He had a rose into his hand,
He gave it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-brown bride,
Laid it on Annet’s knee.
XXVII
‘O wha is this, my father dear,
Blinks in Lord Thomas’s e’e?’—
‘O this Lord Thomas’s first true-love
Before he lovèd thee.’
XXVIII
Up then spake the nut-brown bride—
She spake wi’ mickle spite:
‘And where gat ye the rose-water
That washes thy face so white?’—
XXIX
‘O I did get my rose-water
Where ye will ne’er get nane,
For I did get that very rose-water
Into my mither’s wame[386].’
XXX
The bride she drew a long bodkin
Frae out her gay head-gear,
And strake Fair Annet to the heart,
That word spak’ never mair.