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CLERK COLVEN |
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VIII
' But out ye tak' your little pen-knife, And frae my sark ye shear a gare ;
Row that about your lovely head,
And the pain ye'll never feel nae mair.:
IX
Out he has ta'en his little pen-knife, And frae her sark he 's shorn a gare;
She 's ty'd it round his whey-white face, But and ay his head it aked mair.
x
' Ohone, alas ! says Clerk Colven,
O sairer, sairer akes my head ! '— ' And sairer, sairer ever will,
And aye be war' till ye be dead.'
XI
Then out he drew his shining blade And thought wi' it to be her deid,
But she's become a fish again, And merrily sprang into the fleed.
XII
He's mounted on his berry-brown steed, And dowie, dowie rade he hame,
And heavily, heavily lighted down When to his ladie's bower he came.
XIII
' O mither, mither, mak' my bed, And, gentle ladie, lay me down ;
O brither, brither, unbend my bow, 'Twill never be bent by me again! '
gare] gore, strip. row] roll, wrap. war'] worse. deid] death. fleed] flood. dowie] dolefully. 128 |
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