Affrighted then they did behold
His body turning into mould,
And though he had a month been dead,
This handkerchief was about his head.
105 This thing unto her then they told,
And the whole truth they did unfold;
She was thereat so terrified
And grieved, that she quickly died.
Part not true love, you rich men, then;
110 But, if they be right honest men
Your daughters love, give them their way,
For force oft breeds their lives decay.
SIR ROLAND.
From Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. 124.
This fragment, Motherwell tells us, was communicated to him by an ingenious friend, who remembered having heard it sung in his youth. He does not vouch for its antiquity, and we have little or no hesitation in pronouncing it a modern composition.
Whan he cam to his ain luve's bouir,
He tirled at the pin,
And sae ready was his fair fause luve
To rise and let him in.
5 "O welcome, welcome, Sir Roland," she says,
"Thrice welcome thou art to me;
For this night thou wilt feast in my secret bouir,
And to-morrow we'll wedded be."