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« Ye'se rew the day ye ejr was born ;
That head sall gae wi me.'
Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
And slaided owr the strae; And throuch Child Maurice fair body
He gar'd the cauld iron gae.
And he has tane Child Maurice heid;
And set it on a speir;
Has gotten that heid to beir.
And he has tane Child Maurice up,
Laid him across his steid; And brocht him to his painted bower
And laid him on a bed.
The lady on the castle wa
Beheld baith dale and down ; And there she saw Child Maurice heid
Cum trailing to the toun.
Better I loe that bluidy heid,
« Bot and that yellow hair, 66 Than lord Barnard and a his lands
“ As they lig here and there."
And she has tane Child Maurice heid;
And kissed baith cheik and chin; " I was anes fow of Child Maurice
" As the hip is o the stane.'
" I gat ye in my father's house 6 Wi meikle sin and shame ;
“ I brocht ye up in the grenewode
« Ken'd to mysel alane:
“ Aft have I by thy craddle sitten,
“ And fondly sein thee sleip; “ But now I maun gae 'bout thy grave
“ A mother's teirs to weip."
Again she kiss'd his bluidy cheik,
Again his bluidy chin; “ O better I looed my son Maurice,
“ Than a my kyth and kin!”
( Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
An ill dethe may ye die ! ¢ Gin I had ken'd he was your son
" He had neir bein slayne by me.'
« Obraid me not, my lord Barnard !
" Obraid me not for shame! « Wi that sam speir, O perce my heart,
« And save me frae my pain !
“ Since naething but Child Maurice heid
“ Thy jealous rage cold quell « Let that same hand now tak her lyfe,
* That neir to thee did ill.
« To me nae after days nor nichts
« Will eir saft or kind: 6 I'll fill the air with heavy sichs, " And greit till I be blind.”
( Eneuch of bluid by me's been spilt,
Seek not your dethe frae me ;
" I'd rather far it had been mysel,
« Than either him or thee.
"Wi hopeless wae I hear your plaint,
• Sair, sair, I rue the deid." That eir this cursed hand of mine
Sold gar his body bleid !
Dry up your teirs, my winsome dame,
They neir can heal the wound; • Ye see his heid upon the speir,
( His heart's bluid on the ground.
! I curse the hand that did the deid,
" The heart that thocht the ill, « The feet that bare me wi sic speid,
• The comely youth to kill.
• I'll aye lament for Child Maurice
• As gin he war my ain; "I'll neir forget the dreiry day
• On which the youth was slain.'
IN antient times, when Britain's trade was arms,
age age bright shone the British fire, And
every hero was a herc's sire. When powerful fate decreed one warrior's doom, Up sprung the phænix
from his parent's tomb. But whilst those generous rivals fought and fell; Those generous rivals lov'd each other well: Tho' many a bloody field was lost and won, Nothing in hate, in honour all was done. When PIERCY wrong'd, defy'd his prince or peers, Fast came the DOUGLAS with his Scottish spears; And, when proud DOUGLAS made his King his foe, For DOUGLAS, Piercy bent his English bow. Expelld their native homes by adverse fate, They knock'd alternate at each other's gate: Then blaz'd the castle, at the midnight hour, For him whose arms had shook its firmest tow'r.