The Gay Goss-Hawk
Part I
“O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk,
Gin your feathering be sheen!”—
“And waly, waly, my master dear,
Gin ye look pale and lean!
“O have ye tint, at tournament,
Your sword, or yet your spear;
Or mourn ye for the southern lass,
Whom ye may not win near?”—
“I have not tint, at tournament,
My sword, nor yet my spear;
But sair I mourn for my true love,
Wi’ mony a bitter tear.
“But weel’s me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,
Ye can baith speak and flee;
Ye sall carry a letter to my love,
Bring an answer back to me.”—
“But how sall I your true love find,
Or how suld I her know?
I bear a tongue ne’er wi’ her spake,
An eye that ne’er her saw.”
“O weel sail ye my true love ken,
Sae sune as ye her see;
For, of a’ the flowers of fair England,
The fairest flower is she.
“The red that’s on my true love’s cheek,
Is like blood-drops on the snaw;
The white that is on her breast bare,
Like the down o’ the white sea-maw.
“And even at my love’s bour-door
There grows a flowering birk;
And ye maun sit and sing thereon
As she gangs to the kirk.
“And four-and-twenty fair ladyes
Will to the mass repair;
But weel may ye my ladye ken,
The fairest ladye there.”