Yes, I will gae your black errand,
Though it be to your cost; 40
Sen ye by me will nae be warn'd,
In it ye sall find frost.
The baron he is a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt,
As ye will see before its nicht, 45
How sma' ye hae to vaunt.
And sen I maun your errand rin
Sae sair against my will,
I'se mak a vow and keip it trow,
It sall be done for ill. 50
[And quhen he came to broken brigue,
He bent his bow and swam;
And quhen he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran.
And quhen he came to Barnards ha', 55
Would neither chap[245] nor ca':
Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
And lichtly lap the wa'.][246]
He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
Though he stude at the gait; 60
Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
Quhair they were set at meit.
Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
My message winna waite;
Dame, ye maun to the gude grene wod 65
Before that it be late.
Ye're bidden tak this gay mantèl,
Tis a' gowd bot the hem:[244]
You maun gae to the gude grene wode,
Ev'n by your sel alane. 70
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Your ain hand sewd the sleive;
Ye maun gae speik to Gill Morìce;
Speir nae bauld barons leave.
The lady stamped wi' hir foot, 75
And winked wi' hir ee;
Bot a' that she coud say or do,
Forbidden he wad nae bee.
Its surely to my bow'r-womàn;
It neir could be to me. 80
I brocht it to lord Barnards lady;
I trow that ye be she.
Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
(The bairn upon hir knee)
If it be cum frae Gill Morice, 85
It's deir welcum to mee.
Ye leid, ye leid, ye filthy nurse,
Sae loud I heird ye lee;[247]
I brocht it to lord Barnards lady;
I trow ye be nae shee. 90
Then up and spack the bauld baròn,
An angry man was hee;
He's tain the table wi' his foot,
Sae has he wi' his knee;
Till siller cup and 'mazer'[248] dish 95
In flinders he gard flee.[249]
Gae bring a robe of your clidìng,[250]
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
And speik wi' your lemmàn. 100
O bide at hame, now lord Barnàrd,
I warde ye bide at hame;
Neir wyte[251] a man for violence,
That neir wate[252] ye wi' nane.
Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, 105
He whistled and he sang':
O what mean a' the folk comìng,
My mother tarries lang.
[His hair was like the threeds of gold,
Drawne frae Minervas loome: 110
His lipps like roses drapping dew,
His breath was a' perfume.
His brow was like the mountain snae
Gilt by the morning beam:
His cheeks like living roses glow: 115
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.] 120