VI
Then up and spake the popinjay
That flew abune her head:
‘Lady, keep well your green cleiding[237]
Frae good Young Hunting’s bleid!’—
VII
‘O better I’ll keep my green cleiding
Frae good Young Hunting’s bleid
Than thou canst keep thy clattering tongue
That trattles in thy head.’
VIII
‘O lang, lang is the winter’s night,
And slowly daws[238] the day!
There lies a dead man in my bower,
And I wish he were away.’
IX
She has call’d upon her bower-maidens,
She has call’d them ane by ane:
‘There lies a dead man in my bower,
I wish that he were gane.’
X
They have booted and spurr’d Young Hunting
As he was wont to ride—
A hunting-horn about his neck,
And a sharp sword by his side;
And they’ve had him to the wan water,
Where a’ men ca’s it Clyde.