Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Scottish ballads

380
And shuit the silver bolt, that keips
Sae fast your paintit bouirs."
And first she wet hir comely cheiks,
And then hh' boddice grene ;
Hh- silken cords of twirtle twist,
Weil plat wi' silver schene ;
And apron set wi' raony a dice
Of needle wark sae rare,
Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess,
Saif that of Fairly fair.
And he has ridden ower muir and moss,
Ower hills, and mony a glen,
When he cam to a woundit knicht,
Making a heavy mane :
" Here maun I lye, here maun I die.
By treachery's false guyles ;
Witless I was that e'er gaif faith
To wicked woman's smyles !"
" Sir knicht, gin ye war in my bouir.
To lean on silken seat.
My ladye's kindly care you'd prove,
Wha neir kend deidly hate ;
Herself wald watch ye all the day,
Hir maids at deid of nicht.
And Fairly fair your heart wald cheir,
As sho stands in your sicht.
Arise, young knicht, and mount your steid,
Full lown's * the shinand day ;
Cheis frae my menyie f whom you pleis,
To leid you on the way."
With smyleless luik and visage wan,
The woundit knicht replyed,
* Calm, witliout windc
t Retinue; more usually, power of numbers.