I never was on English ground,
Ne never sawe it with mine eye,130
But as my book it sheweth mee,
And through my ring I may descrye.
My mother shee was a witch ladye,
And of her skille she learned[958] mee;
She wold let me see out of Lough-leven135
What they did in London citìe.
But who is yond, thou lady faire,
That looketh with sic an austerne[959] face?
Yonder is Sir John Foster,[960] quoth shee,
Alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace.140
He pulled his hatt down over his browe;
He wept; in his heart he was full of woe:
And he is gone to his noble Lord,
Those sorrowful tidings him to show.
Now nay, now nay, good James Swynàrd,145
I may not believe that witch ladìe:
The Douglasses were ever true,
And they can ne'er prove false to mee.
I have now in Lough-leven been
The most part of these years three,150
Yett have I never had noe outrake,[961]
Ne no good games that I cold see.
Therefore I'll to yond shooting wend,
As to the Douglas I have hight:[962]
Betide me weale, betide me woe,155
He ne'er shall find my promise light.
He writhe[963] a gold ring from his finger,
And gave itt to that gay ladìe:
Sayes, It was all that I cold save,
In Harley woods where I cold bee.[964]160
And wilt thou goe, thou noble lord,
Then farewell truth and honestìe;
And farewell heart and farewell hand;
For never more I shall thee see.
The wind was faire, the boatmen call'd,165
And all the saylors were on borde;
Then William Douglas took to his boat,
And with him went that noble lord.