang a grave;

And syne he peck'd his feathers gray,
To her the letter gave.

"Have there a letter from Lord William; He says he's sent ye three;

He canna wait your love langer,
But for
your sake he'll die.'

"Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,
And brew his bridal ale,

And I shall meet him at Mary's kirk,
Lang, lang ere it be stale."

The lady's gane to her chamber,
And a moanfu' woman was she;
As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash,*
And were about to die.

"A boon, a boon, my father dear, A boon I beg of thee!"

"Ask not that paughty Scottish lord, For him you ne'er shall see.

"But for your honest asking else, Weel granted it shall be.'

"Then, gin I die in Southern land, In Scotland gar bury me.

"And the first kirk that ye come to
Ye's gar the mass be sung,

And the next kirk that ye come to
Ye's the bells be rung.
gar

* "Brash :" sickness.

"And when ye come to St Mary's kirk,
Ye's tarry there till night."
And so her father pledged his word,
And so his promise plight.

She has ta'en her to her bigly bower
As fast as she could fare;

And she has drank a sleepy draught
That she had mix'd wi' care.

And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek,
That was sae bright of blee,
And she seem'd to be as surely dead
As any one could be.

Then spak her cruel step-minnie,
"Tak ye the burning lead,
And drap a drap on her bosome,
To try if she be dead."

They took a drap o' boiling lead, They drapp'd it on her breast; "Alas! alas!" her father cried,

66

She's dead without the priest.'

She neither chatter'd with her teeth,
Nor shiver'd with her chin;
"Alas! alas!" her father cried,

Then up arose her seven brethren,

And hew'd to her a bier; They hew'd it frae the solid aik, Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.

Then up and gat her seven sisters,
And sewed to her a kell;

And every steek that they put in
Sewed to a siller bell.

The first Scots kirk that they cam to,
They garr'd the bells be rung;
The next Scots kirk that they cam to,
They garr'd the mass be sung.

But when they cam to St Mary's kirk,
There stude spearmen all on a raw;
And up and started Lord William,
The chieftane amang them a'.

Set down, set down the bier," he said; "Let me look her upon :"

But as soon as Lord William touched her hand,

Her colour began to come.

She brighten'd like the lily flower,

Till her pale colour was gone; With rosy cheek, and ruby lip, She smiled her love upon.

"A morsel of your bread, my lord,
And one glass of your wine:

For I hae fasted these three lang days,
All for your sake and mine.

"Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers!

Gae hame and blaw your

horn!

I trow ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,
But I've gi'en you the scorn.

"Commend me to my gray father,
That wish'd my saul gude rest;
But wae be to my cruel step-dame,
Gar'd burn me on the breast."

"Ah! woe to you, you light woman!
An ill death may you die!

For we left father and sisters at hame
Breaking their hearts for thee."

THE JOLLY GOSS-HAWK.

MOTHERWELL'S VERSION.

"OH, well is me, my jolly goss-hawk,
That ye can speak and flee;
For ye can carry a love letter
To my true love from me."

"Oh, how can I carry a

letter to her,

When her I do not know;

I bear the lips to her never spak,

And the eyes that her never saw."

The thing of my love's face that's white,

Is that of dove or maw;

The thing of my love's face that's red,
Is like blood shed on snaw.

"And when you come to the castel,
Light on the bush of ash;

And sit you there and sing our loves,
As she comes from the mass.