"Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,

My lady loed thee weel;

The fairest part of my bodie

Is blacker than thy heel.

"Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice, For a' thy great beautie,

Ze 's rew the day ze eir was born;

That head sall gae wi' me."

Now he has drawn his trusty brand,

And slait it on the strae ;

And thro' Gill Morice' fair body

He's gar cauld iron gae.

115

120

And he has tain Gill Morice' head,

125

And set it on a speir:

The meanest man in a' his train

Has gotten that head to bear.

His brow was like the mountain snae
Gilt by the morning beam;
His cheeks like living roses glow;
His een like azure stream.

The boy was clad in robes of grene,
Sweete as the infant spring;
And like the mavis on the bush,
He gart the vallies ring.

125 That sweetly wavd around his face,
That face beyond compare;

He sang sae sweet, it might dispel
A' rage but fell dispair.

122, slaited.

And he has tain Gill Morice up,
Laid him across his steid,

And brocht him to his painted bowr,

And laid him on a bed.

130

Bot and that zellow hair,

Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,

As they lig here and thair."

And she has tain her Gill Morice,
And kissd baith mouth and chin:
"I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
As the hip is o' the stean.

"I got ze in my father's house,

Wi' mickle sin and shame;

I brocht thee up in gude green wode,
Under the heavy rain.

"Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,

And fondly seen thee sleip;
Bot now
I gae about thy grave, 、
The saut tears for to weip."

140

145

150

And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
And syne his bluidy chin:
"O better I loe my Gill Morice

66

Than a' my kith and kin !"

'Away, away, ze il woman,

And an ill deith mait ze dee: Gin I had ken'd he'd bin zour son, He'd neir bin slain for mee."

177" Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
Obraid me not for shame!

Wi' that saim speir, O pierce my heart!
And put me out o' pain.

"Since nothing bot Gill Morice' head
Thy jelous rage could quell,

Let that saim hand now tak hir life
That neir to thee did ill.

"To me nae after days nor nichts
Will eir be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind."

"Enouch of blood by me 's bin spilt,
Seek not zour death frae me;
I rather lourd it had been my sel
Than eather him or thee.

"With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;

Sair, sair I rew the deid,

That eir this cursed hand of mine

Had gard his body bleid.

155

160

"Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, Ze neir can heal the wound;

Ze see his head upon the speir,
His heart's blude on the ground.

"I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
The comely zouth to kill.

"I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
As gin he were mine ain;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day

On which the zouth was slain."

CHILD NORYCE.

From Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 282.

"By testimony of a most unexceptionable description, but which it would be tedious here to detail,— the Editor can distinctly trace this ballad as existing in its present shape at least a century ago, which carries it decidedly beyond the date of the first printed copy of Gil Morice; and this with a poem which has been preserved but by oral tradition, is no mean positive antiquity."

In the Introduction to his collection, Motherwell mentions his having found a more complete copy of this ballad under the title of Babe Nourice.

CHILD NORYCE is a clever young man,

He wavers wi' the wind;

His horse was silver shod before,

With the beaten gold behind.