XXIII
When days were gane, and months were run,
Rose the Red took travailing;
And sair she cried for a bow’r-woman,
Her pine[396] to wait upon.
XXIV
Then out it spake him Brown Robin:
‘Now what needs a’ this din?
For what cou’d any woman do
But I cou’d do the same?’—
XXV
‘It was never my mither’s fashion,
Nor sall it e’er be mine,
That belted Knights shou’d e’er stand by
Where ladies dreed[397] their pine.
XXVI
‘But tak’ ye up my bugle-horn,
And blaw three blasts for me;
I’ve a brither in the Kingis court
Will come me quickly ti’.’—
XXVII
‘O gin ye hae a brither on earth
That ye love better nor me,
Ye blaw the horn yoursel’,’ he says,
‘For ae blast I’ll not gie.’