Then up and spake the bauld baron, He has tane the table wi his foot, Till crystal cup and ezar dish In flinders he gard flie. "Gae bring a robe of your cliding, "Wi a the haste ye can, "And I'll gae to the gude grenewode, "And speik wi your leman." O bide at hame now lord Barnard! Neir wyte a man for violence, Child Maurice sat in the grenewode, The baron to the grenewode cam, Wi meikle dule and care; And there he first spyd Child Maurice, Kaming his yellow hair. Nae wonder, nae wonder, Child Maurice, My lady loes thee weil : The fairest part of my body · Is blacker than thy heil. Yet neir the less now, Child Maurice, For a thy great bewtie, Ye'se rew the day ye eir 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, The meinest man in a his train, And he has tane Child Maurice up, 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, "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 "Wi meikle sin and shame ; "I brocht ye up in the grenewode "Ken'd to mysel alane: "Aft have I by thy craddle sitten, 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, "Obraid me not, my lord Barnard ! 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 • Eneuch of bluid by me's been spilt, Seek not your dethe frae me ; I'd rather far it had been mysel, Wi hopeless wae I hear your plaint, 'Dry up your teirs, my winsome dame, They neir can heal the wound; Ye see his heid upon the speir, 'I curse the hand that did the deid, I'll aye lament for Child Maurice I'll neir forget the dreiry day • On which the youth was slain.' PROLOGUE. IN antient times, when Britain's trade was arms, A godlike race sustain'd fair England's fame : When powerful fate decreed one warrior's doom, Um whose arms had shook its firmest tow`r. |