The fairest part of my body
is blacker than thy heel;
Yet ne ertheless, now Gill Morice
for a’ thy great beauty,
Ye’s rue the day that ye was born,
that head shall gae with me
Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
and slait it on the straw,
And through Gill Morice’s fair body
he’s gard can d iron gae
And he has ta en Gill Morice’s head,
and set it on a spear;
The meanest man in a’ his train,
has got the head to bear,
And he has ta en Gill Morice up,
laid him across his steed
And brought him to his painted bower,
and laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castle wa’,
beheld baith dale and down,
And there she saw Gill Morice head
come trailing to the town
Far mair I lo’e that bloody bead,
but and that bloody hair,
Than Lord Barnard and a’ his lands,
as they lie here and there
And she has ta’en Gill Morice:
