(8)
Since naithing but Gill Morice head
thy jealous rage could quell,
Let that ſame haud now take her life,
that ne'er to thee did ill.
To me nae after-days nor nights,
will e'er be ſaft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy ſighs,
and greet till I am blind.
Enough of blood by me's been ſpilt,
ſeek not your death frae me;
I rather it had been myſel',
than either him or thee.
With wae ſo wae I hear your plaint,
feir, fair I rue the deed,
That e'er this curſed hand of mine
did gar his body bleed.
Dry up your tears, my winſome dame,
ye ne'er can heal the wound;
You ſee this head upon my ſpear,
his heart's ⟨blood⟩ ⟨on⟩ the ground!
I curſe the hand that did the deed,
the heart that thought the ill,
The feet chat bore me wi' ſic ſpeech
the comely youth to kill!
I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
as gin he were my ain;
I'll ne'er forget the dreary day
on which the youth was ſlain!
F I N I S.
