She fell low down on her knee:
‘It’s what’s your will wi me, May Margret,
And what makes all this courtesey?’
‘Naething, naething, my sovreign liege,
But grant me the life of Young Logie.’
6
‘O no, O no, May Margret,
No, in sooth it maun na be;
For the morn, or I taste meat or drink,
Hee hanged shall Young Logie be.’