Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow.
_Eleu loro_, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There, thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, O never!
Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.
_Eleu loro_, &c. There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap, Ere life be parted. Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it,-- Never, O never!
O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope? How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie, On Hairibee to hang him up?
Had Willie had but twenty men, But twenty men as stout as he, Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, Wi' eight score in his cumpanie.
They band his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back; They guarded him, fivesome on each side, And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.
They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, And also thro' the Carlisle sands; They brought him on to Carlisle castell, To be at my Lord Scroope's commands.
'My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, And whae will dare this deed avow? Or answer by the Border law? Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?'
'Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! There's never a Scot shall set ye free: Before ye cross my castle yate, I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.'
'Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' Willie: 'By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope,' he said, I never yet lodged in a hostelrie, But I paid my lawing before I gaed.'
Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper, In Branksome Ha' where that he lay, That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, Between the hours of night and day.
He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garr'd the red wine spring on hie-- 'Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said, 'But avenged of Lord Scroope I'll be!