The book of British ballads . del. J 04 m\ ifflorrfa. FV1 111 I Again she kissd his bluidy cheik, Again his bluidy chin; O better I loed my son Morrice, Than a my kyth and kin ! Awa, awa, ye ill woman, An ill dethe may ye die!Gin I had kend he was your son, He had neir been slayne by me! Obraid me not, my lord Barnard,Obraid me not for shame ! Wi that same speir, O perce my heart,And save me frae my pain ! Since naething but Gil Morrice headThy 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 be saft or kind ;I 11

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The book of British ballads . del. J 04 m\ ifflorrfa. FV1 111 I Again she kissd his bluidy cheik, Again his bluidy chin; O better I loed my son Morrice, Than a my kyth and kin ! Awa, awa, ye ill woman, An ill dethe may ye die!Gin I had kend he was your son, He had neir been slayne by me! Obraid me not, my lord Barnard,Obraid me not for shame ! Wi that same speir, O perce my heart,And save me frae my pain ! Since naething but Gil Morrice headThy 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 be saft or kind ;I 11 fill the air wi heavy sichs, And greit till I be blind. Eneuch of bluid by mes been spilt,Seek not your dethe frae me ; Id rather far it had been mysel,Than either him or thee. Wi hopeless wae I hear your plaint,Sair, sair, I rue the deed— That eir this cursed hand of mineSold gar his body bleid ! Dry up your teirs, my winsome dame,They neir can heal the wound ; Ye see his heid upon the spier,His hearts bluid on the

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