Anonymous: Gil Morice

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Gil Morice

By Anonymous

18th Century

Gil Morice was an erle's son,
His name it waxed wide;
It was na for his great riches,
Nor yet his meikle pride,
But it was for a lady gay
That liv'd on Carron side.
Whaur sall I get a bonnie boy
That will win hose and shoone:
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha'
And bid his lady come?
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha'
And bid his lady come?
And ye maun rin my errand, Willie.
And ye maim Ha wi' speed;
When ither boys gang on their feet
Ye sall hae prancin' steed.
When ither boys gang on their feet
Ye sall hae prancin' steed.
Oh no! oh no! my maister dear!
I daur na for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld baron's
For to tryst furth his wife.
I'll no gae to the bauld baron's
For to tryst furth his wife.
My burd Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie," he sayd,
How can ye strive against the stream?
For I sall be obey'd.
How can ye strive against the stream?
For I sall be obey'd.

* * * * *

And whan he cam to Barnard's yett,
Would neither chap nor ca';
But set his bent how to his breest,
And lichtly lap the wa'.
But set his bent how to his breest,
And lichtly lap the wa'.
He wadna tell the man his errand,
Though he stood at the yett;
But straight unto the ha' he cam,
Whaur they were set at meat.
But straight unto the ha' he cam,
Whaur they were set at meat.
Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
My message winna wait;
Dame, ye maun to the guide green wood,
Before that it be late.
Dame, ye maun to the guide green wood,
Before that it be late.
Ye're bidden tak this gay mantel,
'Tis a' qowd but the hem;
Ye maun gae to the guid green wood,
E'en by yoursel' alone.
Ye maun gae to the guid green wood,
E'en by yoursel' alone.
And there it is, a silken sark,
Your ain han' sewd the sleeve;
Ye maun gae speak to Gil Morice-
Speir nae bauld baron's leave.
Ye maun gae speak to Gil Morice-
Speir nae bauld baron's leave.
The lady stamped wi her fit,
And winked wi her e'e
But a' that she could say or do,
Forbidden he wadna be.
But a' that she could say or do,
Forbidden he wadna be.

* * * * *

Then up and spak the bauld baron,
An angry man was he
He's taen the table wi his fit,
Sae has he wi his knee-
Till crystal cup and czar dish,
In finders he gart flee.
Gae bring a robe o' your cleeding,
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the guid green wood,
And speak wi' your lemane.
And I'll gae to the guid green wood,
And speak wi' your lemane.
0 hide at home, noo Lord Barnard,
I redd ye hide at home;
Ne'er wyte a man for violence,
That ne'er wyte ye wi nane.
Ne'er wyte a man for violence,
That ne'er wyte ye wi nane.
Gil Morice sat in gitid green wood,
He whistled and he sang;
0 what means a' the folk comin'?
My mother tarries lang.
0 what means a' the folk comin'?
My mother tarries lang.
The baron to the green wood cam
Wi' meikle dule and care,
And there he spied Gil Morice
Kaimin' his yellow hair.
And there he spied Gil Morice
Kaimin' his yellow hair.
Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gil Morice,
My lady lo'es you weel;
The fairest part o' my body
Is blacker than your heel.
The fairest part o' my body
Is blacker than your heel.
Yet ne'er the less noo, Gil Morice,
For a' thy great heautie,
Ye'se rue the day ye e'er was born;
That held sall gae wi' me.
Ye'se rue the day ye e'er was born;
That held sall gae wi' me.
Then he has drawn his trusty brand,
An slait it on the strae,
And through Gil Morice's fair body
He gart cauld iron gae.
And through Gil Morice's fair body
He gart cauld iron gae.
And he has taen Gil Morice' heid,
Anti set it on a spair;
The meanest man im a' his train,
Has gotten that heid to bear.
The meanest man im a' his train,
Has gotten that heid to bear.
The lady, on the castle wa'
Beheld baith dale and doun;
And there she saw Gil Morice' heid,
Cum trailin' to the toun.
And there she saw Gil Morice' heid,
Cum trailin' to the toun.
Better I lo'e that bluidy heid,
Botand that yellow hair,
Than Lord Barnard and a' his lands,
As they lig here and there.
Than Lord Barnard and a' his lands,
As they lig here and there.
And syne she kiss'd his bluidy cheek,
And syne his bluidy chin;
0 better I lo'ed my son Morice
Than a' my kith and kin.
0 better I lo'ed my son Morice
Than a' my kith and kin.
Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
An ill death may ye dee;
Gin I had kenn'd he was your son,
He'd ne'er been slain by me.
Gin I had kenn'd he was your son,
He'd ne'er been slain by me.
I curse the hand that did the deed,
The heart that thocht the ill,
The feet that bore me wi' sic speed,
The comely youth to kill.
The feet that bore me wi' sic speed,
The comely youth to kill.
I'll aye lament for Gil Morice,
As gin he were my ain;
I'll ne'er forget the dreary day,
On which the youth was slain.
I'll ne'er forget the dreary day,
On which the youth was slain.

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