"I'll take a pitcher in ilka hand,
And do me to the well,50
They'll think I'm one of your maidens,
Or think it is your sell."
She has gien him her gown, her gown,
Her petticoat and kirtle,
Her broadest belt wi' silver clasp,55
To bind about his middle.
He's taen a pitcher in ilka hand,
And dane him to the well,
They thought him one of her maidens,
They ken'd it was nae hersell.60
Said one of the Southron foragers,
"See ye yon lusty dame?
I wou'd nae gie muckle to thee, neebor,
To bring her back agen."
Then all the Southrons follow'd him,65
And sure they were but four;
But he has drawn his trusty brand,
And slew them pair by pair.
He threw the pitchers frae his hands,
And to the hills fled he,70
Until he cam to a fair may,
Was washin' on yon lea.
"What news, what news, ye weel far'd may?
What news hae ye to gie?"
"Ill news, ill news," the fair may said,75
"Ill news I hae to thee.
"There is fyften English sogers
Into that thatched inn,
Seeking Sir William Wallace;
I fear that he is slain."80
"Have ye any money in your pocket?
Pray lend it unto me,
And when I come this way again,
Repaid ye weel shall be."