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And many were the green-wood flowers
Upon that grave that grew, And marvell'd much that bonny boy
To see their lovely hue.
' What's paler than the primrose wan ?
What 's redder than the rose ? What's fairer than the lilye flower
On this wee know that grows ?'—
O out and answer'd Jellon Grame,
And he spak hastilie: ' Your mother was a fairer flower,
And lies beneath this tree.
' More pale she was, when she sought my grace,
Than primrose pale and wan ; And redder than rose her ruddy heart's blood,
That down my broadsword ran.'—
Wi' that the boy has bent his bow,
It was baith stout and lang; And thro' and thro' him, Jellon Grame,
He gar'd an arrow gang.
xxi Says,—' Lie ye there, now, Jellon Grame !
My malisoun gang you wi'! The place that my mother lies buried in
Is far too good for thee.'
wee know] little hillock.