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182 THE FIRE OP FRENDRATJGHT.
Wringing her hands, tearing her hair,
His lady she was seen, And thus addressed his servant Gordon,
Where he stood on the green.
'■ 0 wae be to you, George Gordon,
An ill death may you die ! So safe and sound as you stand there,
And my lord bereaved from me."
" I bad him loup, I bad him come,
I bad him loup to me; I'd catch him in my arms two,
A foot I should not flee. &c.
" He threw me the rings from his white fingers,
Which were so long and small, To give to you, his lady fair,
Where you sat in your hall." &c.
Sopliia Hay, Sophia Hay,
O bonny Sophia was her name,—
Her waiting maid put on her cloaths, But I wot she tore them off again.
And aft she cried, " Ohon ! alas, alas !
A sair heart's ill to win ; I wan a sair heart when I married him,
And the day it's well return'd again." |
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