The baron came to the grene wode,
Wi' mickle dule and care,
And there he first spied Gill Morìce
Kameing his yellow hair:
[That sweetly wavd around his face, 125
That face beyond compare:
He sang sae sweet it might dispel,
A' rage but fell despair.][253]
Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morìce,
My lady loed thee weel, 130
The fairest part of my bodie
Is blacker than thy heel.
Yet neir the less now, Gill Morìce,
For a' thy great beautiè,
Ye's rew the day ye eir was born; 135
That head sall gae wi' me.
Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
And slaited on the strae;[254]
And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
He's gar cauld iron gae. 140
And he has tain Gill Morice' head
And set it on a speir;
The meanest man in a' his train
Has gotten that head to bear.
And he has tain Gill Morice up, 145
Laid him across his steid,
And brocht him to his painted bowr
And laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castil wa',
Beheld baith dale and doun; 150
And there she saw Gill Morice' head
Cum trailing to the toun.
Far better I loe that bluidy head,
Both and that yellow hair,
Than lord Barnard, and a' his lands, 155
As they lig here and thair.
And she has tain her Gill Morice,
And kissd baith mouth and chin:
I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
As the hip is o' the stean.[255] 160
I got ye in my father's house,
Wi' mickle sin and shame;
I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
Under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, 165
And fondly seen thee sleip;
But now I gae about thy grave,
The saut tears for to weip.
And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
And syne his bluidy chin: 170
O better I loe my Gill Morice
Than a' my kith and kin!
Away, away, ye ill womàn,
And an il deith mait ye dee:
Gin I had kend he'd bin your son, 175
He'd neir bin slain for mee.
[Obraid me not, my lord Barnard!
Obraid me not for shame!
Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart!
And put me out o' pain. 180
Since nothing bot Gill Morice head
Thy jelous rage could quell,
Let that saim hand now tak hir life,
That neir to thee did ill.
To me nae after days nor nichts 185
Will eir be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.
Enouch of blood by me's bin spilt,
Seek not your death frae mee; 190
I rather lourd it had been my sel
Than eather him or thee.
With waefo wae I hear your plaint;
Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand of mine 195
Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up your tears, my winsome dame,
Ye neir can heal the wound;
Ye see his head upon the speir,
His heart's blude on the ground. 200