To me nae after days nor nights,
will e’er be safe 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 mysel,
than either him or thee
With wae so wae I hear your ’plaint
sair sair 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 his 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 that bore me wi sie speed,
the comely youth to kill;
I’ll aye lament for Gill Morice,
as gin he were mine ain.
I’ll ne’er forget the dreary day
on which the youth was slain.
FINIS
