‘Ryde on, ryde on, ye rank rydars,
Your steeds are stout and strang,
For out o the yowe-buchts I winna gae,
For fear that ye do me some wrang.’
5
He took her by the milk-white hand,
And by the green gown-sleive,
And thare he took his will o her,
Bot o her he askit nae leive.
6