# Mournful tragedy of Gill Morice

THE
Mournful Tragedy
OF
Gill Morice,
AN
Old Scots Ballad.
Falkirk:—Printed by T. Johnston.
1814.
THE MOURNFUL
TRAGEDY OF GILL MORICE.
Gill Morice was an Earl's ſon, his name it waxed wide; It was not for his great riches, nor yet his meikle pride: His face was fair, lang was his hair, in the wild ⟨wood⟩ he ſtaid, But his fame was a fair lady that liv'd on Carron-ſide. Where will I get a ⟨bonny⟩ boy, that will win hoſe and ſhoon, That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha', and bid his Lady come? Ye maun rin this errard, Willie, and ye maun rin wi' pride, When other boys gae on their feet, on horſe-back ye ſhall ride. O no! O no! my maſter dear! I dare not for my life; I'll no gae to the bauld Baron's, for to tryſt forth his wife. My bird Willie, my boy Willie, my dear Willie, he ſaid, How can you ſtrive againſt the ſtream, for I ſhall be obey'd? ​But, Oh my maſter dear! he cry'd, in Green-wood ye're your lane; Gi’e d'er ſic thoughts, I wou'd ye red, for fear ye ſhou'd be ta'en. Haſte, haſte, I ſay, gae to the ha', bid her come here wi' ſpeed; If ye refuſe my high command, I'll gar thy body bleed. Gae bid her tak this gay mantle, 'tis a' gowd but the hem; Bid her come to the good Green-wood, and bring nane but her lane: And there it is, a ſilken ſark, her ain hand ſew'd the ſleeve, And bid her come to Gill Morice, ſpoer nae bauld Baron's leave. Yes, I will gae your black errand, though it be to thy coſt; Sin' ye by me will not be warn'd, in it ye ſhall find froſt: The Baron he's a man of might, he ne'er could 'bide a taunt, As ye will ſee before 'tis night, how ſma' ye ha'e' to vaunt. Now, ſin' I maun your errand rin, ſae fair againſt my will, I's make a vow, and keep it true, it ſhall be done for ill! ​And when he came to Broken-brigg, he bent his bow and ſwam; And when he came to graſs growing, ſet down his feet and ran. And when he came to Barnard's ha', wou'd neither chap nor ca', But ſet his bent bow to his breaſt, and lightly lap the wa'. He wou'd tell nae man his errand, tho' two ſtood at she gate, But ſtraight into the ha' he came, whar girt folks ſat at meat. Hail! hail! my gentle Sire and Dame! my meſſage winna wait; Dame ye maun to the Green-wood gang, before that it be late; Ye're bidden take this gay mantle, it's a' gowd but the hem; Ye maun go to the good Groen-wood, e'en by yourſel' alane: And there is a fine ſilken ſark, your ain hand ſew'd the ſleeve; Ye maun come ſpeak with Gill Morice, ſpeir nae bauld Baron's leave. The Lady ſtamped wi' her foot, and winked wi' her e'e, But a' that ſhe cou'd ſay or do, forbidden he wad nae be. ​It's ſurely to my bow'r woman, it ne'er cou'd be to me. I brought it to Lord Barnard's Lady, I true that ye be ſhe. Then and ſpake the wylie nurſe, (the bairn upon her knee,) If it be come from Gill Morice, 'tis dear welcome to me. Ye leid, ye leid, ye filthy nurſe, ſae loud's I hear ye lie! I brought it to Lord Barnard's Lady, I trow ye bs na ſhe. Then up and ſpake the bauld Baron, an angry man was he! He's tain the table wi' his foot, in flinders gart a' flee! Gae bring a ⟨robe⟩ of yon cleiding, that hangs upon the pin, And I'll gae to the good Green-wood, and ſpeak with your leman. O bide at hame, now Lord Barnard, I warn ye, bide at hame; Ne'er wyte a nan for violence, that ne'er wyte ye wi' nane. Gill Morice fits in good Green-wood, he whiſtl'd, and he ſang; O what means a' yon folk coming? my mother tarries lang. ​And when he came to good Green-wood, wi' meikle dule and care, It's there he law Gill Morice, kaiming his yellow hair. Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice, my Lady lo'ed thee well, The faireſt part of my body is blacker than thy heel! Yet, ne'ertheleſs, now Gill Morice, for a' thy great beauty, Ye's rue the day e'er ye was born, that head ſhall gae wi' me. Now he has drawn his truſty brand, and ſlait it on the ſtrae, And thro' Gill Morice fair body he's gard cauld iron gae! And he has ta'en Gill Morice' head and ſet it on a ſpear, The meaneſt man in a' ⟨this⟩ train has got that head to bear. And he has ta’en Gill Morice up, laid him acroſs his ſteid, And brought him to his painted bow'r, and laid him on a bed. The Lady fat on the caſtle-wa', beheld both dale and down, And there ſhe ſaw Gill Morice' head come trailing to the town! ​Far mair I ⟨lo'e⟩ that bloody head, but and that bloody hair, Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands, as they lie here and there. And ſhe has ta’en her Gill Morice, and kiſs'd ⟨both⟩ mouth and chin, I once was fu' ⟨of⟩ Gill Morice, as hip is o' the ſtane. I got thee in my father's houſe, wi' meikie ſin and ſhame, And brought thee up in good Green-wood, under the heavy rain. Oft have I by thy cradle ſat, and ſoudly ſeen thee ſleep, But now I'll go about thy grave, the fa't tears for to weep. And fyne ſhe kiſs'd his bloody cheek, and fyne his bloody chin! Better I ⟨lo'e⟩ ⟨my⟩ Gill Morice than a' my kith and kin. Away, away, ye ill woman! an ill death may ye die; Gin I had kend he'd been your ſon, he'd ne'er been ſlain for me. Upbraid me not, my ⟨Lord⟩ Barnard, upbraid me not for ſhame! Wi' that ſame ſpear, Oh, pierce my heart! and put me out of pain. ​Since naithing but Gill Morice head thy jealous rage could quell, Let that ſame haud now take her life, that ne'er to thee did ill. To me nae after-days nor nights, will e'er be ſaft or kind; I'll fill the air with heavy ſighs, and greet till I am blind. Enough of blood by me's been ſpilt, ſeek not your death frae me; I rather it had been myſel', than either him or thee. With wae ſo wae I hear your plaint, feir, fair I rue the deed, That e'er this curſed hand of mine did gar his body bleed. Dry up your tears, my winſome dame, ye ne'er can heal the wound; You ſee this head upon my ſpear, his heart's ⟨blood⟩ ⟨on⟩ the ground! I curſe the hand that did the deed, the heart that thought the ill, The feet chat bore me wi' ſic ſpeech the comely youth to kill! I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, as gin he were my ain; I'll ne'er forget the dreary day on which the youth was ſlain!
F I N I S.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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