"Away, away, ye ill woman!
An ill death may you die,
Gin I had kenn'd he'd been your son,
He'd ne'er been slain by me."
"Upbraid me not, Lord Barnard,
Upbraid me not for shame!
Wi' that same spear, oh pierce my heart!
And put me out of pain;
Since naething but Gill Morice's head
Thy jealous rage could quell,
Let that same hand 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 from me;
I rather it had been mysell,
Than either him or thee.
With wae so wae I hear your 'plaint,
Sair, sair I rue the deed,
That e'er this eursed hand of mine
Did gar his body bleed.
Dry up your tears, my winsome dame,
Ye ne'er ean heal the wound
You see this head upon my spear,
His heart's blood on the ground.
I eurse the land that did the deed,
The heart that thought the ill,
The feet that bore me wi' sick speed,
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