Whom ye may not win near?”—
“I have not tint, at tournament,
My sword, nor yet my spear;
But sair I mourn for my true love,
Wi’ mony a bitter tear.
“But weel’s me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,
Ye can baith speak and flee;
Ye sall carry a letter to my love,
Bring an answer back to me.”—
“But how sall I your true love find,