I once was as fu’ of Gill Morice,
as hip is o the stane,
I got thee in my father’s house
wi muckle grief and shame .
And brought thee up in green wood,
under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sat,
and soundly seen thee sleep,
But now I’ll go about thy grave,
the sa t tears for to weep
And first she kiss d his bloody cheek
and syne his bloody chin;
Better I lo’e my Gill Morice,
than a’ my kith and kin
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,
