Verse > Anthologies > William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. > The Book of Restoration Verse
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William Stanley Braithwaite, ed.  The Book of Restoration Verse.  1910.
 
The Gay Goshawk
Anonymous
 
O WELL’S 1 me o’ my gay goss-hawk,
  That he can speak and flee;
He’ll carry a letter to my love,
  Bring back another to me.’
 
‘O how can I your true-love ken,        5
  Or how can I her know?
Whan frae her mouth I never heard couth,
  Nor wi’ my eyes her saw.’
 
‘O well sal ye my true-love ken,
  As soon as you her see;        10
For, of a’ the flowrs in fair Englan’,
  The fairest flowr is she.
 
‘At even at my love’s bowr-door
  There grows a bowing birk,
And sit ye down and sing thereon        15
  As she gangs to the kirk.
 
‘And four-and-twenty ladies fair
  Will wash and go to kirk,
But well shall ye my true-love ken,
  For she wears goud on her skirt.        20
 
‘An’ four-and-twenty gay ladies
  Will to the mass repair,
But well sal ye my true-love ken,
  For she wears goud on her hair.’
 
O even at that lady’s bowr door        25
  There grows a bowing birk,
And she sat down and sang thereon,
  As she ged to the kirk.
 
‘O eat and drink, my marys a’,
  The wine flows you among,        30
Till I gang to my shot-window,
  An’ hear yon bonny bird’s song.
 
‘Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird,
  The song ye sang the streen,
For I ken by your sweet singin’,        35
  You’re frae my true-love sen’.’
 
O first he sang a merry song,
  An’ then he sang a grave;
An’ then he peck’d his feathers grey,
  To her the letter gave.        40
 
‘Ha, there’s a letter frae your love,
  He says he sent you three;
He canno wait your love langer,
  But for your sake he’ll die.
 
He bids you write a letter to him;        45
  He says he’s sent you five;
He canna wait your love langer,
  Tho you’re the fairest woman alive.’
 
‘Ye bid him bake his bridal bread,
  And brew his bridal ale,        50
An’ I’ll meet him in fair Scotlan’
  Lang, lang or it be stale.’
 
She’s doen her to her father dear,
  Fa’n low down on her knee:
‘A boon, a boon, my father dear,        55
  I pray you, grant it me.’
 
‘Ask on, ask on, my daughter,
  And granted it sal be;
Except ae squire in fair Scotlan’,
  An’ him you sall never see.’        60
 
‘The only boon, my father dear,
  That I do crave of thee,
Is, gin I die in southin’ lans,
  In Scotland to bury me.
 
‘An’ the firstin’ kirk that ye come till,        65
  Ye gar the bells be rung,
An the nextin’ kirk that ye come till,
  Ye gar the mess be sung.
 
‘And the thirdin’ kirk that ye come till,
  You deal gold for my sake,        70
An’ the fourthin’ kirk that ye come till,
  You tarry there till night.’
 
She is doen her to her bigly bowr,
  As fast as she coud fare,
An’ she has tane a sleepy draught,        75
  That she had mixed wi’ care.
 
She’s laid her down upon her bed,
  An’ soon she’s fa’n asleep,
And soon o’er every tender limb
  Cauld death began to creep.        80
 
Whan night was flown, an’ day was come,
  Nae ane that did her see
But thought she was as surely dead
  As ony lady coud be.
 
Her father an’ her brothers dear        85
  Gard make to her a bier;
The tae half was o’ guid red gold,
  The tither o’ silver clear.
 
Her mither an’ her sisters fair
  Gard work for her a sark;        90
The tae half was o’ cambrick fine,
  The tither o’ needle wark.
 
The firstin’ kirk that they came till,
  They gard the bells be rung,
And the nextin’ kirk that they came till,        95
  They gard the mess be sung.
 
The thirdin’ kirk that they came till,
  They dealt gold for her sake,
An’ the fourthin’ kirk that they came till,
  Lo, there they met her make!        100
 
‘Lay down, lay down the bigly bier,
  Lat me the dead look on;
Wi’ cherry ckeeks and ruby lips
  She lay an’ smiled on him.
 
‘O ae sheave o’ your bread, true-love,        105
  An’ ae glass o’ your wine,
For I hae fasted for your sake
  These fully days is nine.
 
‘Gang hame, gang hame, my seven bold brothers,
  Gang hame and sound your horn;        110
An’ ye may boast in southin’ lans
  Your sister’s play’d you scorn.’
 
Note 1. From Jamieson-Brown MS., and printed in Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, 1802. [back]
 
 
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