And mickle dolour gar’d her drie[84],
For lighter[85] she can never be.
IV
But in her bower she sits wi’ pain,
And Willy mourns o’er her in vain.
V
And to his mither he has gane;
That vile rank witch of vilest kind.
VI
He says: ‘My ladie has a cup
Wi’ gowd and silver set about.
VII
‘This goodlie gift shall be your ain,
And let her be lighter o’ her young bairn.’—