|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
278 THE GAY GOSS-HAWK.
" I have not tint, at tournament,
My sword nor yet my spear; 10
But sair I mourn for my true love,
Wi' mony a bitter tear.
" But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-liawk,
Ye can baith speak and flee ; Ye sail carry a letter to my love, w
Bring an answer back to me."
" But how sail I your true love find,
Or how suld I her know ? I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,
An eye that ne'er her saw." so
" O weel sail ye my true love ken,
Sae sune as ye her see; For, of a' the flowers of fair England,
The fairest flower is she.
" The red, that's on my true love's cheek, »
Is like blood-drops on the snaw; The white, that is on her breast bare,
Like the down o' the white sea-maw
" And even at my love's bouer-door
There grows a flowering birk; x
And ye maun sit and sing thereon As she gangs to the kirk.