Gill Morice

The Mournful Tragedy

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 errand, 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 o’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,
speer 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 cou’d ’bide a taunt.
As ye will see before ’tis night,
how sma’ ye ha’e to vaunt.
Now, sin’ I maun your errand rin,
fae 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 the 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 Green-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 up 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 be 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 man for violence,
that ne’er wyte ye wi’ nane.’
Gill Morice sits 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 saw 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’ his 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 sat n the castle-wa’,
beheld both dale and down.
And there she saw Gill Morice’ head
come trailing to the town!
 
Far mair I 1’e that bloody head,
but and that bloodv 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’ meikle sin and shame,
And brought thee up in good Green-wood,
under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sat,
and fondly seen thee sleep,
But now I’ll go about thy grave,
the sa’t tears for to weep.
And syne she kiss’d his bloody cheek,
and syne his bloody chin!
Better I l.’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 hand now take her life,
that ne’er to thee did ill.
To me nae after-days nor nights,
will e’er be fast 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 that bore me wi’ sie speed
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!

1814 T. Johnston “The Mournful Tragedy of Gill Morice, an Old Scots Ballad.” [FM & NLS]