‘O wae be to you, George Gordon!
An ill death may you die!
So safe and sound as you stand there,
And my lord bereaved for me!’—
XXIII
‘I bad him loup, I bad him come,
I bad him loup to me;
I’d catch him in my arms twa,
A foot I should not flee.
XXIV
‘He threw me the rings from his white fingers,
Which were so long and small,
To give to you, his lady fair,
Where you sat in your hall.’
XXV
Sophia Hay[1267], Sophia Hay,
O bonny Sophia was her name,
Her waiting maid put on her cloaths,
But I wot she tore them off again!
XXVI
And aft she cried, ‘Ohon! alas!
A sair heart’s ill to win;
I wan a sair heart when I married him,
And to-day it’s return’d again.’