« السابقةمتابعة »
Then up and spake the bauld baron,
An angry man was he:
Sae has he wi his knie,
In flinders he gard flie.
" Gae bring a robe of your cliding,
66 Wia the haste ye can, " And I'll gae to the gude grenewode,
". And speik wi your leman."
O bide at hame now lord Barnard !
• I ward ye bide at hame ; · Neir wyte a man for violence,
• Wha neir wyte ye wi nane.'
Child Maurice sat in the grenewode,
He whistled and he sang : “ O what meins a the folk coming?
“ My nother tarries lang,"
Wi meikle dule and care;
Kaming his yellow hair. • Nae wonder, nae wonder, Child Maurice,
My lady loes thee weil : « The fairest part of my body
• Is blacker than thy heil.
* Yet reir the less now, Child Maurice,
• For a thy great bewtie,
• Ye’se rew the day ye eir was born;
• That heid sall gae wi me.'
Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
And slaided owr the strae; And throuch Child Maurice fair body
He gar'd the cauld iron gae.
And he has tane Child Maurice heid,
And set it on a speir;
Has gotten that heid to beir.
And he has tane Child Maurice up,
Laid him across his steid; And brocht him to his painted bower
And laid him on a bed.
The lady on the castle wa
Beheld baith dale and down; And there she saw Child Maurice heid
Cum trailing to the toun.
“ Better I loe that bluidy heid,
“ Bot and that yellow hair, “ Than lord Barnard and a his lands
“ As they lig here and there,
And she has tane Child Maurice heid,
And kissed baith cheik and chin; " I was anes fow of Child Maurice
“ As the hip is o the stanc.
“ I gat ye in my father's house
66 Wi mcikle sin and shame;
“ I brocht ye up in the grenewode
" Ken’d to mysel alane :
“ Aft have I by thy craddle sitten,
“ And fondly sein thee sleip; " But now I maun gae 'bout thy grave
“ A mother's teirs to weip."
Again she kiss'd his bluidy cheik,
Again his bluidy chin; “ O better I looed my son Maurice,
“ Than a my kyth and kin!"
• Awa, awa, ye ill woman, • An ill dethe may ye
die! • Gin I had ken'd he was your son
• He had neir bein slayne by me.'
" Obraid me not, my lord Barnard !
" Obraid me not for shame! • Wi that sam spier, Operce my heart,
" And save me frae my pain !
“ Since naething but Child Maurice heid
Thy jealous rage cold quell • Let that same hand now tak her lyfe,
" That neir to thee did ill.
“ To mie nae after days nor nichts
" Willeir be saft or kind: " I'll fill the air with heavy sichs,
“ And greit till I be blind."
• Encuch of bluid by me's been spilt,
• Seek not your dethe frae me;
• I'd rather far it had been mysel,
• Than either himn or thee.
• Wi hopeless wae I hear your plaint,
• Sair, sair, I rue the deid. • That eir this cursed hand of mine
Sold gar his body bleid!
• Dry up your teirs, my winsome dame,
They neir can heal the wound; " Ye see his heid upon the speir,
· His heart's bluid on the ground.
"I curse the hand that did the deid,
· The heart that thocht the ill, • The feet that bare me wi sic speid,
• The comely youth to kill. • I'll aye lament for Child Maurice
• As gin he war my ain; • I'll ne'er forget the dreary day • On which the youth was
IN ancient times, when Britain's trade was arms,