Obrazy na stronie

« 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;
The meinest man in a his train,

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,
And the lov'd music of her youth, alarms;
A godlike race sustain'd fair England's

fame :
Who has not heard of gallant Piercy's name?
Ay, and of DOUGLAS? Such illustrious foes
In rival Rome and Carthage never rose!

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.

This night a DOUGLAs your protection claims ;
A wife! a mother! Pity's softest names:
The story of her woes indulgent hear,
And grant your suppliant all she begs, a tear.
In confidence she begs; and hopes to find
Each English breast, like noble Piercy's, kind.

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