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THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. 117
Until that against your seven brethren bold, And your father, I make a stand."— *
She held his steed in her milk-white hand,
And never shed one tear, Until that she saw her seven brethren fa',
And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.
" 0 hold your hand, Lord William! " she said, 26 " For your strokes they are wondrous sair;
True lovers I can get many a ane, But a father I can never get mair."—
0 she's ta'en out her handkerchief,
It was o' the holland sae fine, so
And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds,
That were redder than the wine.
" O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said, " O whether will ye gang or bide ? "—
" I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, 35 " For you have left me no other guide."—
He's lifted her on a milk-white steed.
And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And slowly they baith rade away. « |
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