"Now, come to me, my little page,
"Of wit sae wond'rous sly!
"Ne'er under flower, o' youthfu' age,
"Did mair destruction lie.
"I'll dance and revel wi' the rest,
"Within this castle rare;
"Yet he sall rue the drearie feast,
"Bot and his lady fair.
"For ye maun drug Kirkpatrick's wine,
"Wi' juice o' poppy flowers;
"Nae mair he'll see the morning shine
"Frae proud Caerlaveroc's towers.
"For he has twin'd my love and me,
"Ihe maid of mickle scorn—
"She'll welcome, wi' a tearfu' e'e,
"Her widowhood the morn.
"And saddle weel my milk-white steed,
"Prepare my harness bright!
"Giff I can mak my rival bleed,
"I'll ride awa this night."
"Now haste ye, master, to the ha'!
"The guests are drinking there;
"Kirkpatrick's pride sall be but sma',
"For a' his lady fair."
In came the merry minstrelsy;
Shrill harps wi' tinkling string,
And bag-pipes, lilting melody,
Made proud Caerlaveroc ring.