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GIL MOBEICE. |
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" Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,
My lady loed thee weel ; The fairest part of my bodie
Is blacker than thy heel,
" Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice,
For a' thy great beautie, Ze 's rew the day ze eir was born;
That head sail gae wi' me."
Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
And slait it on the strae ; And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
He 's gar cauld iron gae.
And he has tain Gill Morice' head,
And set it on a speir: The meanest man in a' his train
Has gotten that head to bear.
His trow was like the mountain snae
Gilt by the morning beam; His cheeks like living roses glow;
His een like azure stream.
The boy was elad in robes of grene,
Sweete as the infant spring; And like the mavis on the bnsh,
He gart the vallies ring.
125 That sweetly wavd around his face, That face beyond compare; He sang sae sweet, it might dispel A' rage but fell dispair.
132, slaited. |
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