21 Wi that the boy has bent his bow,
It was baith stout and lang,
And through and thro him Jellon Grame
He's gard an arrow gang.
22 Says, Lye you thare now, Jellon Grame,
My mellison you wi;
The place my mother lies buried in
Is far too good for thee.
B
Motherwell's MS., p. 443.
1 Word has come to May Margerie,
In her bower where she sat:
'You are bid come to good green-wood,
To make your love a shirt.'
2 'I wonder much,' said May Margerie,
'At this message to me;
There is not a month gone of this year
But I have made him three.'
3 Then out did speak her mother dear,
A wise woman was she;
Said, Stay at home, my daughter May,
They seek to murder thee.
4 'O I'll cast off my gloves, mother,
And hang them up, I say;
If I come never back again,
They will mind you on May.
5 'Go saddle my horseback,' she said,
'It's quick as ever you may,
And we will ride to good green-wood;
It is a pleasant day.'