William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
The Gay GoshawkAnonymous
O
That he can speak and flee;
He’ll carry a letter to my love,
Bring back another to me.’
Or how can I her know?
Whan frae her mouth I never heard couth,
Nor wi’ my eyes her saw.’
As soon as you her see;
For, of a’ the flowrs in fair Englan’,
The fairest flowr is she.
There grows a bowing birk,
And sit ye down and sing thereon
As she gangs to the kirk.
Will wash and go to kirk,
But well shall ye my true-love ken,
For she wears goud on her skirt.
Will to the mass repair,
But well sal ye my true-love ken,
For she wears goud on her hair.’
There grows a bowing birk,
And she sat down and sang thereon,
As she ged to the kirk.
The wine flows you among,
Till I gang to my shot-window,
An’ hear yon bonny bird’s song.
The song ye sang the streen,
For I ken by your sweet singin’,
You’re frae my true-love sen’.’
An’ then he sang a grave;
An’ then he peck’d his feathers grey,
To her the letter gave.
He says he sent you three;
He canno wait your love langer,
But for your sake he’ll die.
He says he’s sent you five;
He canna wait your love langer,
Tho you’re the fairest woman alive.’
And brew his bridal ale,
An’ I’ll meet him in fair Scotlan’
Lang, lang or it be stale.’
Fa’n low down on her knee:
‘A boon, a boon, my father dear,
I pray you, grant it me.’
And granted it sal be;
Except ae squire in fair Scotlan’,
An’ him you sall never see.’
That I do crave of thee,
Is, gin I die in southin’ lans,
In Scotland to bury me.
Ye gar the bells be rung,
An the nextin’ kirk that ye come till,
Ye gar the mess be sung.
You deal gold for my sake,
An’ the fourthin’ kirk that ye come till,
You tarry there till night.’
As fast as she coud fare,
An’ she has tane a sleepy draught,
That she had mixed wi’ care.
An’ soon she’s fa’n asleep,
And soon o’er every tender limb
Cauld death began to creep.
Nae ane that did her see
But thought she was as surely dead
As ony lady coud be.
Gard make to her a bier;
The tae half was o’ guid red gold,
The tither o’ silver clear.
Gard work for her a sark;
The tae half was o’ cambrick fine,
The tither o’ needle wark.
They gard the bells be rung,
And the nextin’ kirk that they came till,
They gard the mess be sung.
They dealt gold for her sake,
An’ the fourthin’ kirk that they came till,
Lo, there they met her make!
Lat me the dead look on;
Wi’ cherry ckeeks and ruby lips
She lay an’ smiled on him.
An’ ae glass o’ your wine,
For I hae fasted for your sake
These fully days is nine.
Gang hame and sound your horn;
An’ ye may boast in southin’ lans
Your sister’s play’d you scorn.’