* * * * *
7 The knights were wringin their white fingers,
And the ladys wer tearin their hair;
It was a' for the lady o Livingstone,
For a word she never spake mare.
8 Out and spake her sister Hellen,
Where she sat by her side;
'The man shall never be born,' she said,
'Shall ever make me his bride.
9 'The man,' she said, 'that would merry me,
I'de count him but a feel,
To merry me at Whitsunday,
And bury me at Yele.'
10 Out and spak her mother dear,
Whare she sat by the fire:
'I bare this babe now from my side,
Maun suffer her to die.
11 'And I have six boys now to my oyes,
And none of them were born,
But a hole cut in their mother's side,
And they from it were shorne.'
12 . . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
E
Motherwell's MS., p. 123, from the recitation of Mrs Macqueen, Lochwinnoch.
1 'Arise, arise, dochter,' she said,
'My bidding to obey;
The bravest lord in all Scotland
This night asked you of me.'