Then up and fpake the bauld baron, He has tane the table wi his foot, Sae has he wi his knie, Till crystal cup and ezar dish In flinders he gard flie. "Gae bring a robe of your cliding, "Wia the haste ye can, "And I'll gae to the gude grenewode, O bide at hame now lord Barnard ! Neir wyte a man for violence, Child Maurice sat in the grenewode, "O what meins a the folk coming? My mother tarries lang," The baron to the grenewode cam, Wi meikle dule and care; And there he first spyd Child Maurice, Kaming his yellow hair. Nae wonder, nae wonder, Child Maurice, My lady loes thee weil : The fairest part of my body Is blacker than thy heil. Yet neir the less now, Child Maurice, For a thy great bewtie, 'Ye'se rew the day ye eir was born; That heid sall gae wi me.' Now he has drawn his trusty brand, And he has tane Child Maurice heid, The meinest man in a his train, And he has tane Child Maurice up, And brocht him to his painted bower And laid him on a bed. The lady on the castle wa Beheld baith dale and down; And there she saw Child Maurice heid Cum trailing to the toun. "Better I loe that bluidy heid, "Bot and that yellow hair, "Than lord Barnard and a his lands "As they lig here and there. And she has tane Child Maurice heid, And kissed baith cheik and chin; "I was anes fow of Child Maurice "As the hip is o the stane. "I gat ye in my father's house "Wi meikle sin and shame; "I brocht ye up in the grenewode "Aft have I by thy craddle sitten, Again she kiss'd his bluidy cheik, Again his bluidy chin; "O better I looed my son Maurice, Awa, awa, ye ill woman, • Gin I had ken'd he was your son "Obraid me not, my lord Barnard! "Obraid me not for shame! "Wi that sam spier, O perce my heart, "And save me frae my pain! "Since naething but Child Maurice heid Thy jealous rage cold quell "Let that same hand now tak her lyfe, "That neir to thee did ill. "To me nae after days nor nichts Encuch of bluid by me's been spilt, I'd rather far it had been mysel, • Wi hopeless wae I hear your plaint, Dry up your teirs, my winsome dame, Ye see his heid upon the speir, I curse the hand that did the deid, I'll aye lament for Child Maurice I'll ne'er forget the dreary day On which the youth was slain.' PROLOGUE. IN ancient times, when Britain's trade was arms, A godlike race sustain'd fair England's fame : When powerful fate decreed one warrior's doom, |