‘Light down, light down, Lady Margret,’ he said,
‘And hold my steed in your hand,
Until that against your seven brethren bold,
And your father, I mak’ a stand.’
VI
O, there she stood, and bitter she stood,
And never did shed one tear,
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa’,
And her father, who lov’d her so dear.
VII
‘O hold your hand, Lord William!’ she said,
‘For your strokes they are wondrous sair;
True lovers I can get many an ane,
But a father I can never get mair.’
VIII
O she’s ta’en out her handkerchief,
It was o’ the holland sae fine,
And aye she dighted[284] her father’s wounds,
That were redder than the wine.
IX
‘O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margret,’ he said,
‘O whether will ye gang or bide?’
‘I’ll gang, I’ll gang, Lord William,’ she said,
‘For ye’ve left me no other guide.’