Part 1 — 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.”